Instead of insisting on freedom to create spiritual reality, shouldn’t we be seeking to discover it and disciplining ourselves to live according to it? . . .
In many areas of life, freedom is not so much the absence of restrictions as finding the right ones, the liberating restrictions.
I wasn’t sure if I could keep the car on the road because I couldn’t see through my tears.
The downpour we were driving through didn’t help, either. “Keep it together. Keep it together. . .” was my mantra until I could get inside, close the door to the world, and let these emotions out.
I wasn’t sure I would be able to drive the car home.
Inside, I collapsed behind a closed door and told my husband the news. His sadness began deep, deep in his soul, in the place where love resides, and found its expression. It was the future we mourned.
A dark cloud had cast a shadow over the future of one of our children. Like a candle in the snow, her joyful little light was sensing wind on the horizon. And the odd pieces of cardboard I found nearby to try to shield her from the wind didn’t look like enough right now.
Heal her, God whispered to me months later.
I was minding my own business, letting my mind wander while in the hot tub.
“Um, what now?” I asked. I sat upright and perked up my ears. “What did you say?”
Silence.
I had heard him. Would I take the next step in faith? Or would I put cotton in my ears and dunk my head under the hot tub, ensuring I could not hear any more of this foolish talk?
They told me this was incurable. Everyone knew that! The best we could hope for was some moderate success with behaviour modification – a few small wins.
Will we pick it up, inspect it, hold it to the light and find a friend with a hammer to crack it open?
Or will we put it in our pocket to consider later if we remember?
The joys and the sorrows of life arrive, and we hang up our clothes at the end of the day. We forget them there for awhile. When we remember, through foggy memories, that there may be a jewel in our pocket (!), we look again, but it fell out. There are only the singed edges of our pocket to remind us that we were holding a bit of heaven for a while.
But it’s gone now.
What’s for lunch?
And God feels far away, again, even though He just descended from heaven to meet us. We treated His gift like just another stone on the path. Will we catch the next jewel He holds out to us? Will our eyes be open enough to see this time, or will we trample, again, the precious jewel that He offers, His firelight shining in the darkness?
It’s only a sparkle at first.
Time to bow low and fan the flame of His voice in your life, friend?
Come along. Let’s journey together.
Oh. And she was healed, God guiding and then redeeming my pathetic attempts to listen, Him re-directing me and helping me up when discouragement hit. For that is His way.
Jesus said, “There is no need to dismiss them. You give them supper.”
“All we have are five loaves of bread and two fish,” they said.
Jesus said, “Bring them here.” . . . The disciples then gave the food to the congregation. They all ate their fill. They gathered twelve baskets of leftovers. About five thousand were fed.
Her heart pain rose up, up out of her chest and demanded expression in deep sobs. Jesus saw her. He stood by her side, his arms outstretched to offer love and guidance.
She didn’t notice Him.
In the prayer room that same week, Jesus communed with another woman, one of his dear ones. In the quiet, she was growing in hearing His voice. And then, prompted by Him later that week, she took a risk.
“Jesus sees the tears of the mother,” she whispered that day to the stranger, to the hurting woman. The stranger was the one who had been sobbing all alone. And in that busy place, at work, hearing the words from God, she burst into tears again.
The hurting woman could now sense Jesus was near. Jesus spoke His words through the mouth of one of His servants. Her words came from the heart of God and were received by another as a hug from Jesus.
The hurting friend relayed the story to me.
“I didn’t tell her anything about my daughter,” she gushed at me, astonished.
But heaven met earth that day. Light from beyond our sun, from the Son himself, streamed into the heart of one of His children and exited her mouth to wrap the hurting woman in a hug from Jesus. And a seed of faith was planted in the heart of that hurting woman that day.
And all heaven rejoiced.
Breakthrough happened in one more heart.
The unseen became visible, if only for a flash of a moment. Will this spark be fanned by the flame of the hurting woman making time for God, giving expressions to her reservations about church and the brokenness of His people? Will she push past the frustrations and find her way, in the quiet, to the place in her soul where Jesus speaks?
