I don't often think about the devil. He's sort of out of vogue these days. I tend to focus more on filling up on the good - God's word, the Holy Spirit, Love - so that I have good to give to those around me. Lately, though, I've felt the truth of the words: "He prowls like a lion waiting for an opportune time to attack."
It used to happen in my dreams pretty regularly. I'd go to sleep feeling just fine, then the dreams would begin and soon nightmares would terrorize me. People I loved turned against me, shadows chased me, and things I hadn't given thought to in the day occurred at night. My husband and I began praying every night for peace in my dreams. When we had children, we prayed the same prayer for them as they fought night terrors on a regular basis.
But we've had peace in our home for some time. There are still nightmares from time to time, tears wiped away as my daughter snuggles against the safety of her daddy's chest, but they are few and far between.
Recently, though, I was attacked so suddenly and shockingly I didn't know what had happened or why.
I was sitting with my pastor discussing the book of Hosea. We were talking about Hosea's children, and when he listed them, one name pierced my heart like an arrow. One of Hosea's children was named: "Not Loved".
The purpose of this name was to show the Israelite people that because they continued to rebel against the Lord, they would know what it was like to have His love and blessing withheld from them. He longed for them to come back to Him, to stop turning to other gods and idols, but they would not. This was their consequence.
But for me, those words, that name, "Not Loved," was my greatest fear. It instantly took my heart back to times of deep loneliness and brokenness, wondering if I mattered at all, to anyone.
I have fought for decades to get to the place where I am today - so deep in God's love and the love of people around me, that I haven't felt the depth of that pain in years. It terrified me to feel it again, so suddenly when I was with my pastor reading the Bible of all things.
I nearly cried out in confusion, "What is happening? And how could God name any child this? Even to make a point to His people?" It was so harsh. I prayed and talked to my husband and tried to understand what had happened to take me so quickly to such a dark place, but I couldn't figure it out. It didn't make sense.
The next day I had the opportunity to talk to someone who, after listening for a while, mentioned how Satan used the scriptures to lie to and tempt Jesus in the desert. That was it! Relief washed over me as confusion gave way to clarity. That is what happened!
I sat there ready to drink deeply from the word of God, receive insight from my pastor, hopefully have stimulating conversation about how to teach from this section. Instead, the enemy of my soul saw an opportunity and attacked. He slithered into my ear and whispered, "If God could name that child "Not Loved," then how can you possibly believe He loves you?" And I wondered how - even as I reminded myself of the truth that God is love, that Jesus came because he loves us all, that the greatest of these is love - how could God possibly love me?
There is no simple answer to how it is possible that the God of the Universe could love me. But the Word of God says that it is true.
It is easier to look into your eyes, the eyes of my friends and family members, even strangers and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that He loves You. How could He not? He formed you, He designed you beautifully. He placed His finger on your heart and said, "She is mine. I love her."
And so we have a choice when attacked with such lies - Who will we believe?
In that moment I made my choice - to claim the new name God tattooed on my heart through my years of healing - "Loved One" - because by His goodness and grace that is who I am.
That is who we are, His "Loved Ones".
Friday, August 9, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
My Story
A few weeks ago my pastor asked if I would share my story, and the hope I've found through it, with our church. Always eager to allow God to use my past to offer others hope, I said yes.
The problem is it is hard to mine into the depths of the traumatic events of my life to share with others (the divorces, depression, and violent episodes that marked my home), but it is worth it when I get to the second layer of my story. The one where God came and found me as an 11-year-old girl, told me He loved me so much that He sent His Son to come and die on my behalf, and that He wanted to cover me with love and grace and make me His. From that moment on my Heavenly Father provided small group leaders, youth pastors, friends and a church to love, care for, and provide a safe place for me.
As I prepared to share my story, I struggled to keep the heaviness of my past from weighing me down. The Friday before I was to speak, God reminded me that the hope of my story is not just for those who will hear it, but also for me.
