He has made us so free


I’m a thinker. I like to weigh every single possible option before making a decision. I’m also a perfectionist, so some decisions just hang there, stagnating, because no possible outcome is good enough.

Which is probably how my drafts folder is bigger than my published folder.

Can you relate? You agonize over a job offer that requires you to move. You feel stuck in your circumstances. You’re reluctant to reach out to people for fear of rejection.

Or maybe you’re not. Maybe you have no problem calling the shots, are an expert networker and an energizing pal. But deep inside, you feel like a fraud, convinced today is the day it’ll all come crashing down.

Thank God, there is grace for all of us.

I’ve been reading through Acts, and as I follow Paul on his missionary journeys, I marvel at his freedom. Paul doesn’t sit around wringing his hands, wondering where to travel next, or pondering his purpose in life. He knows his upward call — our call — is simple: Make disciples of all the nations. So he and his companions just go. Sometimes “the Spirit of Jesus did not allow them” to go to a certain place, and they simply course corrected. There is no panicking on their part, no agonizing over their decisions, no sitting around waiting for the Lord to make a specific route or journey absolutely clear, safe and perfect before proceeding. There’s also no pretense; they’re not relying on their own brilliance or strategy when they plan their travels.

They’re confident that their Jesus will prevail. He will take His Word to the ends of the earth. He will use those He has called to do it. God’s providence has set them free to do His work. They fix their eyes on their Father, and go, trusting Him to keep the pace as they do.

Because of Jesus, we have the same kind of freedom. This I know, for the Bible tells me so:

For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!” (Romans 8:15) 

For freedom Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery. (Galatians 5:1) 

He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. (Colossians 1:13-14)

What does that mean, to not be held hostage to sin, to fear, to the dominion of darkness? It means our most desperate need — to be made right with God — has already been fulfilled. Our biggest failure has already been redeemed, and the very worst thing that could have happened to us — not just death, but eternal punishment in hell — has been canceled. Undone. Deleted. So what’s left to fear? For those of us in Christ Jesus, who are kept by Him, who are being guarded through faith — if we are seeking the Lord diligently, then what decision or move or relationship could we possibly make for the kingdom that would destroy us? He’s our helper, He’s on our side. What can anyone do to us?

And besides, the cross tells us we can’t do it on our own. Perfection is always beyond our reach. We can’t make our own way to God; He had to send His Son to bring us to Him. And Jesus sent the Holy Spirit to us, because we can’t sanctify ourselves; we need His help. We will never craft the perfect plan or make a perfect decision or move in a perfect direction or even write a perfect blog post — we’re free from that burden. And for the days we feel like we have it all together, we’re free from the burden of keeping up pretenses, confident that it’s God who works in us to will and to work for His good pleasure.

We, like Paul and his traveling companions, are free to fix our eyes on our Father, grab hold of His outstretched hand, and run wild after, for and with Him. What wondrous love is this, oh my soul? The kind of love will not let us stumble or fall. The kind that tends our every need, hears every cry, joins in every laugh, sets the pace for every mile. All that’s left is for us to serve Him in holiness and righteousness all our days, to glorify Him by enjoying Him forever.

Buoyed by this tender mercy of our God, we are free, beloved, because He who gives us life and breath and everything else — He loves us so much! 

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See how He loves us

It was strange, to stand at my grandmother’s casket and think, See how much He loves us.

I mean, funerals are for weeping, for mourning, for wishing we had just a few more minutes with our loved one. But they also prompt us to ponder the fleeting-ness of life, and to examine what we really believe about what happens after death.

Death is our worst enemy, isn’t it? We go out of our way to avoid it. Our biggest fears usually center around losing someone we love forever. We hold our lives so dearly precisely because we know it’s not forever, that it’ll all be over someday. We visit graves and mark the years by the anniversaries of our loved ones’ deaths. We do our best to prepare for our own. Death is a Big Deal.

And yet, it is no match for our Warrior King. Jesus died, too, but He didn’t stay dead. I mean, stop and think about that for a minute. Who does that? Who can die and then be not dead three days later? There are all kinds of theories on whether the account of Jesus’ resurrection is real, but supposing the Bible is true, that this really did happen … well, ponder the implications of that for a minute with me, will you?

If our Jesus has proven to us that He is so powerful that not even death can end Him, then how much more confident can we be that when He says He is for us in every way, is on our side, is always interceding for us, He is able to do just that? Our objections to Him, our wanderings, our wrongdoings — what are those compared to death? He is greater than all of those things, and we can’t ever be too bad for Him to come to our rescue.

And goodness, are we ever in need of rescuing! We don’t like to think we are, but I think, deep down inside, we all know it. We cover it up by trying to prove ourselves in countless ways — by working late hours, by navel-gazing, by buying all the things. If death is our biggest fear, then perhaps our second-biggest is, “Am I good enough?” We’re not, and we know it. We can’t break free from the cycle unless Someone outside of ourselves reaches down and pulls us out of the hamster wheel.