May she find her ears.
Will she pick them up, attach them and give them a listen?
They are lying there on the floor next to her. She may put them upside down or not quite in the right location initially. Will she re-attach them and try again tomorrow?
Will you?
Oh God! Open ears! Un blind eyes! Help us exchange our mud puddles of entertainment and distraction for the vast ocean of Your joy and presence! May Your Kingdom come! Help more and more of Your beautiful children, the ones You paid the ultimate price for on the cross, get out of their boxes and realize they have wings! Help them soar, Jesus, we pray.
If so, take a risk. Consider laying down your pride and showing up at the church near you where Holy Spirit is moving. Or join us online as we learn to lay aside our distractions, pick up our ears, and learn to love to pray. And may you, too, friend, be set free.
Caveat: This isn’t a promise of a highway to an easy life. But we do have Someone to help us. And walking with Him leads to more life.
It’s worth it.
What is the next step on your spiritual journey? Do you have time to follow your clues? May you keep travelling, dear friend.
The little girl was clinging to her small blanket, wiping her nose with her arm.
We are busy. We have appointments. We dress to accomplish, checking the time as we walk past.
She stares around her, alone, in a world of busy, busy people.
Jesus sees her.
He kneels, offering her a Kleenex. She spontaneously hugs him, clinging round his neck, and he picks her up. Then he sets her down and guides her by the hand.
They walk away somewhere.
Where did they go?
We turn round for a minute, casting another look, pausing in our day. Where DID she go, we wonder? We MEANT to bring her some food and a warm blanket, to bring her home.
But we were busy.
Oh! And look at the time. And we are off again.
And Jesus is sitting nearby at that busy intersection, watching, watching the people.
He drinks his coffee and waits.
One of the busy men in a suit falls in pain.
Ill health is the cog in the wheel that stops his rush. He falls to his knees. He holds out his arms, willing himself to go faster, but his leg won’t obey. He looks up at the sky for help.
The people sidestep around him.
Jesus bends his knee and offers a brace, a cane and an arm to lean on.
They hobble away together somewhere.
Again, the busy people take a second glance.
“Was that man hurt? I meant to come back and check at lunchtime, on my break, but I got distracted. The good jokes in the lunch room distracted me, and it was too late. I had forgotten.”
“Wasn’t that Bob? He’s not here, walking with us anymore. Where did he go?” We ask each other, but no one knows. We weren’t paying attention.
What was the path that took me from there to here?
Good question!
I’m glad you asked.
Here are the key stepping stones that led me across the river, onto a narrower path, without so many hurdles.
1. Pretend to be sick when you aren’t
What I mean is, if a few sniffles and a “headache” can help your kids bring you tea, quietly close the door behind them, and get all their homeschooling work (mostly) done in a hurry to “help” you out, then isn’t that just a helpful parenting strategy?
Yes, they may play a few more video games that day, but sometimes we have to negotiate with the enemy (is there perhaps a more precise word here?)!
And how do we need fewer “emotionally unstable” or “sick” days? This is the obvious question we want to ask ourselvesas the mature adults that we are. We don’t want to HAVE to lie (I prefer the term “play pretend”) to our kids quite so often. What I’ve learned is the following:
2. Try not to be such a nutcase
Oh, come ON, admit it! You ARE a nutcase, too! I haven’t met even ONE homeschooling parent, for example, who didn’t start this way.
We start our homeschooling adventure with our new homeschooling planners (I have paid up to $99.99 for mine – a VERY expensive calendar with a bunch of blank paper inside).
We ALL start with our new, sharp pencils and energy overflowing from within. We purchase a shiny new curriculum or textbook and dutifully divide the book into 36 weeks, the total number of weeks in a school year. When we have completed this exercise with our stack of texts, we wipe the sweat from our brow and think – GREAT! I know EXACTLY what my kids will be learning on March 16, next year!
We ask for ONE or maybe TWO areas of prayer for each child. Oh, and for us.
