GRACE

The picture at the top of my blog is one that is very meaningful to me. A Hand is reaching down, gripping another hand. My hand. And I am gripping back. In my first year of Bible school, I learned for myself the importance of holding onto that Hand. I learned the importance of loving Him for who He was, not what He offered. I learned to love Him.

In my second year of Bible school, I learned to search. I learned to be hungry. I learned to find God, and to give Him everything. (At least, I learned the first stage of that lesson; I seem to be re-learning it repeatedly.)

In my third year of Bible school, I learned that there comes a point when I can't continue holding on. I learned that I am weak. But I also learned that the Hand that is holding me is strong. The Blood coursing through this Hand is powerful enough to redeem me. The bones in this Hand are filled with the marrow of Grace. And the muscles in this Hand are bulging with Love unconditional. The fiercely strong kind that won't give in or let go.

I say I learned that in my third year of Bible school. The bud that sprouted in that year is starting to bloom more brilliantly now, nearly a year later.

If you read my post, "Still Holding On," you will read of my appreciation for that Hand that reached down through Jesus Christ and still grips tightly, even as limp fingers drip with the Blood of the one I have crucified. The Blood of Him whose heart I have broken. Ironically, the Blood that I have shed is the same Blood that cleanses my guilt. And the Hand, scarred more honorably than mine, is emanating radiance into my darkness.

Love that will not let go.

GRACE that is God Reaching Across Chasms Endlessly.

And is still holding on. To me. To you. And to the people on our hearts.

And so, with this image indelibly etched on my brain, I have used my free time this Christmas break to paint it. Michelangelo once painted the hands of Adam and God after the Fall, groping, but unable to touch. Because of Jesus Christ, thankfully, there is a part two to this image, although this one is painted by someone far less adept than Michelangelo.

I eliminated some of the light glare on the canvas, so I hope my picture doesn't make it look better than it is, but this is it:

 

I hope that maybe you can get as much benefit meditating on the significance of this image as I have.

Missive or Missile?

Is it weird to post one of your college essays on your blog?

I couldn't say.

However, since when have I ever claimed not to be weird?!?

So here goes. If you've followed my blog, this narrative will not be news to you. However, it compiles some of the thoughts I've already expressed in a newer, bigger picture manner. And besides, it will help make up for the fact that I've posted so little in the past couple of months since I started college on-line.

Missive or Missile?

            The letter came on July 26. I had just arrived back from a long trip to the city, where the nurse had checked my skin for tuberculosis and my dad had returned some broken luggage for my sister. With the afternoon sun slanting down on us, we rolled into the driveway. The letter sat innocently on the table. I picked it up and fumbled with the seal, wandering over to the blue recliner in our living room. “I’m so nervous for you!” my older brother exclaimed. I laughed, though my hands were nearly shaking. My mother made the same nervous statement by staying in the kitchen and refusing to look at me, delicious smells wafting about her. I sat down to read, little knowing that God was about to show me how trustworthy He really is.

            I had always pictured myself going to college. I had a knack for the student role, and my dad had spotted it, taking me to every testing center imaginable. However, after high school, I chose to devote myself to three years of studying God’s Word and cultivating my relationship with Him. As I neared the end of my Bible school career, I figured I would do what many Bible school graduates did: go to college or get married. The marriage option did not seem imminent, so I started looking at colleges, and, about that time, God gave me a vision of what I could do to extend His kingdom if I had a college education.

When I stepped onto the campus of Hillsdale College in brisk Michigan, I felt like I had come home. I had not wanted to attend a school so far away from my house, but suddenly the thirteen hour drive seemed easy. I filled out an application and waited, trying to suppress my hopes as I begged God to let them accept me at Hillsdale College if that was where He wanted me to be. A warm, bubbly thrill erupted when I got my acceptance letter. I could not contain my smiles or my exclamations! My best friend also got accepted at Hillsdale College, and together we built candy palaces out of our dreams.

            One bitter streak alone marred the sweetness of my palace. Its nickname was Money, also known as Lack of Money. The salaries of a pastor and homemaker do not exactly cover the cost of a private education, and I had no success finding myself a job. Since God had directed our family to remain debt-free, I grimly turned down every sugary loan, applied for scholarships, and waited. For two months, I scanned the mail each day, praying that the icing of my palace would pop out of an envelope, ready to glue everything together. A little bit trickled in from my hometown—just enough to paste the foundation down, but the walls and the turrets remained unassembled. Still, I remained unconcerned. Had not God brought my four older siblings through college debt-free? Surely He would do the same for me. I trusted Him to provide for my needs, so I kept rifling through the mail, my faith fat and bursting. Or so I thought.    

            Then the letter came. I started to open it, my heart not even daring to beat. This was it. This was the miracle for which I had been waiting; this same scholarship had thrust my siblings through college. I read the letter’s contents repeatedly to make sure I did not miss anything. The missive began: “Dear Ms. ---: I am pleased to inform you that the Foundation has approved a $500.00 grant to you . . .”

            Five hundred dollars? Surely something was wrong. That would only cover a small fraction of what I needed; all of the records I had sent them proved this. Yet there the number stood on the page, black and unyielding. I actually grinned. Mirth seemed friendlier than tears, and besides, I had a family to face. My mom called dinner. 

            The food passed through my lips barely noticed. I cannot remember what it was, but I recall that its savory taste contrasted with the sour disappointment I was also gnawing. I consumed my meal quietly, smiling and pretending nothing was wrong. Behind my calm exterior, though, I screamed and wept in a tottering world. I needed to be alone. After dishes were over, I grabbed the letter, my journal, and my hefty burgundy Bible, marching straight to the church like Hezekiah did when he got a distressing letter (2 Kings 19.14).

            Falling on my knees, I cried to Jehovah-Jireh, my God who said He would supply all of my needs. Why had He not? I felt like I had been leaning on Him for support, and instead of His shoulder, I discovered I had been leaning on air. What was I to do now? I watched my candy palace disintegrate into a cloud of dust; it tasted like salt, just like my tears. I resisted doubt and despair, forcing my gaze upward. Abraham’s poignant words in Andrew Peterson’s song, “Holy is the Lord,” echoed in my heart: “So take me to the mountain, I will follow where You lead. There I’ll lay the body of the boy You gave to me. And even though You take him, still I ever will obey. Maker of this mountain, please, make another Way.” Feebly, I exalted the name of the Lord aloud, even as I watched my Isaac sacrificed on a hard altar.   

            As tears crusted on my cheeks, I stared at the huge world map covering the back wall of the sanctuary. Where was my place in that picture? I rose to find a seat with better lighting, and as I did so, I peered at an envelope lying in the row in front of me. In elegant script, the words on the front read, “You’re Invited.” I knew exactly what it meant. God was inviting me to watch with Him and see His purposes unfold in my life. I could either reject the invitation, wallowing in self-pity and self-made plans, or I could let Him take my hand in His, and we could explore my future together. I accepted the invitation.

Two days later, God spoke to me in His Word: “Because your heart was tender and you humbled yourself . . . and wept before me, I also have heard you, declares the LORD” (ESV, 2 Chron. 34.27). My adventure was about to begin. Excitement washed over me, and I breathlessly anticipated the unknown, glad to have a reliable Guide by my side.