God not only came and found me in my youth, but he held my hand and never let me go. When I went away to college I met Joel. We became good friends and then one weekend second semester my freshman year our eyes were opened and we were crazy about each other. It was wonderful and terrifying and overwhelming to fall in love so young, so deeply, so completely.
I grew up never believing that love could last a lifetime. In my experience there was no happily ever after. That was reserved for fairy tales and novels. So after a month or two of dating Joel, loving and being loved for the first time in my life, and being so gloriously happy I didn't know what to do with myself, I told Joel we needed to break up.
I told him that I was too happy, I loved him too much, it had to end sometime, and it would be less painful to do it now than later.
He said no. (I didn't know you could say no when someone tried to break up with you.)
He said we weren't going to break up now, being happy and in love were not good reasons to break up, and he didn't think we would break up - ever.
That was just crazy talk to me, but he seemed so confident, and I really didn't want our relationship to end, so I trusted him.
A year later he asked me to marry him. A few years after that we said our vows. And we have now been married for over 18 years and have four kids together.
When I shared that part of my story on Sunday morning, they applauded. They cheered in both services. It was completely unexpected. I was sharing my story to offer them hope in their hardship, but I was blessed in return as they rejoiced with me in the miraculous work God has done in my life.
That is the blessing of sharing our stories with one another. As we allow each other into our stories, we can offer comfort for the hard times and rejoice in the moments when God's hand is evident.
And we remember that we are all still contributing to the Greatest Story Ever Told.
The problem is it is hard to mine into the depths of the traumatic events of my life to share with others (the divorces, depression, and violent episodes that marked my home), but it is worth it when I get to the second layer of my story. The one where God came and found me as an 11-year-old girl, told me He loved me so much that He sent His Son to come and die on my behalf, and that He wanted to cover me with love and grace and make me His. From that moment on my Heavenly Father provided small group leaders, youth pastors, friends and a church to love, care for, and provide a safe place for me.
As I prepared to share my story, I struggled to keep the heaviness of my past from weighing me down. The Friday before I was to speak, God reminded me that the hope of my story is not just for those who will hear it, but also for me.
God not only came and found me in my youth, but he held my hand and never let me go. When I went away to college I met Joel. We became good friends and then one weekend second semester my freshman year our eyes were opened and we were crazy about each other. It was wonderful and terrifying and overwhelming to fall in love so young, so deeply, so completely.
I grew up never believing that love could last a lifetime. In my experience there was no happily ever after. That was reserved for fairy tales and novels. So after a month or two of dating Joel, loving and being loved for the first time in my life, and being so gloriously happy I didn't know what to do with myself, I told Joel we needed to break up.
I told him that I was too happy, I loved him too much, it had to end sometime, and it would be less painful to do it now than later.
He said no. (I didn't know you could say no when someone tried to break up with you.)
He said we weren't going to break up now, being happy and in love were not good reasons to break up, and he didn't think we would break up - ever.
That was just crazy talk to me, but he seemed so confident, and I really didn't want our relationship to end, so I trusted him.
A year later he asked me to marry him. A few years after that we said our vows. And we have now been married for over 18 years and have four kids together.
When I shared that part of my story on Sunday morning, they applauded. They cheered in both services. It was completely unexpected. I was sharing my story to offer them hope in their hardship, but I was blessed in return as they rejoiced with me in the miraculous work God has done in my life.
That is the blessing of sharing our stories with one another. As we allow each other into our stories, we can offer comfort for the hard times and rejoice in the moments when God's hand is evident.
And we remember that we are all still contributing to the Greatest Story Ever Told.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Words
Words are crazy little things.
A bunch of letters arranged to form common meanings. They often seem to matter so little, like when I tell my kids to clean up their rooms, and then nothing happens. Or when I say "I love you" to my husband for the tenth time in a day, more out of habit than passion.
On the other hand, when I'm careless with words I hope that they don't matter much, like when I'm too harsh with my kids for a mistake they made, or am critical of my husband. They can't really be taken back - words. We try, say we didn't mean it, we misspoke, or that we are sorry. But it takes time to heal from certain words.