But, see how He loves us? Because who else would do that? What kind of Father would hear the cries of the hearts of His people and spare no expense to give them a safe passage home? What kind of Creator would leave His lofty throne and become just like us so that He could someday make us like Him? What kind of King does it take to not wait for His subjects to come to Him, but to set a plan in motion before the beginning of time that had Him coming to save us before we even knew what we needed?

Only a good one. Only a loving one.

I cried at my grandma’s funeral. I cried because I’ll miss her. I cried and I couldn’t finish reading her eulogy at the graveside service. I cried for my grandpa, for my mom and my aunt, because they will feel the loss the most keenly.

But the thing about Jesus is that we do not have to weep as people who have no hope, because He has completely changed the rules. There are still tears, but they are no longer bitter. We will still die, but it will not be the end of our lives. There is grief, yes, but there is joy beyond the sorrow. Even death has lost its sting.

See how He loves us!

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Silence Saturday

It was a good Easter weekend. I went to my church’s Maundy Thursday (new to me!) and Good Friday services. I had the sweet privilege of worshipping with not just one, but two church families on Resurrection Sunday. Like Mary, I am treasuring all these things and pondering them in my heart.

One thing that lingers with me is Holy Saturday. I know, I’m as surprised as you are. There is almost nothing in any of the Gospel accounts about Holy Saturday. We don’t even have a fun name for it like we do for Maundy Thursday or Good Friday. Matthew 27 ends with the guard at the tomb, and Matthew 28 begins with “Now after the Sabbath…” Mark 15 ends with Joseph of Arimathea asking to bury the body of Jesus, and Mark 16 begins, “When the Sabbath was past …” John 19 ends much like Mark 15, and John 20 doesn’t even say anything about the Sabbath, just “Now on the first day of the week …”

Only Luke reminds us of the silence: “On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment.” (Luke 23:58)

What was that Sabbath like for the disciples, I wonder? The day after their Friend was killed, they … rested. They couldn’t escape to the comfort of a familiar routine, like going out on their fishing boats. They couldn’t distract themselves by tilling a garden or taking the trash out. The women couldn’t even go and finish preparing Jesus’ body for burial. All they could do was follow the command to rest and be still.

Jesus had told them what would happen but they didn’t have eyes to see it yet. Did they doubt that day? Their dreams of a Messiah to save Israel from her earthly rulers were dashed. Their expectations crushed. Their longings unfulfilled. Was their Holy Saturday full of weeping, full of wondering why God hadn’t shown up? Did they walk around in a stupor, refusing to believe that any of the events of the last several hours had taken place? Did they search the Scriptures for answers? Did they panic, wondering if the last three years had just been one long con?

I don’t know. None of the Gospel writers seemed to have thought that particular Sabbath was worth recording in detail. But it is easy for me to imagine what that Sabbath might have been like in their hearts … because in the Holy Saturdays of my life, when God has seemed silent, when hopes deferred have made my heart sick, when disappointments, fears, and griefs are far too present, I have doubted and panicked and searched and wept. Is it really a stretch to think the disciples’ Holy Saturday was so different?

There would be no answers that day. We know, of course, the answers — and Answer — would come later. The next day, even. We would see how God was up to immeasurably more than all the disciples could ask for or imagine, and that is good news to us, even in our present circumstances. We should rejoice in that! Oh, lets!

But this I call to mind

But let’s not breeze past Holy Saturday too quickly, either. We are no strangers to dashed dreams and rampant disappointments. That job we wanted but didn’t get. Another negative pregnancy test. A relationship left unrestored. A wayward child, an ailing parent, a broken heart. And to top it off, no matter the length or intensity of our prayers, God seems silent.

I’m reading Psalm 77 for my women’s Bible study at church this week; I think this psalmist would have understood Holy Saturday very well:

I cry aloud to God,
aloud to God, and he will hear me.
In the day of my trouble I seek the Lord;
in the night my hand is stretched out without wearying;
my soul refuses to be comforted.
When I remember God, I moan;
when I meditate, my spirit faints.
(Psalm 77:1-3)

It reminds me of Lamentations 3:

[M]y soul is bereft of peace;
I have forgotten what happiness is;
so I say, “My endurance has perished;
so has my hope from the Lord.”
Remember my affliction and my wanderings,
the wormwood and the gall!
My soul continually remembers it
and is bowed down within me.
(Lamentations 3:17-20)

So I read these and I’m relieved to know that God has made provision in His Word for grief. And I’m relieved to know He doesn’t leave us there. Not only because of the promise of Resurrection Sunday, but the surety of who He is, even when He seems silent. Both Psalm 77 and Lamentations 3 go on to echo the same assurances:

I said, “Let me remember my song in the night;
let me meditate in my heart.”
Then my spirit made a diligent search:
“Will the Lord spurn forever,
and never again be favorable?
Has his steadfast love forever ceased?
Are his promises at an end for all time?
Has God forgotten to be gracious?
Has he in anger shut up his compassion?”

(Psalm 77:6-9)

Rhetorical questions, all. Of course He hasn’t. Of course He hasn’t.

But this I call to mind,
and therefore I have hope:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,
“therefore I will hope in him.”
The Lord is good to those who wait for him,
to the soul who seeks him.
It is good that one should wait quietly
for the salvation of the Lord.