            I soon realized that I had not been trusting God to provide for my needs at all. I had been trusting a scholarship to provide money for an education that I thought I needed. For me, college was not a higher calling; it was an escape. Like a drug that temporarily eases pain in the body, I looked to college to ease the pain in my heart. If I could not be loved or respected by other people, then perhaps an education could distract me and make me loveable and respectable. Thus, I wielded a Band Aid to cover my gaping wound, and I fashioned a crutch to disguise my limp.

            God had other plans. Throwing up hedges, He blocked my path. Hot with panic, I squirmed and scrambled, searching for a way around the barrier. Finding none, I waited, panting. Then, with a voice sweeter than any Siren, God allured me in the wilderness (Hos. 2.6-7, 14). With no drug, or Band Aid, or crutch within reach, I listened to Him. Then, gradually, just as the words of Jesus healed the centurion’s servant (Matt. 8.13), so His words healed my heart.

I discovered that God builds palaces too, only His are not made of flimsy candy. His palaces are real, solid, and warm, full of love and adventure. They may hide many unknown hallways and closets, but they always smell like home, and the best part is that He lives there. When I wake up in the morning, He smiles at me from beside my bed, ready to take my hand in His warm grip and guide me through another hallway. It is not just His palace or His dream. It is mine as well.

            Nearly four months have passed since I received that letter. From the outside, it looked like an innocent missive, but it turned into a missile that tore my life apart at the seams. However, because it blasted my dreams to bits, I learned to trust the real Dream Giver. Having no dreams left alive, He became my new dream. His adventures became my adventures, and His palace became my palace. As it turns out, He is a lot better at dream-making than I am. Yes, I struggled as I watched my best friend leave for Hillsdale College and heard her enthusiastic reports, but I did not mourn either. In fact, sometimes I think I am the lucky one. Because I am not far away at college, I have ventured in various unique fields. I have felt the warmth of laughter, tasted the bond of united prayer, and sniffed the aroma of fresh French bread baked with girls who needed Christian fellowship. We have conquered sunny sand dunes in our bare feet, hunted birch bark while wearing war paint, and waded in swamps to retrieve the perfect tree branches for our church display. God has given me opportunities to decorate for a convention, teach Sunday school, lead a choir, invent youth activities, direct a play, and share the Christmas story with a Japanese girl who had never heard it before she met me. Then God brought a college education to my doorstep, and I began my college journey through Regent University on-line, where I have explored more of the Dream Giver and His Word in a way I never would have at Hillsdale College. Most importantly, I have learned the joy and vitality of trusting God. He sent me that missile for a reason. After all, if left to myself, I would have settled for a palace made of candy, but God had something better in mind.

            It is ironic how God can take the worst evil and turn it into the best good. I guess that is why He is so trustworthy. No matter how awful the event is, God can use it. Because of that letter, I have seen what the best kinds of dreams can look like. Because of that letter, I get to breathlessly watch my journey unfold as I lean on my Guide. Because of that letter, I am not just a student supported by a crutch. I am a healed adventurer. 

Still Holding On

"Do you think I am terribly ugly?" he asked her.

"Yes, I do," Beauty answered in all honesty. "But," she added quickly, "I'm sure you have a very kind heart."

So runs the fanciful yet profound tale of "Beauty and the Beast."

The Beast is often surly and unruly. Beauty is gentle and kind. The Beast is alone and hurt. Beauty reaches out and soothes. The Beast is shrouded in darkness and mystery. Beauty brings light and clarity. The Beast is hideous and unbearable to look at. Beauty gives her very self to him, hardly realizing that this very act would make him beautiful too.

Does this sound familiar?

According to G.K. Chesterton, some very valuable lessons can be learned from fairytales. From this particular tale, he announced that he had learned that one must love a thing before it becomes lovable.

Does this sound familiar?

How about this verse: "While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us"? (Rom. 5:8)

God didn't wait until we were lovable to give His Son to us. He didn't wait for us to come out of our darkness before cloaking Himself in flesh and climbing into the pit after us. He didn't wait until we were handsome princes before offering us His Beauty.

C.S. Lewis said, "To love at all is to be vulnerable." Love isn't about making some safe investment. It's about throwing off all defensive armor and stepping out, risking the deepest hurts imaginable. Lewis added, "We shall draw nearer to God, not by trying to avoid the suffering inherent in all loves, but by accepting them and offering them to Him; throwing away all defensive armour. If our hearts need to be broken, and if He chooses this as the way in which they should break, so be it."

However, God would never ask us to do something that He wasn't willing to do Himself. A thousand times. As JJ Heller put it:

I ran a thousand miles for you,

Knowing you would break my heart,

But I would do it all again

Because I couldn't stand to be apart.

 

Jesus, the very Son of God, personified Love. He chose the path of vulnerability. About two thousand years ago, He handed over His immortality and decided to confine Himself to a comparatively frail human body. The Creator of the universe went from using the planets to shine His fingernails to being cooped up in a dark and tiny womb. Talk about a demotion. Talk about vulnerability. Talk about Love.

 

And from the very beginning, He knew that we were going to break His heart. Studies show that this was the real cause of His death. His Cross was only a part of it.

 

Yet, Jesus, "for the joy that was set before him endured the cross" (Heb. 12:2). Our Beauty ignored the dark and spooky castle, the homesickness, the pain, our gruffness, and our ugliness. He may have "trembled from head to foot" at the sin He saw masking our countenance, but He saw our hearts. He saw something worth redeeming. And so, stretching across the great chasm between Heaven and Earth, He reached down and did the unthinkable:

 

He pulled us out.

 

And, for the first time, I see that this is what Christmas is really all about. We know of Santa Claus. We know of gifts. If we're lucky, we know of Mary and Joseph. And, if we're luckier still, we know of Jesus, the Greatest Gift.

 

But how often do we think of the very actions involved in the giving of that Gift? Surely if our seemingly penniless aunt handed us the car keys to a Ferrari, we would be very interested in knowing what it cost her. Why is it, then, that when our rich Heavenly Father demonstrates the extreme act of vulnerable love and goes through misery in order to pull us out of ours, we blow it off as if it's a given?

 

I say "we." I should probably say "I."

 

Honestly, the immensity of this costly Gift is starting to seep into me in a whole new way. I don't want to blow off this Gift. I want to remember the Hand behind it. I want to let this Hand transform me from my own beastliness. I want to take a hold of it and kiss it. Finally, when I can't hold onto it any longer, when I see His Blood dripping from my limp fingers and I recall that my sin carved the scars in His flesh, I want to just let Him hold me. I want to rest in that firm grip.

 

For, if the first Christmas was the day that God reached down to pull us out, then I believe that every other Christmas should serve as a reminder that He is still holding on.

 

I wrote a song to memorialize some of these thoughts. I call it, "Still Holding On."

 

Unlovable

That's what he is

Unlovable Beast

Brokenness his

But there is Hope

Flickering sure

Beauty is at the door.

 

Reaching out

In his loneliness

Bringing light

To his darkness

Giving beauty

To his ugliness

Pulling him out

And still holding on.