The Bible says that a word aptly spoken is like an apple of gold in a setting of silver. I've always thought that was a strange analogy. Maybe that was some coveted piece of art that every woman wanted on her mantle during Solomon's time. I don't know. But I'm starting to understand what the wise king was getting at. Sometimes it's easier for me to understand a concept by looking at its opposite.
A careless word spoken at a person's weakest moment is like shoving rotten food down that person's throat. These words are hard to vomit back up, instead they fester in the stomach, absorbing through the lining, flowing into the bloodstream until the person is contaminated by them. They feel sick. Weak. Confused. This happened to me a few weeks ago. I was having a terrible week at work. Two major projects were to be completed and both were on my head and everything was going wrong with one of them. The reality is the least favorite part of my job is taking care of major mailings, and this was one of those. Nothing was working. The mail wasn't merging, the lists weren't downloading, the printer was printing wrong and the folder wasn't folding. But everything still had to get done on time and I was pulling my hair out.
I texted my husband asking if it would be a problem if I quit my job that day. He texted back that it depends on your perspective. That perspective being whether I considered food stamps a viable option for our family or not. All this to say, I was losing it. Then a coworker comes in. This coworker is a friend of mine, and a brother in Christ. When I asked if we could call a guy to fix the folding machine he said, "as long as it doesn't cost $30,000, let's get it fixed" I said, "Yeah, it'd be cheaper to hire a professional paper folder than to do that." He looked me in the eye and said, "You are our professional paper folder."
That was it. Those six innocuous words and I was sunk.
"I am a professional paper folder," I said to myself. Feeling about as much worth as the wadded up rejects in the recycling bin. No, I'm not! I wanted to scream back. But I couldn't because it was true. While there is more to my job than folding 1300 letters and stuffing them into envelopes, that was my job that day. That's all I am, I thought, nothing more. 39 years of life, 4 years of college, 15 years in ministry, and now I am nothing more than a professional paper folder. The words filled my stomach and seeped into my veins. In that moment, under that stress, those words told me that that was all I was. I was nothing more. I had no more value than to fold those God-forsaken papers.
I went for a walk through campus and cried. I sat in the shade of a tree and cried some more wishing I could absorb into the ground with its roots. I took this job to provide for my family. Now look at me. A college educated woman with creative thoughts and ideas bursting at my seams, now nothing more than a professional paper folder.
Certainly my pride was hurt, but this was more than humbling, this made me forget who I am. I know who I am. I know who made me and the value I have in my little world. A husband thinks I'm worth coming home to every night. My kids, even my middle schoolers, still clamor for my attention and affection. My friends all know that they can come to me for love, encouragement and a listening ear. In that moment none of it mattered. The words had cut deeply and I was fighting to get above them.
It took me days of talking, praying, reading and hearing God's truth to remember and believe that I'm more than those words. Therein is the irony. What brought healing? Those aptly spoken apples of gold, set beautifully in casings of silver.
I went to church that Sunday and was so starved for hope and truth that when I realized the pastor was wrapping up his message I started to panic. I wished I lived in Africa where I've heard the service might keep going for another couple hours. I felt like a camel just come across the Sahara, longing to be filled up again with living water only to get a trickle.
Thankfully, over the course of a week or two, I was able to journal and read the Bible, talk to my husband and friends, hold my kids and absorb their love, and finally be restored to the person that God made me to be - not limited by my current occupation or job description, but a child of God with tremendous purpose, just like you.
Words are crazy little things. Letters arranged in a certain order to create meaning that we share with one another. Thankfully, God knew the power they held when He created them, put them in his book and wrote them on our hearts. I pray that you are filled up to overflowing with those precious apples of gold set in casings of silver. Because you matter to God.
A bunch of letters arranged to form common meanings. They often seem to matter so little, like when I tell my kids to clean up their rooms, and then nothing happens. Or when I say "I love you" to my husband for the tenth time in a day, more out of habit than passion.