For the Lord will not
cast off forever,
but, though he cause grief, he will have compassion
according to the abundance of his steadfast love;
for he does not afflict from his heart
or grieve the children of men.
(Lamentations 3:21-26; 31-33)

These are not answers — not the ones we’re looking for, anyway. There are no guarantees here of jobs or pregnancies or healing or whatever it is we’re longing for. What these are, are promises and reminders of who God is. I love that both Psalm 77 and Lamentations 3 (and many more) zero in on God’s steadfast love that never ceases. His unwavering passion that never burns out. His consistent, steady, enduring compassion that can’t stop, won’t stop. 
What does that have to do with our Holy Saturday fears and longings and disappointments?
Silence Saturday
I submit a new name for that day between Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday: Silence Saturday.  Silence Saturday isn’t about getting the answers we want. It’s about waiting, and resting, and being still … and about marveling at just who our God is. We don’t always get the gift of relief from our circumstances, but we always get the relief of knowing that the One who is FOR us is made of steadfast love.

I think it was a mercy of God that He even timed the crucifixion so precisely that it would occur right before the Sabbath, and so force the people who loved and missed Jesus to … rest. To be still. Maybe I’m wrong about the disciples. Maybe in the stillness, they found Psalm 77 and Lamentations 3 and all the other Scriptures that point to God’s faithfulness. Maybe in the silence, they were able to find peace.

The Lord is good to those who wait for him,
to the soul who seeks him.
It is good that one should wait quietly
for the salvation of the Lord.
(Lamentations 3:25-26)

On Silence Saturday of Holy Week, and on the Silence Saturdays of our hearts, let’s put our dreams, our thoughts, our fears, our griefs off to the side for a minute … and sit in silence and ponder who our God is. Let’s trust that it’s good to wait on Him. Let’s be confident that Sunday’s coming. That He is coming again to make all things new.

And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” (Revelation 21:3-5a)

Amen and amen. Come quickly, Lord Jesus. 

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Trusting Jesus with my joy

What if I don’t get what I want?

I have been asking my heart this for months now. If I don’t get what I want, is God still good? Can I still hope in Him? Can it be that not getting what I want (or think I want) is actually what’s good for me?

Of course it can. Earthly loss is heavenly gain, and this has been one of the sweetest truths I’ve learned in my life. I am so grateful for a God who calls us to joys greater than earth can offer. I am glad that He is so sovereign and so powerful and so loving that things like hearing loss or loneliness or grief don’t faze Him — and not only do they not faze Him, He uses them to accomplish His purposes, for our good and for His glory. I mean, that is crazy to think about! I could spend the whole rest of my life pondering this and still never exhaust all the nuances of this precious and very great promise.

But so comfortable have I become with this idea of loss that when God pulls a God and graciously gives all things, I’m reluctant to accept them because I’m convinced they’ll be taken away later. I’ve twisted Job’s words to mean, “The Lord gives so that He can take away.” Better not get attached, I think. Better not give my heart a chance to elevate gifts above Giver. 

I like to think I’m being holy when I do that, when I acknowledge God’s gifts with a polite smile, then set them aside so I can assure Him, with lofty prayers, that there is nothing on earth I desire besides Him. I do this because I want to earn my sanctification somehow, and I do this as a preemptive move so that it doesn’t sting quite as much when He takes the gift away.

How small my view of my God! Father, forgive me.

Things of Earth

I’m reading “The Things of Earth: Treasuring God by Enjoying His Gifts” by Joe Rigney right now. I’m taking my time with it, and I’m only on chapter five, but my mind? It is blown already.

Don’t hold one biblical truth so closely that you refuse to let all of Scripture speak. Don’t despair when your mind aches because of the tension. You should expect paradox; you should expect mystery; you should expect to have your categories blown, and your mind stretched, and your heart expanded so that you can take in more and more of God. (emphasis mine, p. 56)

I was feeling a bit in despair the other night, over some old sin or another, and fled to Romans 8. I went for the no condemnation; I stayed for graciously give us all things.

There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death. …

What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? (Romans 8:1-2, 31-32)

Graciously give us all things. 

Mind. Blown.
I will testify, again and again, that my hearing loss has brought me to God over and over. That my loneliness drove me to His arms, and I have never experienced sweeter comfort elsewhere. I would gladly do it all again just for that comfort, just for knowing that the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those crushed in spirit. He gives Himself in our loss, for sure.
And He gives good things, too, for life and godliness. For life and godliness. There were times when I wished the Lord would make all my hearing friends and family understand me completely and communicate with me perfectly. Sometimes He was gracious to grant them, if not complete understanding, then compassion and a willingness to learn. The desire of my heart, though, was for people who intimately knew and shared all the ups and downs that come with being hard of hearing. And God, oh, He is so kind, and He did it! He gave me a group of friends who get it. They get the hearing aids and the audiologist appointments and the advocacy and the exhaustion and the humor. Because they are hard of hearing, too. I look around at us sometimes, and I marvel, how did we all end up here together? We’re all over the map spiritually, socially, socioeconomically. Surely only Jesus could do this. 
If it’s true that God graciously gives us all things, then it must be true that my friends are a gift from Him. Knowing them has helped me work through my own insecurities about being hard of hearing, introduced me to practical communication solutions and, overall, brought me joy. They are funny. They are kind. They are supportive. They aren’t skittish. We’ve talked and even argued a little and made fun of each other and traveled (a true test of friendship if there ever was one!) and laughed and cried. I think most of them would not consider themselves the churchgoing kind, but that has not stopped me from learning more about God and about myself from them.