 

Beautiful

That's what she is

Beautiful

Her love is his

Far from her home

Her sacrifice

But she thought he was worth the price.

 

Reaching out

In his loneliness

Bringing light

To his darkness

Giving beauty

To his ugliness

Pulled him out

And still holding on.

 

Unlovable

That's what we are

Unlovable

But under a star

God stretched His hand

Through His only Son

Doing what had not been done.

 

Reaching out

In our loneliness

Bringing light

To our darkness

Giving beauty

To our ugliness

Pulling us out

And still holding on

 

Vulnerable

That's what Love is

Vulnerable

The choice was His

Taking on flesh

Knowing we'd break His heart

He knew it from the start.

 

Beautiful

That's what He is

Beautiful Christ

And we are His

Leaving His home

Loving with all His might

Saving us from our dark plight.

 

Reaching out

In our loneliness

Bringing light

To our darkness

Giving beauty

To our ugliness

Pulled us out

And still holding on

Yes, He pulled us out

And He's still holding on.

 

 

Frankly, I find it easy to get so caught up in the awe and solemnity of the whole thing that I forget one very important factor: JOY!!!

 

Jesus would not want us to mourn His suffering. He would want us to celebrate the results! "He came, He saw, He conquered!" He came to earth as a selfless, delicate baby. He saw our pain and depravity. He transformed. He healed. He has pulled us out!!!

 

How can we not rejoice when we hear news like that?

 

'Tis true, if my readers are like me, we are all surrounded by pain and suffering. My heart aches over the broken families of people who are close to me, and feelings of joy do not erupt effortlessly to the surface. Nevertheless, this joy is for them too! Because if we can rest that God has a hold of our limp hand, we can rest assured that He has a hold of theirs too.

 

If the first Christmas was the time that God reached down to pull us out, then every other Christmas is the time to celebrate the fact that He is still holding on. To all of us.

 

We can count it all joy.

 

Merry Christmas!

 

Life

"I would rather die today than live another day of this death."

Thus speaks Snow White in the recently released movie, Snow White and the Huntsman. I am not about to write a rave review or a cynical account. I'm sure you can find plenty of those elsewhere, and they are probably much better written too. However, I found this movie very striking. Yes, it was creepy and disturbing in parts, but then Real Evil, no matter how sugar coated, is just that: creepy and disturbing. I suppose some could mock the heroine for being too good and too pure to be realistic, but then Real Good, no matter how battered, is just that: good and pure.

Snow White possessed a genuine yet non-ostentatious beauty, and her womanly innocence at not being sure if she could bear to kill someone made her appealing. So much of that side of womanhood has been lost in our culture. Yes, there is a time to ride and to fight but there is also a time to cherish life. That is what defines the Good from the Evil. That is what distinguishes the mother with the work worn hands and calloused knees from the political lady screaming for battle against anyone who would ask the government to stop funding Planned Parenthood. They both fight, but one is full of blood lust and the other is full of love. Love for life.

Life. That is what Snow White brought to everyone she met. Ailments of those around her started disappearing. Her simple beauty brought out the best in people. She kindled hope wherever she went. She noted the sacrifices of her people, and though afraid she resolved to make her own sacrifice so her people could be free from the reign of evil. The Enemy had occupied Snow White's kingdom long enough.

However, the Enemy seemed to be invincible. The only one who could kill the evil Queen was Snow White herself. Why? Because her purity gave her power. Only by the fairest blood could the witch's blood be spilt. Only her sacrifice could free her people. Only she could be their weapon.

Is it just me, or does that story not yell, "Redemptive analogy!" high and low? Can't you feel the vibes of the Gospel? Can't you see Jesus peering at you through the lines? I can. Call me Miss Christian Wannabe Artist Who Makes Up Analogies Out Of Stone, but this one seems pretty obvious to me. And it excites me that things like this are lapped up by the public even today. It makes me want to shout, "This is real, people! This story has happened--is happening, right under your noses, only it's even better!!!"

My favorite scene of the movie is not when Snow White finally slays the Witch (I'm pretty sure you would have guessed that ending anyway). It's when she speaks to her people. She has just "risen from the dead," brought back by love that is stronger than death, and she has wandered out to the courtyard where her people are. The night is dark, but her long white dress lights up the evening. Every eye is on her. She begins to speak. Although some have called her speech "tepid," I found it warming my blood in a way such people wouldn't understand.

She proposes her plan: she will offer herself as the only weapon that can slay the witch. They must not be content with the way things are. They must fight. Fight for freedom. Fight for light. Fight for life. And then she utters these words that have imprinted themselves firmly on my brain:

"I would rather die today than live another day of this death!"

Then,

"Who will ride out with me? Who will be my brother?"

How could a script writer know the kind of effect such words could have? Do they know that Jesus has invited me to ride out with Him? Do they know that one day Christ's people will have the chance to ride at His side in the white cavalry? Do they know that Hebrews 2:11-12 calls those who believe in Him brothers of Christ? I believe He is extending this invitation out to everyone every day. "Who will ride out with Me? Who will be My brother?"

And then there's that first sentence, resembling an onion it's so full of layers.

I would rather die today than live another day of this death.

Do we ever allow ourselves to live in death? Do we refuse to see the love and compassion of God because we don't want to be accountable to somebody besides "our own truth"? Do we labor to win the love of God and end up enslaved in self-condemnation (Romans 8:1)? Do we hold onto our worries instead of casting them on God (1 Peter 5:7)? Remember that Jesus came so that we can have life, and have it ABUNDANTLY!!! (John 10:10) We don't have to live lives of death anymore; Jesus died so we could live lives of life.

At the same time, are we content to just live that life all to ourselves? Shouldn't we develop that same Snow White spirit that says that we would rather die than see the world continue to live in death? Shouldn't we be yearning to see that covering swallowed up for all time and living in faith for it to happen (Isaiah 25:7)? Shouldn't we be fighting for that life for others? Shouldn't we be waiting in breathless expectation for the time when Jesus returns and we can join Him in ending this living death for good?

I'm not saying that I live this way. But I am saying that I want to. I want to make those choices: to live to the full today, to fight for life for others, and to live longing for the day when Christ shall come and we can ride with Him to end this death forever. We already have our Weapon. He is fairest of them all. His blood has proven it.

Let's live lives of life.

Free Gifts

What is my purpose?

Has God called me to anything?

How do these messages apply to me?

Do I need to change myself?

Am I seeking my pleasure above the glory of God?

Am I not being evangelistic enough?

Is it really that obvious that I'm troubled?

Am I going about with a frown on my face?

Am I behaving too much like Martha instead of Mary?

What are people thinking of me?