God’s priorities will not be those we choose for our kids. We prioritize hockey and extra math lessons so that EVERY KID born in this country will be in the NBA (or whatever the popular sports leagues are) and have myriad universities begging them to attend.
Instead, we humbly exchange our vanity, linked to our child’s successes, for God’s chosen priorities for them.
And His priorities for us are interior postures of the heart, a heart sickness within each of our kids, and in us to focus on. Lying? Selfishness? Bickering? Jealousy?
Steep your life in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions. Don’t worry about missing out. You’ll find all your everyday human concerns will be met.
It’s the kids who are born as tyrants, but if you become a tyrant, there is order in the home. Then the true skill we need to learn next is how to become a tyrant to ourselves. We need to grow in the skill of bossing OURSELVES around.
When we show up at a paid job, in our office clothes and clipboard, we say “Yes Ma’am!”, do what we are told, then come home exhausted and put our feet up.
But when we show up on our first day of homeschooling, for example, no terrifying boss threatens to fire us each day.
It’s easy for us and our kids to stay in our pyjamas.
Essentially, what is the MINIMUM work that needs to get done by my kids and by me? CHECKING my kid’s work is MY JOB I need to do, whether I feel like it or not. How am I doing with that job?
And if you find you are in overwhelm again? No problem, dear friend.
1. Declare another sick day!
2. Pray a LOT!
3. Learn a couple of tangible skills to proactively manage the ship!
We don’t see them, the women, head in hands, often alone in their apartments, suffering.
They suffer through the choice of, the procedure of, and the after-effects of their abortions. We don’t see them for a few days, but that is nothing new. We don’t see many friends or family members for a few days.
We didn’t notice.
We don’t hear them either, crying into their pillows, muffling their grief.
We don’t know their stories because it is not easy for them to speak about. The pain lies hidden deep in their hearts, placated by medication in the terrible times. Who wants to dive into the depths of the human heart and open Pandora’s box of pain that lies within?
We didn’t notice their cries because much pain emerges silently.
What TRULY is best for the woman?
What if we set aside the unwanted child within her womb, the man who is in or out of her life, societal expectations – everything? Let’s set everything aside and focus on the woman.
On her.
On you.
I see you. I feel your pain, though I may not know you. I hear you crying, though I have never met you.
I have an inkling of the pain that you feel because I feel it, too, in a different sort of way.
I am an adoptive parent.
I also, like you, have cried the anguished tears of a woman who is not in control of the timing of when a child enters her life. I too have shed tears for the unfulfilled longings of my heart, though different from yours.
I, too, have suffered grief because of the child.
But this is not about me.
This is about you.
Should you be the one to pay for the abortion procedure, handing over your savings to get it done?
What about the man?
Would a sperm say to a father, ‘Who gave you permission to use me to make a baby?’
He pockets his savings, perhaps buying more beers for his friends. He is still drinking, having fun, eyeing up the next woman at the bar while you are at home, alone, suffering through the painful side effects of aborting his child.
Is this the best we can do for women’s rights?
In ancient Greek culture, women were considered more powerful than men.
Some were worshipped as Greek goddesses. Temple prostitution was an honored position within Greek society, unlike cultural stigmas towards prostitution today. The cultural mindset was that women can control their sex drives more successfully than men.
Women have control over something men desperately want.
When sex is withheld for a season, the power balance shifts to favor women.
What if, and I am only asking the question, withholding sex from a man until he promises to be by her side if a baby comes is the best way to honor women?*
Here’s another thing we know. . . . Sexual activity is not a life-threatening proposition for guys. Neither are the consequences. We won’t die if we get our partner pregnant. We don’t lactate once she gives birth. Males are really off the hook. We engage in the same reproductive activity [as females] but there are great differences in what each has to lose when they engage in it.
Then let’s say “no” except to the honorable man who has already asked us to marry him*.
This is the first step towards truly honoring, valuing, and assuring women’s rights.