He has given them to me for my joy, and I am grateful.

Trusting Jesus with my joy

There have been times, and I mean even recent times, where I’ve been convinced that since my wants haven’t materialized the way I want them to, that God must be withholding for my good. I want good and godly friendships, especially at church. I want to not be single, especially at church. 🙂 When no answers to these prayers seem forthcoming, it’s easy and strangely comforting to fall back on what I’ve always known, that dying is gain, that loss is gain, that not having something can be just as good for me — if not better — than having it. To stake my hope on the fact the Jesus alone is the desire of my heart.

My church’s pastor is so faithful in preaching that following Jesus costs something. I have heard this many times in the last few months, and more than a few Sundays have left nearly in tears, wondering, Is this what following Jesus is going to cost me? Friendship? Companionship? Marriage? Have You called me to a lonelier life than I would like? Are You taking away so I might gain Christ?

When I look at Scripture, though, I think that can’t be. Leaf through any of Paul’s letters and see how many people he loved, and who loved and served with him. If God calls His kids to Himself, then He’s also called us to His family. When I’m lonely, it’s good to trust that Jesus is enough, but it’s also good to trust that He puts the lonely in families. I don’t know what families. The biological one I was born into? The spiritual one I was adopted into? The hearing loss one I was invited into? A brand-new family of my own making? A completely different one I never could have imagined? Some? All? Those I don’t know, nor does God have any obligation to tell me right now.

He only calls me to trust that He fills the hungry with good things, that He satisfies the longing soul, and that there is a way to enjoy His gifts because they come from Him.

Note this: God acts. God meets the need. God gives life and breath and all things (including companionship). But God has designed us so that he would meet some of our needs through other people. We ought not dispute with God on this point. There’s no virtue in being more spiritual than he is here. Infinite wisdom directed him to mediate his all-satisfying presence to us through suitable created companions. (The Things of Earth, p. 82, bold emphasis mine)

I am not holier than God. I cannot be holier than God. My lofty and winsome prayers, good intentions and self-imposed self-denial do not impress Him. Because of Romans 8:2, I can trust Romans 8:32. Because Jesus has shattered the law of sin and death, I am free — free to find my joy beyond this world, free to trust that there is something better up ahead, that my light and momentary troubles will only serve to increase my joy in the life to come. I am also free to trust Jesus with my joy now, to trust that He Himself is my joy, that we have a Father who graciously gives all things because it delights Him to do so, because my joy brings Him glory, because God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him.

Treasuring God by Enjoying His gifts

Could it be that sometimes the more God-glorifying thing to do is not to hold His gifts lightly, but to enjoy them to the full, to squeeze every ounce of joy out of them? If I don’t get what I want, I can trust Jesus with my joy, because He is storing up for me an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled and unfading (1 Peter 1:4). If I do get what I want, I can trust Jesus with my joy, not because He is a way to get what I want, but because HE is what I want, and His gifts are ways for me to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.

When I give my nephew and nieces gifts, it makes me happy when they have fun with what I’ve given. When they bring me the book I wrapped for them and we read it together. Or when I dole out the Valentine’s candy and sneak a Hershey’s kiss from their stash. It would make me sad if I gave them something, and they took one look at it and said, “That’s nice, now play with me.” I mean, I would still play with them, because what are aunts for 🙂 but I would think, “But I got this for you because I love you! Don’t you like it?!”

I wonder if it grieves God’s heart when I’m dismissive or even fearful of His gifts. He gives them for my joy, and He even delights in my delight. To turn up my nose at what He so freely offers might make me feel holy, but it robs me of my joy and satisfaction in Christ, which in turn means my heart is not glorifying God as it ought to.

I haven’t mastered this lesson yet, but I can feel my mind changing. My heart yielding. Even my prayers have taken on new life as He teaches me to enjoy His gifts in a way that doesn’t rob me of my joy or in a way that elevates gifts above Giver.

I mean, is this good stuff or what? There should be, like, a name for this or something. (Keep your eyes on that John Piper fella, guys. I think he’s going places.)

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When faith feels faith-less

I don’t love being fearful. I’m weary, so weary, of the loneliness — of being single, of being hard of hearing, of being the new kid in town. I often chastise myself: Oh, you of little faith. Why do you doubt your God? Why is He not enough to defeat your fears? Isn’t His presence enough for your loneliness? What is wrong with you, self? Faith up!

So I pray and pray and pray for my faith to be built up, for my fears to be overcome, for my loneliness to dissipate, for God to be enough.