These and other self-centered questions raged in my mind. I chased after their answers in vain, like I so often do when I try to catch falling leaves on a windy autumn day. Uncertainty and worry are ravenous animals. But in the midst of their devouring, I read this passage:

"I, I am he who comforts you; who are you that you are afraid of man who dies, of the son of man who is made like grass, and have forgotten the LORD, your Maker, who stretched out the heavens and laid the foundations of the earth, and you fear continually all the day because of the wrath of the oppressor, when he sets himself to destroy? And where is the wrath of the oppressor? He who is bowed down shall speedily be released; he shall not die and go down to the pit, neither shall his bread be lacking. I am the LORD your God, who stirs up the sea so that its waves roar--the LORD of host is his name. And I have put my words in your mouth and covered you in the shadow of my hand." (Isaiah 51:12-16)

It was perfect. But then why does it surprise us again and again that the living Word of God can speak directly to our hearts today? Why should we be taken aback when just a few verses of the active Word can comfort, convict, remind us not to fear, encourage, magnify God's bigness, equip with fresh vision, and reveal God's compassionate love? Surely if God can speak a universe into existence with just a few words then He can speak life into my brittle heart with just a few verses.

I also recalled a handful of lessons I learned at the Feast. It's important to take in the breath of the Gospel and remember that God is in control no matter what the future holds. The hands that hold the seven stars are the same hands that hold you and me, and we need to listen to truth instead of the lies and despair clamoring inside and around us. Besides, God is caring and sovereign. We can look to the future with breathless expectation.

About this time I was striding in the great outdoors, my arms folded around my laptop. The air was fresh yet still. The trees still blazed their colorful anthems all around, and few leaves had begun to fall. I reflected on my questions, but I no longer reached out grasping fingers for the answers. Hope was clinging to me instead.

In the midst of this, a lone leaf landed in my arms. I hadn't reached for it, hadn't changed my pace for it, or even seen it coming. But there it lay, with absolutely no effort on my part. God's gift to me.

God's free gifts usually fall into our laps when we aren't expecting them or trying to earn them.

Where I'm supposed to be

An entire month has passed.

Oh yes, I like stating the obvious. Obviously.

I glance over the scrawly pages of my journal. My eyes light on September 22.

"A day or two ago Aunt Sharon thanked me for all my help with the Bible school. I said I didn't think I was doing that much, and she said, 'But I keep seeing you with the girls, helping with cooking, leading choir, and doing the Feast display. That's quite a bit. Thank you for just being here!'

'Well, thank God,' I told her, 'because my plan wasn't to be here!'"

It's true. If it had been left up to me, I wouldn't be here right now. I would have been far away, buried in classes on ancient Greece and the U.S. Constitution. I would have had evening catch-up sessions with my friend each night as we flossed our teeth together. I would have been chirping through Handel's Messiah with the choir. I would have gotten to sample my cousin's gourmet cooking in his very own kitchen.

But it wasn't meant to be.

And yet--and yet . . . I don't regret it. Do I still miss that lovely dream? Sure I do, but neither am I sad about it. If I had gone far away to college I wouldn't have gotten to buy bowls of chocolates for the Bible school girls or run down the sand dunes with them or make a choir happen for the Convention. I wouldn't have gotten to play sports twice a week in the dearest gym I know or had the thrill of creating a unique display for the Convention or the delight of attending almost every single meeting in that same Convention. I wouldn't have had that awesome impromptu prayer meeting or had that same focus to battle for people I love or have gone on that crazy expedition in the woods. I wouldn't have talked about Jesus with with my former English student on that mountain hike or had that chance to visit my brother in Pennsylvania or the opportunity to mail odd packages to college buddies. I wouldn't have flooded my friend's room with sticky notes reminding her of her identity in Christ or have seen my brother conduct his choir or curled up and watched that thought-provoking movie with that friend. I wouldn't have heard that song of trust that my brother sang, moving me to tears. I wouldn't have had that song singing in quite the same way in my own life.

I don't always think like this. Usually I either enjoy the moment and move carelessly on or ask analytical questions about the purpose of my life. But sometimes, at unexpected moments, I have this sensing:

I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

And for that, I am thankful.

Weapons

I was angry.

Not just a little. A lot. In fact . . .

I WAS ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS!!!!!!!

 If you know me, I may seem phlegmatic on the outside, but you'll know that I feel very strongly about some things on the inside. However, anger is rarely one of those feelings.

But this time it was.

Tears pricked my eyes. I shoveled in my breakfast mindlessly; I barely noticed the sweet pineapple Greek yogurt mixed with my Mom's homemade granola. I fumbled a text on my phone and sent it to several people before grabbing my stuff and heading out the door to work. I was going to need some reinforcements.

Knowing that I was running late, I shoved my stuff into our red Subaru Forester and clambered in. But not before donning my "tops'l." I had some heavy winds to sail through and I wanted to show that I was under authority. Besides, there's nothing like putting on a pure white prayer shield to make you feel like you're girding your loins for battle.

I need not tell you exactly what went on in the next ten minutes. In fact, it would be too personal if I did. A fellow warrior was down, and I was angry. Not angry at her, but angry at the Enemy. How DARE he attack a child of God like that? How DARE he try to bring down my sister in Christ? How DARE he touch a person I love so deeply? I channeled my rage into my faith. I knew that I couldn't do anything on my own to help her, but I knew Who could. Yelling, crying, singing, I wielded the two weapons I knew best: the Name of Jesus and the Blood of Jesus. I didn't go to three years of Bible school for nothing. I KNEW that before these mighty instruments of power the Enemy had no choice but to flee.

Suddenly, I was not just a silly girl driving a muffler-less car with a doily on her head.

I was Eowyn, daughter of kings, standing between the Nazgul lord and my comrade. Cold and terrible, I knew my power was pathetic in comparison to my foe's. I knew I was but a weak young woman. That I could wither beneath the dark lord's gaze. But I also knew that the weapons in my hands were more powerful than any I could have imagined. I knew that the Enemy would cower before them. I knew that the One inside of me was just itching for me to use the tools He'd given me so He could finish the job.

 And with that knowledge I struck. Again. And again.

I fought as a woman fights when she is defending all she holds dear.

When I knew that I couldn't sustain the anger any longer, I left my fellow soldier in God's hands. While sitting with my elderly lady at work, I read in Philippians these well-known verses:

"The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:5-7)

 

After a little more battling, I felt like the rest was really God's job. So, having brought my friend to the Lord at the altar, I left her there.

 

And you know something else? After I got home from work that evening, I found out that Jesus had suddenly broken through a brick wall for my friend. In one of her darkest hours, He broke through a brick wall wielding flaming ninja swords against her Enemy, just like He did in a dream she told me she once had.

 

When?

 

 Right about the time I was driving to work.

 

This is not a story about how great I am. This is a story about how great God is. About how He answers prayer. Not just my prayers either; I know there were other people praying and battling right by my side--why else do you think I texted in reinforcements? Christians aren't meant to fight alone.

 

I am here to testify that the weapons we have been given WORK. I know a lot of Christians today get nervous about spiritual warfare, but like it or not spiritual warfare is going on whether we choose to engage in it or not. It might be scary at first, but we don't need to be afraid because greater is He who is in us than he who is in the world. The Name of Jesus is Power itself. The Blood He shed for us is just as effective today.

 

And we know the End of the Story.

 

Jesus wins.

 

My friend still needs prayer. It will be awhile before she leaves the woods for good, but I believe the blackest part of the forest is behind her. Jesus brought her through it.

 

Praise the Lord!!!



Dumping the Tragedy Queen

I dragged myself out of bed. Every fiber in my body screamed for sleep. Every organ screamed for wakefulness.