Use your superpower! Assert your strength and the dignity, rights, and freedom of women. Don’t hand him your future suffering, both physically and emotionally, for free.
Value the woman.
Or didn’t you realize that your body is a sacred place, the place of the Holy Spirit? Don’t you see that you can’t live however you please, squandering what God paid such a high price for?
Lord, raise women who are okay with standing alone. Thank You for restoring us to wholeness, no matter where we have travelled, Jesus. After a moment of quiet, consider asking Holy Spirit, “How do you see me?”
Blogpost Footnotes
*And no, I am not referring to the teen boy who buys $20 cubic zirconia “Promise Rings” in bulk from Walmart and hands them out to myriad teen girls, seeking his reward. The promise rests on the character of the promise-er.
This post is part of our Say-It-Again On Friday series.
It was movie and popcorn night. We watched UnPlanned, the astonishing, true story of Planned Parenthood Director Abby Johnson’s journey across the line from Choice to Life.
We were all undone.
As my tiny and insignificant contribution to this whirlwind topic of our day, like a feather battling a windstorm, I include below a poem I wrote.
May our prayers reach the ear of God, that the prevailing cultural winds would change direction and blow the feather toward God again and again and again . . . we pray.
Lord, have mercy on us, all of us, for we are a sinful people.
And may we pause to considerthe following:
Simon Peter [who] . . . fell to his knees before Jesus. “Master, leave. I’m a sinner and can’t handle this holiness. Leave me to myself.”
If . . . my people, my God-defined people, respond by humbling themselves, praying, seeking my presence, and turning their backs on their wicked lives, I’ll be there ready for you: I’ll listen from heaven, forgive their sins, and restore their land to health.
Yet I’ve seen her mom, belly swelled in mystical expectation, nervously meeting prospective adoptive parents for the first time. Tears flowed on all sides at the first introduction, bonded somehow at the initial meeting. I’ve chatted with her mom many times while she lay curled up in the womb.
My heart broke for her mom because she could not raise her now.
I met her birth grandma and cried with her over the expectation of the first grandchild in the family.
The fulfillment of a grandmother’s dreams was not that the child would be whisked from her arms before they would know each other well. “You take good care of her,” the grandmother whispered to the adoptive mother through tears.
I’ve met her birth father.
A boy-man, wearing the tough guy mask in front of his friends and family. I sat with him while he, head in hand, sobbed a mountain of anguished tears, knowing that her birth mom could not stay with him forever and be the family unit that he dreamed of.
I’ve cried with him too.
I’ve also met them – the crowds of families, with polished faces and pages full of dreams in shiny dossiers, cartwheeling over each other in efforts to impress. They plead, “Please pick us. We want her.We want to be her family. Oh, won’t you please pick us?”
I know them because I was also a member of one of those families. And our family was chosen. And oh, how the aching in our hearts was finally filled with love and gratitude for this cherished life.
Thank you, birth mothers, birth fathers, and birth grandparents, for standing firm in love and truth, regardless of the shifting sand of popular opinions.
We honor you, and we love you.
Thank you for placing your child in the arms of a family who will love and care for her.
Thank you for allowing this child to thrive in the healing love of all of us in her extended birth families and her extended adoptive family.
And we share a secret, don’t we?
Even if they don’t know it, we know these children are wanted by MORE people than can be counted.
I held my head in my hands, the non-physical pain consuming me, twisting my body to reflect my inner state.
The mother placed the baby in my arms and spoke of WHEN I took her home, enveloped her in our family. This baby was the gift that came no less miraculously than a child that emerges, astonishingly from one’s own womb. Except she traversed from God, through another’s womb, through the arms of another mother, into my arms.
And like a child ripped from her mother’s arms, she was taken from my arms and placed in another home.
We were pleased that the child would be taken care of, her needs met, thrive in a loving home.
And yet the pain in our hearts was only partially placated.
Every human soul carries its own pain within.
A loved one passes, an illness, a broken relationship, broken dreams, general ennui, desperation, hopelessness, despair. . . The waves of trouble that break over the human soul break us too, as our souls hit the rocks, making us bleed from the trials that have arrived on our doorstep, unbidden.