I ask Him for the things I want, ask Him to give me what I need, ask Him for all my dreams to begin and end with Him. I ask Him for really good, deep and godly friendships. To teach me how to be a good, deep and godly friend. We have little chats about insecurities, budgets and even my hair. I ask for the right perspective on marriage and singleness. I go through the Lord’s Prayer.

Every day, I pray this.

And every day, the fears persist. The loneliness abounds. And where loneliness abounds, the guilt of maybe I don’t love Jesus enough abounds all the more.

Where is my faith, I wonder. Where is God?

I cry. I beg. I plead. Don’t forget me. Where are You? What are You doing?

And for just a moment, the tears still wet on my face but no longer filling my eyes, I hear the still, small answer: Building your faith. Like you asked.

If it were up to me — if it were really and truly up to me to decide how to spend my day, what to think about, what to do — I would choose the things God says not to do. I would choose sin. I would pick the broad and easy way, not the narrow and hard one. I would do whatever I thought would make me happy, by whatever means appealed to me most in the moment.

When left to my own devices, I choose the lazy way through life. Every time. There is no way I can summon the willpower to pray for faith on my own. So how do I get to the throne of grace in the first place? How am I able to pray when, in my most base, natural state, I don’t even want to?

I brag talk a lot about how I was an English major, but I was also a psychology minor, and one thing that stuck with me from Psych 101 was a discussion on motives. Why do people do the things they do? What drives us? What compels us? I learned then that we do what we want. In the classroom of life, I’ve discerned we also do what we have to.

Might there be a third option? We do the things we do because it is God who wills in us to act.

Faith — faith enough to pray for more faith — is itself a gift from God. Not all my wantings or all my having tos can bow my head or clasp my hands. This precious gift of God is a guarantee that our groanings aren’t in vain. That He’s present in our bewilderment, that our sense of feeling lost is itself proof that we are not. That He watches us always and knows exactly where we are and has promised never to leave us as orphans. If we look into the whirlpool of our sin and come away disturbed and fearful and concerned (as we ought to!), then it’s only because He has let us know those things, and compelled us to call out for help, not because He has given up and left us for dead.

It bears repeating: If we can call out to God and express our fears that He’s left, or forgotten, or overlooked us, that’s proof that He hasn’t, because we can’t even ask for His help without His loving help.

If faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we don’t see, then faith does not always come by way of answered prayers. God will not build my faith today by saying, Yes, here are like five new friends for your soul and also movie dates. My joy will not be increased today by Him turning me into a warrior princess who fears nothing and no one.

No, today, faith is being built in my helplessness. God persists me in prayer even as my hands are tempted to build walls around my heart. He sows His Word in my heart and sharpens my sword in the battle against sin, when I’d rather lay the shield aside and let sin have its way with me. His mercy pulls me out of bed every morning — because I can’t even crawl out of bed unless He deems it so.

There’s no such thing as a wasted workout. Even when I don’t feel like going for a walk, I do anyway and my lungs still burn, because that’s what they do when I walk. It’s their very nature to burn when pressure is applied. So my feelings — or lack thereof — about exercise mean nothing to my biology. Muscles still stretch. My core still strengthens. My heart still pounds.

Maybe these mundane days of faith-building are like that, too. Even though I’m bewildered, even when my prayers are full of fears, when loneliness settles in next to me and threatens to choke, my soul knows no difference. God still incinerates my sin. Grows my faith. Increases my joy. And makes my heart (skip a) beat.

Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure. — Philippians 2:12-13 (ESV)

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Ye fearful saints

Gosh, the last few months have had ALL THE FEELINGS. Mostly good. It’s funny what moving just an hour away can do for the soul. Relief. Excitement. Gratitude. Discovery. Joy. So much loveliness abounds.

So does fear, though. I don’t just mean the general anxiety of an introvert navigating her way through a busy church foyer, or the overall shyness that accompanies being the new kid in town.

I mean fears that wake me up in the middle of the night, taunting me until dawn comes. Fears that make me question my choices, and sometimes even question God. Some of the things I’m afraid of don’t even exist. Others send my overactive imagination on an acid trip and that’s how I end up waking up from dreams of trying to get the door locked before the zombies come.

I don’t like this. And I know living in fear is not conduct becoming a follower of Jesus, so I’ve been thinking a lot this week about what my fears say about me, what God has to say about them and what He has to say about Himself in the midst of them.

I’ve learned four things so far:

1. God is always up to more than I can imagine.

This week, I’ve been worrying about the future, wondering why certain things aren’t going the way I think they are, trying to guess what God is doing in the waiting so I can pretend I have some semblance of control. If I just knew what He was doing, then I’d be able to relax, right?? 😉

That, however, is the opposite of faith, which is itself a gift from God. And it occurs to me that never in my life have I ever been able to guess what God has been up to at the beginning of some trial or even adventure.