The organs won the screaming match. Besides, I had to throw up. Again.

Going back to bed was out of the question. We had a schedule to follow, and about fifteen other people were waiting for me. I followed my parents and a solemn Craig out to the bus. The morning on the shores of the Sea of Galilee was glorious. Too glorious. I braced myself for the thirty-some eyeballs swivelling in my direction as I boarded. The night I had just undergone was too miserable to mention. I debated in my mind whether I would rather look very pale and old, like one who had undergone great suffering, or whether I would rather look brave and noble like one who had just battled through a frightful ordeal.

I did my best to look both. This entrance onto the bus was an important one for a just-turned-twelve-year-old. Especially since I was the youngest in my group, the only one enduring food poison in a foreign land. I felt satisfied with my weak yet stately entrance. Never mind that on everyone's exit they had to file past me as I vomited into a grocery bag.

I must have won their respect, I told myself. I was pathetically heroic. It wasn't until I heard that Craig referred to me as a "poor kid" in his written report that I started realizing that the impression I had made might have been different than I had supposed. There is nothing inspiring in being referred to as a "poor kid." It plunges one's ego to an all-time low.

I hope you find this as ludicrous as I do now. But the fact is, I realize that this love for the dramatic impression didn't die when I was twelve.

I was jerked awake as I watched a lecture on the works of my hero, C.S. Lewis. As I listened to an explanation of Perelandra, our professor announced that C.S. Lewis hated the "tragedy queen." This was a new term for me. I sat up straighter.

"The expression on her face, revealed in the sudden light, was one that he had not seen there before. Her eyes were not fixed on the narrator: as far as that went, her thoughts might have been a thousand miles away. Her lips were shut and a little pursed. Her eyebrows were slightly raised. He had not yet seen her look so like a woman of our own race; and yet her expression was one he had not very often met on earth - except, as he realised with a shock, on the stage. 'Like a tragedy queen' was the disgusting comparison that arose in his mind. Of course it was a gross exaggeration. It was an insult for which he could not forgive himself. And yet ... and yet

... the tableau revealed by the lightning had photographed itself on his brain. Do what he would, he found it impossible not to think of that new look in her face. A very good tragedy queen, no doubt. The heroine of a very great tragedy, very nobly played by an actress who was a good woman in real life. By earthly standards, an expression to be praised, even to be revered: but remembering all that he had read in her countenance before, the unselfconscious radiance, the frolic sanctity, the depth of stillness that reminded him sometimes of infancy and sometimes of extreme old age while the hard youth and valiancy of face and body denied both, he found this new expression horrifying. The fatal touch of invited grandeur, of enjoyed pathos - the assumption, however slight, of a roles - eemed a hateful vulgarity. Perhaps she was doing no more - he had good hope that she was doing no more than responding in a purely imaginative fashion to this new art of Story or Poetry. But by God she'd better not! And for the first time the thought 'This can't go on' formulated itself in his mind." ~C.S. Lewis, Perelandra

Oh dear. You see, I love to act. I love drama. I love books, music, art, movies, and plays. If something bad happens to me, it's easy to magnify the suffering and write about it as a noble struggle. Who knows? Maybe it is. And yet, it is no way to live.

The fact is, Jesus didn't die so that we could live a tragedy.

He died so that we could live a fairytale.

Yes, yes, you don't need to roll your eyes that vigorously. I almost did when this thought just came to me a minute ago. I'm sure many people think of fairy tales as unrealistic myths of princes, princesses, and predictable happily ever afters. But think about it. How many of those fluffy endings had fluffy beginnings? Cinderella had to face the dirt and grime of the daily grind. Snow White had to flee for her life. Belle endured ridicule and loneliness.

As for a predictable ending, think again! Don't we already know the end of our Story?

"Jesus wins."

Of course, I would much rather say that Jesus died so that we could live a tale with an epic battle in it. That might be partially true, but it wouldn't be the whole story. It's true that we all are part of a Great Battle, and we have reason for our souls to stir within us at the thought of having a role in it. However, Jesus didn't come so that we could fight. Jesus came so that we could have life, and have it abundantly. We may have to fight for others to have that life, but the fight isn't what we're to dwell on. The tragedies that we encounter aren't what we are to obsess over. The drama of each moment isn't what we're to revel in. It's the happy ending. Predictable, but sweet.

Jesus wins.

I want to dump the tragedy queen. Yes, things aren't always easy, and it's okay to be honest about it, but that doesn't mean we should go around living a tragedy. Let's live a fairytale, full of hardships, but also full of adventure, life, and joy. And, of course, a satisfactory ending.

Jesus wins.

The Suction Telephone

Have I mentioned that I hate making phone calls?

Because I do.

I'm convinced that there is a built-in suction device in the ear of every telephone. Its purpose? To suck out every word from my brain that I had been planning on saying. With no flesh and blood person nodding or huffing sympathetically before me, I'm sure this thing with a human voice on the other end will slay me with a single thought regarding my stupidity. And I have no defense but to memorize my entire speech before making the phone call so that the words aren't noiselessly siphoned into the phone box and the person listening is left with my stammering silence.

If I get a voicemail, my speech is ruined and I generally have to hang up and try again with a new speech prepared for the unexpected scenario.

True story.

This, at least, is how I've behaved most of my life. But I am wrong to think this way. You see, God hasn't given me a spirit of timidity. He's given me a Spirit of love, power, and self-control. And I've learned that as the ringer beeps ominously in my ear, I can breathe a prayer to this Holy Spirit to give me words to say.

He usually says things better anyway.

The Sweet Duet

The bright, cold zippers rumbled to the side in pip squeak fashion. The brass lock clicked softly. The jaws of the navy case opened wide. Inside was my precious friend, blanketed in velvet. I blinked. I couldn't believe it had been so long since I'd last laid my eyes on her. What had it been, six months? Considering all we'd been through together, it was more than woeful neglect. It was like abusing one of your best pals. Only I had forgotten that she was my pal.

Still scarred yet lovely, I lifted out the centenarian instrument and dusted her off. Then, after tightening the sleepy bow hair and hunting around for a tuneful A, we began our duet. I stroked her, giving her everything I could manage in my rusty condition, and she sang her heart out. Her voice was pure and sweet despite my pathetic skills. I'd forgotten how much we enjoy each other's company. It made me wonder why I had abandoned my friend for so long.

It probably started with the extra dose of busyness. Running in circles trying to make graduation dresses, get presents ready, sign year books, invent skits, and write speeches isn't exactly conducive to quality time with your violin. Then I started the most hectic four weeks of my life when I took CELTA, which were immediately followed by my brother's wedding, running drama for the Family Convention, and a camp vacation in Maine.  By that time, nearly four months had slipped by.

You would have thought I'd have taken my next chance to reunite with my music buddy, but I didn't. The inertia was too great. I had "too many other things" to do. It looked like a chore. It had already been so long, why should I break the absence now?