On the other hand, when I'm careless with words I hope that they don't matter much, like when I'm too harsh with my kids for a mistake they made, or am critical of my husband. They can't really be taken back - words. We try, say we didn't mean it, we misspoke, or that we are sorry. But it takes time to heal from certain words.
The Bible says that a word aptly spoken is like an apple of gold in a setting of silver. I've always thought that was a strange analogy. Maybe that was some coveted piece of art that every woman wanted on her mantle during Solomon's time. I don't know. But I'm starting to understand what the wise king was getting at. Sometimes it's easier for me to understand a concept by looking at its opposite.
A careless word spoken at a person's weakest moment is like shoving rotten food down that person's throat. These words are hard to vomit back up, instead they fester in the stomach, absorbing through the lining, flowing into the bloodstream until the person is contaminated by them. They feel sick. Weak. Confused. This happened to me a few weeks ago. I was having a terrible week at work. Two major projects were to be completed and both were on my head and everything was going wrong with one of them. The reality is the least favorite part of my job is taking care of major mailings, and this was one of those. Nothing was working. The mail wasn't merging, the lists weren't downloading, the printer was printing wrong and the folder wasn't folding. But everything still had to get done on time and I was pulling my hair out.
I texted my husband asking if it would be a problem if I quit my job that day. He texted back that it depends on your perspective. That perspective being whether I considered food stamps a viable option for our family or not. All this to say, I was losing it. Then a coworker comes in. This coworker is a friend of mine, and a brother in Christ. When I asked if we could call a guy to fix the folding machine he said, "as long as it doesn't cost $30,000, let's get it fixed" I said, "Yeah, it'd be cheaper to hire a professional paper folder than to do that." He looked me in the eye and said, "You are our professional paper folder."
That was it. Those six innocuous words and I was sunk.
"I am a professional paper folder," I said to myself. Feeling about as much worth as the wadded up rejects in the recycling bin. No, I'm not! I wanted to scream back. But I couldn't because it was true. While there is more to my job than folding 1300 letters and stuffing them into envelopes, that was my job that day. That's all I am, I thought, nothing more. 39 years of life, 4 years of college, 15 years in ministry, and now I am nothing more than a professional paper folder. The words filled my stomach and seeped into my veins. In that moment, under that stress, those words told me that that was all I was. I was nothing more. I had no more value than to fold those God-forsaken papers.
I went for a walk through campus and cried. I sat in the shade of a tree and cried some more wishing I could absorb into the ground with its roots. I took this job to provide for my family. Now look at me. A college educated woman with creative thoughts and ideas bursting at my seams, now nothing more than a professional paper folder.
Certainly my pride was hurt, but this was more than humbling, this made me forget who I am. I know who I am. I know who made me and the value I have in my little world. A husband thinks I'm worth coming home to every night. My kids, even my middle schoolers, still clamor for my attention and affection. My friends all know that they can come to me for love, encouragement and a listening ear. In that moment none of it mattered. The words had cut deeply and I was fighting to get above them.
It took me days of talking, praying, reading and hearing God's truth to remember and believe that I'm more than those words. Therein is the irony. What brought healing? Those aptly spoken apples of gold, set beautifully in casings of silver.
I went to church that Sunday and was so starved for hope and truth that when I realized the pastor was wrapping up his message I started to panic. I wished I lived in Africa where I've heard the service might keep going for another couple hours. I felt like a camel just come across the Sahara, longing to be filled up again with living water only to get a trickle.
Thankfully, over the course of a week or two, I was able to journal and read the Bible, talk to my husband and friends, hold my kids and absorb their love, and finally be restored to the person that God made me to be - not limited by my current occupation or job description, but a child of God with tremendous purpose, just like you.
Words are crazy little things. Letters arranged in a certain order to create meaning that we share with one another. Thankfully, God knew the power they held when He created them, put them in his book and wrote them on our hearts. I pray that you are filled up to overflowing with those precious apples of gold set in casings of silver. Because you matter to God.
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