A couple of verses keep coming to mind:

Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen. — Epehsians 3:20-21 

When you did awesome things that we did not look for,
you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.
From of old no one has heard
or perceived by the ear,
no eye has seen a God besides you,
who acts for those who wait for him.
— Isaiah 64:3-4

It’s only been until I covered enough ground to gain some hindsight that I was able to even hazard a guess at what God was doing … and even then, because He is infinite and I am not, I am sure I don’t get the whole story. I just see bits and pieces woven together in a corner here, a stitch there. And He almost always does things I wasn’t even looking for in the first place. Like salvation. Now there’s a story I could never have dreamed up on my own.

So rest easy, soul of mine. Ask for a thimble full of water and you’ll get the whole ocean, because He loves you.

2. He knows what I need. 

I’m usually more concerned with what I want than with what I need. I’m anxious for dreams to be realized, for phone calls to be returned, for my days to be convenient.

But those aren’t always what I need. Sometimes delayed dreams lead to greater patience. Sometimes unreturned phone calls teach me to endure. And always, inconvenient days are opportunities to die to self.

I don’t always get what I want, but when Jesus teaches the disciples (and us) how to pray, He doesn’t counsel us to petition God with all of our wants, but to trust our heavenly Father to provide us with what we need: “Give us our daily bread.” Give us what we need to endure the day. To finish this leg of the race. To press on.

Shortly after, Jesus also says:

“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” — Matthew 6:25-34

So why should I be fearful about what happens tomorrow, or the next day or next year? I only know what I want, not always what I need. Praise God He knows both! He is wiser than me, and loves me even more than I love myself (which is saying a lot, considering how self-involved we sorry sinners are!). He knows that ultimately, what I really and truly want is to be happy, and that real and true happiness is wrapped up in Him. The things I think I want may give fleeting pleasure or brief reassurance, but what I need is more of God Himself, and He is only too happy to give that.

3. He only gives good things. 

When I’m fearful, I’m most susceptible to falling for the lie that God is holding out on me. That there’s something good that He’s denying me just for kicks.

But how can that be, when Scripture is just dripping with evidence of His goodness?

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks it will be opened. Or which one of you, if his son asks him for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a serpent? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!” — Matthew 7:7-11 

As for the rich in this present age, charge them not to be haughty, nor to set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly provides us with everything to enjoy. — 1 Timothy 6:17 

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. — James 1:17

One of the best ways I’m learning to combat fear is to know that God is only ever up to good, even in the prayers it feels like He isn’t answering, or isn’t answering the way I want Him to. It would be impossible for God to not be good, to not always be working for the good of His kids.

It’s just that His idea of good is sometimes different than mine. Things like patience, kindness, gentleness and self-control are good but I don’t come by them honestly or easily. The fruits of the Spirit don’t come about through circumstances that I would always call good, but in hard and mundane days, in situations I tend to go out of my way to avoid.

God’s kind of good — my holiness and sanctification, His glory being revealed — is infinitely better than my version of good, which usually just means convenience. Do I want easy, or do I want good? Do I want a convenient earthly life, or a joyous eternal one? The way is hard, and narrow, and fraught with danger, but it. is. good. 

4. He us delivers from our fears. 

I “happened” upon Psalm 34 the other day, and almost laughed in delight and relief:

I sought the Lord, and he answered me
and delivered me from all my fears.
Those who look to him are radiant,
and their faces shall never be ashamed.
  — Psalm 34:4-5

HE delivers me from my fears. Not that I bring my fears to God and ask Him to vaporize them. But that I look for Him, and He answers, and HE delivers. Can you imagine? Being surrounded by your worst enemies, being pelted by rocks and insults from every direction, with no way out? At least no way out alive. And lo, in the distance, a roar from the Lion of Judah. He comes charging, swiping the cruel taunters aside as he barrels toward his harassed and helpless sheep to rescue them from danger.

Or for maybe a picture that’s less C.S. Lewisian, more biblically literal, consider Peter, a boat, some waves and Jesus.

Immediately [Jesus] made the disciples get into the boat and go before him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up on the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but the boat by this time was a long way from the land, beaten by the waves, for the wind was against them. And in the fourth watch of the night he came to them, walking on the sea. But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, and said, “It is a ghost!” and they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them, saying, “Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.” 

And Peter answered him, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” He said, “Come.” So Peter got out of the boat and walked on the water and came to Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid, and beginning to sink he cried out, “Lord, save me.” Jesus immediately reached out his hand and took hold of him, saying to him, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?” And when they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.” — Matthew 14:22-33

I never noticed until recently, but when Peter starts to sink, Jesus response is not first, “You of little faith.” I always thought it was. Aren’t all our sermon illustrations along those lines? “Peter never should have looked away from Jesus,” we say smugly, as if we would have known better in the same situation. “See, when we look away from Jesus, that’s when we fail.”

There’s an element of truth there, and the typical admonition to not lose faith and sink by always keeping our eyes on Jesus isn’t a bad one.

But when I reread the story, I realize that maybe we’ve got it a little out of order. When Peter starts to sink, Jesus doesn’t get in his face and yell unhelpful things like, “Just look at ME, buddy! Look into my eyes, and you’ll stop sinking!” No, Jesus immediately reached out and took hold of him.