Then fear started nudging. And guilt. I tried to ignore it, but it persisted. What if someone were to ask me to play my violin for a church service during the upcoming convention? What would I say? "Uh, I can't. I haven't touched my violin for six months"? Since starting to take lessons thirteen years ago, I have never ignored my partner for so long; I wasn't sure if I could still play. And yet I hated the idea of having to turn somebody down. Wasn't that really the reason why I played vioin to begin with, so I could bless people? So that I could further the Kingdom of God by bringing Him glory through my music? And yet I had let this small talent gather dust. I had let it--and myself--get out of tune.

No more.

As my right handed glided and my left hand flew, my friend sang. And I remembered why I love my vioin so much.

I couldn't help but wonder, "Why did I wait so long?"

I think spending quality time with God is kind of like playing a violin. First, if we're not careful, we become too busy for it. Then we start to look at it as a chore. Suddenly we start prioritizing everything but the thing that really matters. And if we've gone so long ignoring our best Friend, why stop? It takes too much energy to keep up the relationship.

Yet the whole time He waits. He waits in that corner that we've relegated Him to. He's not powerless of course, but He's patient. He wants us to choose Him. He wants us to want to spend time with Him. Perhaps it takes a little conviction or a little fear to bring us to our senses. What if we get to Heaven and we can't remember when we last spent time in His presence? What a terrifying thought!

But when we do finally pull Him out of that corner, the terror is gone. The joy is infinite. The melody that our hearts make together is sweet. It's a song that nobody but the two of us can understand. It's personal. Real.

And we wonder, "Why did we wait so long?"

Let's not wait.

The Dance

Rich shadows prance on the walls. Laughter murmurs in your ears. Sumptuous scents trigger your salivary glands.

In the midst of the feast, the King's eyes are on you. Suddenly he extends his hand in your direction. His eyes are on no one else. He is inviting you to the dance floor. Surprised, you follow him, trying to ignore the mixed reactions of everyone else in the room. You have been preparing your heart for this moment. You sense that you are beautiful, and yet . . .

"We wouldn't want to end up in a heap," you say. There. Your fear is out in the open. You wait to see what his answer will be.

"I am King. I will lead."

Whew! What a relief! The rest is history.

That same invitation is being extended to each one of us. To dance with our King. To let Him lead. Every day.

Who knows what kind of dance He has in store for us?

I want to respond to that invitation.

"My beloved speaks and says to me:

'Arise, my love, my beautiful one,

and come away.'"

Song of Solomon 2:10

Inspired by the book Captivating and Anna and the King of Siam.

Look up!

It's so easy to get swallowed by yourself.

I picture myself, mouth transfigured into a bottomless maw, lips stretching like elastic over the rest of my body until it's completely covered. All it takes is one swallow. Maybe a few hearty chomps to shred me into digestible bits first. Then gulp. Life is snuffed. I am invisible. Gone.

Sound funny?

It should.

Because it is!!!

I'm afraid it's gotten so easy to get wrapped up in myself, but guess what? Life isn't all about me. Or you. We all need to stop taking ourselves so seriously.

What do we do instead?

Easy.

Look up.

Only when we fix our eyes on Jesus does the race before us start looking bearable. Then and only then. Consider a couple of examples from the Bible, like Stephen. He kept his gaze fixed on his Savior so that even his murder seemed like a glorious experience to him.

No matter what kind of suffering experiences we have to go through, turning our eyes on Jesus reminds us who is in control.

Take Peter walking on water. What happened to him when he let his eyes waver for an instant off his Lord? He started sinking! He was looking at the waves instead of the Master of the waves. He was looking at the problem instead of the Answer. Which one do you think looked bigger?

I feel convicted about this. I keep forgetting to keep my eyes fastened on Jesus during these times of uncertainty. But I'm tired of forgetting. It's too exhausting. It makes the impossible look like it's actually impossible.

But when we turn our eyes on Jesus, He enables us to do the impossible.

We can walk on water.

We can lift up our heads because our redemption is drawing nigh.

It's even okay to go shopping with friends or sit around strumming guitars, laughing and being silly. It's all a way of not taking yourself too seriously. Not swallowing yourself. Enjoying life.

Because He's got it all under control.

This post was inspired by a sermon by my dad and today's Blimey Cow video.

A Cheerful Greeting

Why do I like him so much?

I lay in bed thinking of an elderly man far away. I decided quite some time ago that I'm a little more fond of him than the average elderly man I know. Good old Mr. Morgan. But why? I don't even know him very well.

Then it hit me. It's not just his testimony for the Lord or his personality or even just his gutsy cheerfulness through pain. It's the way he greets me. He says hello to me as if he actually liked me. Like we were best friends.

You see, I've realized that the way someone greets me can often make or break my day.

I think of Mr. Adams, dad to some of my friends. He has a knack for saying hello as if you were the most important person in the world. I noticed this one time when he came to a convention in my mid-teens. The way he beamed at me, shook my hand, and exclaimed, "Kayla! Good to see you!" as if he really meant it warmed my heart like you wouldn't believe.

I think of Mr. Brown. All three that I know. In their own way, they have a tendency to say hello as if I really meant something. Not every time, but often enough. Mr. P. Brown has a way of smiling gently at everybody as if they were special. You can see it in his eyes.

Mr. Maxwell makes a point of asking how you are like he really cared. I've seen him go out of his way to encourage somebody who could use it. Mr. Peterson twinkles his merry salutations. Uncle Tim can channel all of his forceful energy into the sunniest of welcomes. And I'll never forget how Uncle Dave came running up the hill behind me, arms open wide to give me a big hug eight years or so ago.

Wow, this is turning into a hymn about older men. Let's change that.

My mom is one of my favorite people with whom to exchange a greeting. Her name means "bright one" and boy does she show it. I still remember her waking me up to my first day of school, full of smiles and good cheer. But she's like this day after day. Only when something is bothering her does she relinquish her warm "good morning" to me. Then I know that something is wrong. Maybe that's why I'm so easily affected when I say "good morning" to somebody and they only mumble a reply. It's like somebody poked a hole in my entire day and my joy is about to deflate into nothing.

My brother Craig is another good example of this. Whenever he walks into a room, my day gets a little brighter. I know that if I say "hi" to him with a smile he will invariably reflect the same warmth back. Unless he's teasing me and pretending I'm weird if I've overdone it.

Jane, great friend and now sister-in-law, is one of the best examples of all. Not only does she give rib crunching hugs and sunny smiles when I see her, she can voice it too. I enjoyed being in Bible school with her because she was the only one who really knew how to give a hearty good morning. My enthusiasm paled in comparison to hers, but we took extra pleasure in exaggerating our ebullience to the point of irritation. Only it didn't irritate us, just those around us. I missed her after she was gone. No longer did I have a partner who enjoyed the same level of morbid cheerfulness. It wasn't that we always felt that cheerful, but if we pretended we were then it usually set the tone for the day and we would follow it.

After feeling deflated a few times when she was gone I started to unconsciously tone myself down, stuffing away the bubbliness for the sake of myself and others. Being deflated was too depressing. If they didn't reflect my warmth right back then I felt hurt and wasted. I went to all the trouble to express, not my cheerfulness, but my desire to be cheerful, and after all my effort I just got a limp reply? One may as well try to rouse a dead soldier than encourage a live one. I'd just as soon ignore the person than feel the snub of a dim answer.