We open the door to today and the tidal wave of disappointment has arrived. We are left sitting on the floor alone in our world, unable to stand.
As we look around for a hand to help us up, something to hold onto, it seems hope is a long way away sometimes.
Can you see it?
I couldn’t either.
And then Christmas knocks on our door with the request to give to the needy, to distract ourselves with shallow merrymaking, to make ourselves sick with food that is sweet in the mouth and cancerous to the bones.
“Is this all there is?” we ask, our Santa hats adorning our heads in an effort to embrace the spirit of the season, our TV remote flipping from channel to channel, waxed chocolate at the fingertips.
Numb, again.
Another Christmas season has arrived, and we are numb.
That Christmas, the one when I could hardly breathe, I took off the old.
I crossed off the list of people that we were “supposed” to buy presents for. No more presents for friends, friend’s kids, extended family, parents, grandparents, my spouse. “And no presents for me,” I announced. We bought a few small gifts for a few children. And joy returned.
I crossed off the list the duty to make the Christmas treats I made every year, unthinkingly. I tried a few simple treats with a healthier spin. And joy returned.
I left the box of Christmas decorations in the basement unopened. When I finally gazed inside, I pulled out a few items that were handmade by friends or had sparked a particular delight, or a cherished memory. And joy returned.
I said no to every party, to the ones we were expected to attend that were too loud, had too much drinking, and too much shallow joy. We had a couple of quiet celebrations with a handful of friends or family, and good food. And joy returned.
No more expectations. The old has gone.
And the new life emerging?
And like the caterpillar that makes time for the quiet of the chrysalis, we too made time for the quiet.
– Time for Christmas church services, as we sought to awaken our senses to the awe of the season through the life of the babe in a manger
– Time for a hug or a smile or an understanding look, more, more often from those around me
I spent time every evening that season with our little toddler at the outdoor skating rink. The one that is free.
When we fell, we would laugh and then sit quietly together for a moment noticing how the lights rimmed the rink, peering through the darkness. I could almost discern the light of the season through those lights.
And like the lights shining in the darkness, at the skating rink that is free, His free gift of love burst through my heart a little more often in the quiet mornings, in the moments of quiet at the worship services, in the quiet smiles of those whose lives I stumbled across.
And each smile was like gazing into another’s soul because I took the extra moment to see them, to know that they too, being human, have heart wounds. Can my smile, my love, be a drop of healing ointment to them, as theirs is to me?
And it was the best Christmas of my life.
As the song plays, consider asking God: How can any anticipated pain of this Christmas season be transformed into joy?
I was pretty sure my body would figure itself out, my back would crack in the right direction, and I would be up and running in no time.
I opened an office on my bed, barking orders at my homeschooled kid, and attending meetings online.
I forgot to tell one male teacher why I was in bed during the online call which was a bit embarrassing after the fact. But I’ve done more embarrassing things in good health.
My husband brought me coffee each morning. My daughters brought me tea. All in all, it wasn’t the end of the world.
But I’m on day twenty-nine today of near constant bed rest. The allure has lost its charm.
I was struggling to hang onto my mood today, meaning I was trying to kick a foul mood and find some fruits of the spirit somewhere, but I was coming up empty-handed again.
A friend texted me “How are you?”
I shut off the phone and rolled over. Where do I begin? I’m trying to hold onto a positive attitude.
Don’t shut her out, I felt God whisper.
I answered her text.
Be honest, I felt him whisper again.
She phoned later that night. And again, despite my foul mood, I felt God prompting me to pick up the phone, to say something.
I answered the phone and chatted imbecilely about happy things in our life – toilet training our new rabbit, our daughter home from university this week.
And when we got to the subject of my back I tried to keep up a brave front for a while. No one likes a bother. We all have stuff we walk through, after all.