Look how orderly and steadfast our God is, how He doesn’t change from one Testament to the next:

I sought the Lord,
But when he saw the wind, he was afraid, and beginning to sink he cried out, “Lord, save me.”
and he answered me and delivered me from all my fears.
Jesus immediately reached out his hand and took hold of him, saying to him, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?” And when they got into the boat, the wind ceased. — Psalm 34:4, Matthew 14:30-32  

I’m such a Peter these days. I’m flailing in the sea, all the while admonishing myself for not having enough faith, for not trusting God harder, for not believing Him more. But why do I do that, when God isn’t doing that? He’s stooping, hand outstretched, waiting for me to call, not on my own faith, but on Him.

The same God who saved David from his enemies is the same one who pulled Peter out of the waves. And He’s the same God who’ll snatch me out of my fears today. I need only follow David and Peter’s examples, to seek the Lord and cry out, “Lord, save me!” And He will!

Sometimes my fears are silly and absurd. Sometimes Satan wields them as weapons for my destruction. Never does God abandon me to my anxieties. Sometimes He enters the fears with me. Sometimes I can hear Him gently chiding, “you of little faith …” But always I can count on his strong hand to sustain.

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I need you

You guys. I have so, so many half-written blog posts just idling in my drafts folder. I haven’t published or worked on them because they’re almost all variations of a theme — singleness. And I don’t want to be that lady who is obsessed with being single, obsessed with finding a husband, obsessed with defining myself by my marital status (or lack thereof).

But the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced I need to be brave and share those thoughts. A couple of reasons come to mind:

1. The blogosphere that I love truly, madly and deeply seems comprised mainly of mommy blogs (which I do enjoy reading!), food/decorating blogs or general “Christian living” blogs. They’re all good and feed my soul and my brain in different ways, but there seems a dearth of resources for singles — at least for resources that don’t try so hard to convince me that being single in my 30s is Living. My. Best. Life. Now!

Oh, I’ve stumbled across a few here and there. Desiring God and The Gospel Coalition sometimes have good resources for singles. For single women in particular, Fabs Harford is my new favorite because she’s faithful in pointing all women — single, married, engaged, widowed, whoever — toward our first Love, Jesus. I often read and re-read her posts when I’m in need of some perspective. And yesterday, I stumbled across this series of blog posts on singleness by Gimme Some Oven.

So, people are talking about singleness, and that’s good! I just don’t know if we’re talking about it enough, or with the right audiences. We singles talk to each other, but in my experience, the church — comprised mainly of married couples and families — seems like it doesn’t know what to do with us post-30 singles. I have felt lonelier as a single at church than as a single among my married and coupled-off friends who don’t go to church. I hope by shedding a little light here and there, we all, as the body of Christ, might learn together how to love each other well.

2. This is just where I’m at in my life right now. I realize the longing for marriage and a family might sound trivial to someone starving in Africa or feeling trapped in an abusive or loveless relationship. And in light of eternity, maybe my longing is trivial. I sometimes wish I could flip a switch and get over it already, ma’am. But if the writer’s decree is to “write what you know,” then friends, this is what I know right now. I know nothing of diaper creams or the best light for photographing food. But I am certain there is a wealth of lessons to be learned and endured during this single season, so I deal with it the only way I know how — by writing about it.

Putting Sex in Perspective

Something that gave me confidence to blog this morning was a thoughtful post by Kevin DeYoung: Putting Sex in Perspective. He writes mainly to Christians who experience same-sex attraction, but it was good for this heterosexual single Christian’s heart as well. I encourage you to read the whole thing, but a few points stood out to me and next thing I knew, I was mentally composing a blog post before I even got out of bed:

1. “Dying to self is the duty of every follower of Christ … We all long for cre­ation to be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God (v. 21). This does not minimize the struggle of those who experience same-sex attraction [or late-onset singleness!], but it is does maximize the ways in which we are more alike than different.”

2. “Singleness … does not mean you must live alone, die alone, never hold a hand, never have a hug, and never know the touch of another human being … Perhaps single is not even the best term for those whom we expect live a full life in the midst of friends and colaborers. If God sets the lonely in families, so should we (Ps. 68:6 NIV).”

3. “But, of course, none of this can be possible without uproot­ing the idolatry of the nuclear family, which holds sway in many conservative churches … A spouse and a minivan full of kids on the way to Disney World is a sweet gift and a terrible god. If everything in Christian com­munity revolves around being married with children, we should not be surprised when singleness sounds like a death sentence.”

4. “In the Christian vision of heaven, there is no marriage in the blessed life to come (Luke 20:34-35). Marital intimacy is but a shadow of a brighter, more glorious reality, the marriage of Jesus Christ to his bride, the church (Rev. 19:6-8). If sexual intimacy is nothing up there, how can we make it to be every­thing down here?”