But I know this is wrong. I started understanding after I'd expressed to the girls in my class last year that I appreciate a lively greeting. "It's not that I don't like you," one of them told me (actually, that's an extremely rough quote since I don't quite remember all she said), "it's just that I can't do it."

What?!? You mean everyone doesn't have the ability to be insanely cheerful even when you don't want to be? Oh. That makes sense. Maybe I have a gift. My problem is that for the sake of being normal I've started not using it. I like being real with people so I don't even bother putting on the chipper front, even though usually when I do the rest of me genuinely follows.

However, I started understanding the world a little bit better. I realized that we're not all the same. Once we had that little communication about not being able to duplicate morning cheerfulness, I could almost smile on the glares and mumbled replies. People can't help it if they're not geared the same way, and I shouldn't be bothered by it. Although I may still pull myself back in order to be sensitive to others, it's also important to not hold back our gifts just because they're different. We shouldn't hold them back even when we're afraid of being hurt.

And of course, we all have unique gifts. You might give good hugs or massages. Maybe you can make people laugh. Perhaps you can feel pain for other people, or notice if they're having a bad day. Maybe you can say and do what needs to be done in the fewest possible words. Or you have a knack for coming up with tiny, spontaneous gifts. Possibly you can give a thoughtful compliment. Or you can inspire people. Perhaps you can rhyme and make up songs on the spot like nobody's business. Or draw a unique picture that builds someone up. Whatever it is, we need to treasure these gifts, not look on them as oddities, because God gave them to us for a purpose. Stuffing them away isn't going to do anybody any good.

I need to remember that.

Perhaps the stranger with the dead soldier demeanor is the one who needs to see my smile.

Perspective





I've always wanted to go to Niagara Falls. Technically, I've already been there (more than once even), but I probably wasn't more than ten years old and I barely remembered my brief encounter with the falls. My mom was trying to think of one more vacation option before the Bible school year starts and in a stroke of genius she hit upon the idea of revisiting this world famous landmark. And not just a "hi and bye" meeting. This time we'd visit it for real, taking almost every tour we could.

 

So one week we weren't planning on going. The next week we were. We hopped in the car and were off, stopping at antique shops and thrift stores as it struck our fancy. I did a lot of the driving, at least until we were a hundred miles from Buffalo. The rest of the time I spent lying down in the back seat being swallowed by The Hunger Games.
 

I was enthralled when we first stopped to see Niagara at night.
 

The stark beauty of the number six rapids made you think a lot when you read about the stunt people who had drowned in them.

We strolled along the peaceful walkway by the rapids below the Falls.

I was mesmerized by the huge waves. The camera's attempts to capture them are pitiful.



One can't quite compare the excitement you feel when you see a rainbow like this. Or get to feel the blast of mist and hear the roar of the falls when you ride a boat right up near its base. (Too wet to get a good picture, hence I'm showing none)

 

 





I felt like I would never grow tired of gazing at the water booming over the edge. To some, it looks like a lot of water. I see the raw majesty and breathtaking power of a Creator. It makes me want to cry when I think that so many others choose not to see it too. Not only is it awe-inspiring, it seems to make problems shrink in comparison. Who can worry about nuclear threats, presidential elections, petty emotions, or questions of the future when you know that a huger power is in control of it all?

 

It helps put things into perspective.

Real or Not Real?

It was time. Time to see what all the fuss was about. They say that The Hunger Games is the most talked about book/trilogy right now, and that it has exceeded the number of Harry Potter book sales on Amazon. I had to find out why. As a writer and lover of fiction, I've started feeling the necessity of reading great or popular books to find out what their secret is, or at least find out why people can't stop talking about it.

I soon discovered why.

The gripping writing style. Short, choppy sentences. The creativity. The action. The morbid fascination. The rebellion against the bigger powers, the Evil in the world. That deep struggle between good and evil. The feeling that you can have an impact, even if you seem alone at first. The strong yet human heroine, Katniss. Her confusion over how she feels about the two young men in her life, the firebrand that knows her better than anyone and the gentle sunshine that won't stop laying his life down for her even when there are times she almost hates him.

In three words, an emotion shredder.

Or that's how it affected me.

The books sucked me in and swallowed me whole, digesting me by squeezing me through its high packed action and squirting me with emotional gastric juices. I laughed. I cried. I discovered myself trembling almost uncontrollably as I read, until after many hours of doing this I commanded myself to relax. I came on the brink of feverishness. My dreams were but a continuation of the story (even though my version tended toward the heroine finally seeking God for help). It caused me to gasp. To grope in confusion. To hurt.

I'm not sure if being so affected is a credit to the writer or a danger to me.

***If you haven't read The Hunger Games trilogy, I suggest you don't continue reading unless you want me to spoil it for you.***

The books were violent, very violent. I wouldn't let my kids read them until they're practically old. However, the story wasn't glorifying violence, it was pointing out how sickening it was. The plot was solid and engaging, even though I admit that it starts to digress a little bit after the first book. Still, it beckoned you to keep reading, either in dreamy hopes that it would end well or in desperation to end the nightmare because the version you start imagining might be worse than reality.

If the violence and death weren't trampling hard enough on your emotions, the romance finished the job. (Here's where I start sounding grotesquely girly.) To me her choice became obvious. Although it takes awhile to warm up to the truth of his good motives, Peeta, the gentle sunshine, won me over completely. But not Katniss. Not completely. Fear, stubbornness, and confusion hold her back. And, unlike many book characters, she's complicated. Just like me. Too late, she starts to realize all that Peeta is to her when he's captured. Eventually when she starts going nuts thinking of the torture he must be suffering, they rescue him. But he's not the same. When she goes to hug the boy who has loved her most of his life and who would die for her in an instant (he almost has repeatedly), he tries to strangle her. The torture he'd undergone had twisted his love for her into hate.

I felt like a spear had just stabbed me in the gut. I realize that "gut" is not a refined term, but the emotions I was feeling weren't very refined. They were raw. And as the story continued, it felt like the spear was being twisted deeper.

You see, I finally realized that I had unconsciously considered Peeta to be a sort of Christ figure. Not in an idol sort of way, but a reflection of His character sort of way. Of all the things that dip and change in the story, one thing stayed constant: his love for her. Unselfish love. The kind that will die for her in a heartbeat. Or lack thereof. That's why choosing him seemed obvious even when it wasn't to Katniss. But I don't blame her. She was only acting the way I do when I forget that the Love of my life is Jesus.

But then the one constant changes. Peeta's love. Christ's love. And my world starts reeling. Reeling because there's some truth to Peeta's accusations against Katniss. Against me. Reeling because there's nothing she or I can do about it. My one constant is removed. A life without Christ's love is like peering into an empty chasm of death. It's more than unbearable.

It absolutely terrifies me.

NEVERTHELESS!!! Jesus is not Peeta. And Peeta recovers. Yes, it takes time and convincing ("games" of "Real or Not Real?"), and with flashbacks of horror he's never the same, but his love for Katniss gradually breaks through. It's not portrayed as fiercely, but it returns. And Katniss loves him back.

"Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know that this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hate. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life an go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.

"So after, when he whispers, 'You love me. Real or not real?'

I tell him, 'Real.'"

~Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay

I took a break from reading for hours in the back of the car to drive the rest of the way home from Niagara Falls with my parents. It provided some time for reflection over what I was experiencing.

Gut-wrenching pain as I realize what my worst fear is, the fear of losing Christ's love. Despair. Despair over the lack of noble excitement in my own story, and despair at ever being able to write one someday. The words of the music I'm listening to wash over me, and some of them lick gently at my wounds:

And when I think

That God His Son not sparing

Sent Him to die

I scarce can take it in

That on a cross, my burden gladly bearing

He bled and died

To take away my sin.

 

And I realize in an instant, foggy yet clear, that I am a part of the most breathtaking Story imaginable. And that I might be able to dimly portray it in a story.

 

 

Then sings my soul . . .

How great Thou art!

 

Yes, I need to get my gaze upward.

 

When peace like a river attendeth my way

When sorrows like sea billows roll

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say

It is well

It is well with my soul.

 

Tho Satan should buffet

Tho trials should come

Let this blest assurance control

That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate

And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

 

 

Sometimes the way is lonely

And steeped and filled with pain

And if your sky is dark and pours the rain

Cry to Jesus

Cry to Jesus

Cry to Jesus

And live.

 

 

You are my Hiding Place

You fill my broken heart with song.

 

 

Oh Love that wilt not let me go

I rest my weary soul in Thee.

 

 

Oh what blest assurance! Peeta Mellark is only human. Made up in fact. His love may falter in spite of himself, but Jesus Christ's love never will!!!!! He's not about to let go of me now. I gratefully grip the cool stone on which I wrote the words from that last stanza: "Oh Love that wilt not let me go . . ." Jesus is my Anchor.

 

 

On top of all this, I've still been struggling with questions about what I should be doing. They say that God steers a moving ship, but I don't feel like a moving ship. I feel like a lost ship. However, as I shared some of this with my mother, she reminded me of the words to yet another song:

 

The Guest within told me He is

In all of life's experiences

To make them work for good to me.

 

I know this is true, just as I know now that my worst fear will never come to pass. The love of God is changeless. And then of course what do you think God had me read in my Bible reading next?

 

Oh give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,

for his steadfast love endures forever!

...Some wandered in desert wastes,

finding no way to a city to dwell in;

hungry and thirsty,

their soul fainted within them.

Then they cried to the LORD in their trouble,

and he delivered them from their distress.

He led them by a straight way

till they reached a city to dwell in.

Let them thank the LORD for his steadfast love,

for his wondrous works to the children of man!

For he satisfies the longing soul,

and the hungry soul he fills with good things.

(Psalm 107:1,4-9 ESV)

 

I may feel like I'm in a desert. But despite my cooling love, God's love burns brightly forever. He's prepared to lead me by a straight way, if I'll let Him.

 

And that is much cause for rejoicing.

 

When Satan appears to stop up our path

And fills us with fears

We triumph by faith;

He cannot take from us,

Tho' oft he has tried

The heart-cheering promise,

"The Lord will provide."

 

He tells me to trust, and never be afraid,

He tells me to trust, and never be afraid,

He tells me to trust, and never be afraid,

But joy in the God of my salvation.

 

Yes, I will rejoice,

Rejoice in the Lord;

Yes, I will rejoice,

Rejoice in the Lord;

Yes, I will rejoice,

Rejoice in the Lord;

And joy in the God of my salvation.

 

I don't feel jubilant, but I choose to rejoice in Christ's enduring love today.

 

"For he will not much remember the days of his life because God keeps him occupied with joy in his heart." (Ecclesiastes 5:20)

 

"What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. Infinitely good. And only Jesus can give me that.

 

"So after, when I whisper, 'You'll love me always. Real or not real?'

 

He tells me, 'Real.'"

What He really thinks

"No man can tell you who you are as a woman. No man is the verdict on your soul . . . The ache is real. But the verdict is false. Only God can tell you who you are. Only God can speak the answer you need to hear . . . our core validation, our primary validation has to come from God. And until it does, until we look to him for the healing of our souls, our relationships are really hurt by this looking-to-each-other for something only God can give." -John and Stasi Eldridge, Captivating

Several years ago, I wrote a blog post called "Defining a Man." I don't recall it was especially deep; it was mostly inspired by a breakfast conversation with the Bible school while I was still in high school. The amusing epilogue to that story is that after posting my article I was later informed that most all of the Bible school guys had read it. Since I'm pretty sure most of them hadn't read my blog before and haven't since, it tickled my funny bone. If you want a guy to read your stuff, write about him! (I'm partially kidding.)

However, I realize I never wrote a post about Defining a Woman. It is late and I don't really want to tackle that challenging topic, but I would like to touch upon it.

As you may have gathered, I've been reading John and Stasi Eldridge's book, Captivating, and I have found it to be very rich, enlightening, and true. Truer than I knew. I don't think I could even dream of besting their job of "Defining a Woman," they summed it up so well. Still, I want to make a personal observation or two.

Every girl longs for adventure. Every girl wants to be considered beautiful. Every girl wants to be thought of as captivating. A few months ago I would have recoiled from making such drastically girly statements. Although romantic at heart (shh--don't tell!), I scorn gushy romance novels, squirm in movie kissing, gag over sappy Facebook comments, roll my eyes at some of the behavior of new couples, and tease some of my "pink and pretty" friends. But I have gone past the point of self-denial. The three sentences that started this paragraph are true for me too.

What's more, in the Curse God gave Eve an aching void. She thinks that the only thing that can fill this is Adam, but she is to learn that she is wrong. The only thing that can fill that void is God. This is nothing new. "In every human heart there is a God-shaped void" and that sort of thing has been told to me over and over again. But there is a unique aspect, a poignant truth in how this relates to women. If you are one, you'll understand.

For years I have consoled my own aching heart by telling myself, "Jesus thinks I'm tops," (a phrase I actually wrote when I was fifteen), "Jesus thinks I'm beautiful," and that sort of thing. It isn't bad to tell yourself things like this, especially since they're true. They helped me at the time, but in the long run it wasn't enough. It was like trying to slap a band-aid on a gaping wound.

In the past two years, I've discovered another balm-giving phrase: "Jesus satisfies my longing soul." And it's true. I want to emphasize this. However, so often I didn't even know what I was longing for, so how was I to know that He'd satisfied it? I long for Jesus Himself, yes, but I also craved validation. Validation that would answer my Question.

I didn't know what my Question was until I read Captivating. I hadn't fully realized that I could actually bring my Question to Jesus and expect a reply. So I did. And for my first time, I got my answer.

It was, "Yes."

My life hasn't changed in an instant. I'm still the same too-sensitive, wanting-people-to-like-me, sometimes-people-loving and sometimes-people-avoiding person, but deep down, I believe something is different. I have a liberating confidence I didn't have before.

I know what my Savior thinks of me. Not because I told myself, or because somebody else told me. I know because He told me. Certain worries and fears gradually start to melt--who cares what people think anyway? The desperate need for human validation--in any form--diminishes.

After all, once you realize you have the good opinion of the Creator, the good opinion of His creation doesn't seem to matter quite so much.

Would that we all took the time to ask our Creator what He really thinks of us.