But I was surprised when I felt emotional as I babbled my feelings to her. I’ve seen her tears before so it was safe for her to see mine. So I let them flow a little. And I learned a bit more about myself, about the lessons I’m learning on this journey of suffering. Here are a few:
1. It’s fear again that’s robbing my joy. I couldn’t figure out why the first week of bed rest was not too bad but today with a regression of symptoms was so upsetting. Yes. It’s because fear has shown itself again, reared its ugly head again, gnawing away at the courage in my heart. What if I get worse? Fear. And fear fed by my unfiltered thoughts grew bigger, overpowering my peace.
2. I was also afraid I wasn’t doing enough. Apparently, this is the a very common fear most humans feel, I recently learned*. What if I should be taking one healthcare provider’s advice and not the other’s, or vice versa? What if I try to get up and move around too much or too little? Fear. Fear that I am not walking the tight-rope of expectations for a temperamental back that randomly punishes me no matter what I do.
3. The remedy to fear? Repentance. I actually feel powerful when I repent of fear, ironically. Try saying this: God I’m sorry for being fearful of something way far out in my future when you promised me only enough grace for today. Jesus, I’m sorry for thinking that I’m going to pull myself up by the bootstraps and fix this back problem when I can’t even see my own back, never mind have any idea what knots my back nerves and muscles inside have gotten themselves into. Forgive me for thinking, again, that I will save me. Instead, guide me and whisper to me, and help me to learn from you how much rest and movement my body needs to heal.
And so the phone call ended.
My situation hasn’t changed but my heart of a lion was feeling stronger. I could sense it beating within me again. Whatever I go through You will strengthen me. Whatever difficulty I face You are there with me. When I go through the valley, You comfort me.
As you listen to this song, try repenting of your fear, repenting of your self-sufficiency, and thanking God for the glimmers of hope in your life. Then ask Holy Spirit how to have enough strength to face today. What do you hear Him whisper?
Last time I talked about mourning together with the group.
I also talked about coyotes, but let’s face it, we all know I just made that stuff up. You should never trust stuff you read on the internet, anyway!
Except this post, of course.
So I spoke to my friend this week about her experiences mourning together in community.
The only problem is that she has read some of this blog once and so if I talked about what she said, I would have to tell the truth.
I’ll stick to my own experience.
So last week I was a blathering mess at church.
This was embarrassing, even for me, but the cool thing is that I didn’t have to purposefully stop the flow.
Imagine you’re in a room and the God of the universe (who exists) commands everyone in that room to love you. And they try their best to obey God (in our pathetic, limited, human way).
That’s what church is supposed to be like actually. We can bring whatever emotion is tagging along behind us and we don’t have to hide it. Sometimes we may need to cry and that’s OK. They have to love you!
And when we finally open our hearts to God and allow one disappointment to surface, don’t you find that a geyser opens up within us sometimes? There is a lot of other stuff that probably should be released as well.
And just letting some of that stuff emerge is actually healing.
That’s the irony. There is an opportunity for healing to occur if we can just stop holding it together for a few minutes, stop sucking in our guts, and stop pretending our real life matches our online persona (I’m not as neurotic and whiny in person as I seem online of course!).
I accidentally caught his eye -the guy at church I don’t know super well. But his look of empathy towards me, of real empathy, even as he tried to hide his gaze, was enough to open up the cracks on some more layers of disappointment that needed to be released.
Keep a sharp eye out for weeds of bitter discontent. A thistle or two gone to seed can ruin a whole garden in no time.The Message
Sometimes what comes out, weaved into the tapestry of stuff that has wounded our hearts over the years is bitterness and disappointment towards God.
He is standing there, ready with a towel to dry off all the tears that are soaking you. He already knows how you feel. He is so happy that you’re finally bringing who you are, and letting him comfort you.
You can rest in his arms now, like a child sitting on their mother’s lap, clinging to her, and receiving comfort somehow.
It’s going to be OK little one, he whispers to your ear.
I’ve got you now.
As you listen quietly to the song below, may you open up your heart to God, and may you find comfort, dear one.
Restoring Life 