I need you
One of the biggest things I’m taking away from DeYoung’s post is that no matter how much I might try to convince myself, or even you, otherwise, I cannot do this singleness thing alone. I don’t doubt there are worse fates than a life or season of celibacy. I don’t doubt that marriage has its own pains and burdens. I don’t doubt that everyone else has their own crosses they are busy with. 
I also don’t doubt that God made us for each other.
So, church, just like I need your help with my hearing loss, I need your help with my singleness. Sometimes I feel like the weight of it, or both, will crush me. 
Not to put too dramatic a spin on it or anything. 😉
I know you didn’t ask … but here are some things weighing on my heart right now, for me and for you, especially you, my married friends and acquaintances who aren’t friends yet:
1. I need you married friends to teach me, the clueless single, how to be a good friend and sister to you. My friend-making skills are rusty. Because of the way we do idolize marriage and family, I’m reluctant to intrude on your family time. I worry that you might think that I have nothing to offer because I haven’t experienced motherhood. I shouldn’t let those worries keep me from you, but too often, I do. Can you meet me halfway and show me what to do? Tell me what’s helpful, tell me what’s realistic, tell me what not to do or expect when it comes to relating to you or understanding the purpose and place of marriage. But please, don’t leave me alone.
2. This singleness schtick, more than any other frustration, annoyance or trial I’ve experienced in my measly 31 years, has so far been the biggest temptation to walk away from God. (And if you are thinking that if that’s my biggest problem, then I must have been leading a charmed life, indeed … I would not argue with you) I already did once, and I’m sorely tempted to do it again. To call the shots. To trade the greater pleasures of God for the smaller, fleeting ones of the earth. To seek what I think is good and necessary for my life, only to lose my life in the end, instead of losing my life to Christ and finding my all in Him. 
I need you to get on my case when I do that. Text me if you don’t see me at church. Check in now and then and ask how my heart’s doing. Will you help me as we both work out this whole “dying to self” business?
3. For the love of all that is good and holy, please help me find me a husband. 🙂 I’m only half-joking, friends! I know the odds are against us. There’s a scarcity of single men in the church. It’s true in my Presbyterian church in a college town, and it’s true in your mega-church in a bustling metropolis. (As my brother — who works at a large metropolitan church — said the other day, “Where are all the dudes?!”) But I’m over online dating. Not into the bar scene. My resources feel depleted, but maybe yours aren’t. Wink wink nudge nudge. 
4. I am sure I will be tempted to compromise. To find a loophole that would allow me to be with a super nice, super great, but super non-Christian guy. Or sort of nice, kind of great, nominal Christian. I love Reformed theology, which means I love the doctrine of grace. And that just makes me confident that in my desperation, in my weakness, I’ll be tempted to misconstrue it, to apply it in a way it was never intended to be used. To say, “Well, he likes Jesus, but he doesn’t love Him, but that’s OK because 1 Peter 3:1-2 says I can win over my husband. I’ll just show him grace, and it’ll all be good.” That’s not grace! That’s twisting the Word to fit my agenda. 
Please, will you pray for and with me to resist the temptation in the first place? To value Jesus and His Word so dearly that I would gladly endure singleness instead of trading it in for something or someone that would keep me from the Very Best Thing?

Even if you’re not single, even if I’m not married, we’re all in this together. What would you add to the list above? What are some other practical ways that people who are married and people who are single can love each other well, especially within the church context? What do we each need to know about the other?

I don’t have all the answers … but I hope the questions take us to a place of sweeter fellowship and a greater grasp of the tender mercy of our God. 

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For Narnia and for Aslan

The Charlie Hebdo killings hit a little too close to home for me. I worked for seven years in the comics industry. I was never a professional journalist, but it’s near to my heart. When I read about the killings in Paris, I was chilled. First, because freedom of expression is stained with blood. Everything I’ve known for the last several years is under attack. Second, because this is war. I don’t just mean between journos and extremists, satirists and jihadists. Evil is mounting. Can you feel it? There is something chilling about Ferguson and its aftermath, about Charlie Hebdo, even about the Sony hack, that goes beyond just the human component.

I want to shrug it off as, oh, stuff like this has always been happening, we’re just hearing about it more because of Twitter
And that may be so. 
But it at least reminds me that the things we can see are only a tiny little fraction of what’s really going on. If we could pull back the curtain just an inch, and see the forces that are actually at work … well, I shudder to think what we would find. We — or at least I — forget so often that we’re engaged in battle. Not just against flesh and blood. Not just against ISIS or al-Qaida or our frenemies on the other side of the aisle.

For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. (Ephesians 6:12, ESV)

I already know every day is a battle. Not a battle through traffic, or a battle to find a parking spot. But an open field. Two armies: one good, one evil. Weapons gleaming in the sun. Quivers full. Shields raised, swords unsheathed. Think Helm’s Deep. Think the battle with the White Witch.

It’s on this kind of battlefield that I fight to love Jesus more than I love the idea of marriage. To treasure Jesus more than I treasure even the best and godliest of friendships. To desire to see God glorified more than I desire to see myself glorified. That every day, I have to beg the Lord, Make me strong for this fight. I cannot do this without You. 

If I’m at war with dark forces even in my cushy apartment, at my comfortable job and alongside my caring church, how much more are, say, the people in Paris? Christians under persecution? People of any religion under attack for not calling on Allah? What evil is this?

My heart hurts this morning. I realize it’s not just Christians who are under attack on the surface — a Muslim policeman was among those killed on January 7, and hostages were taken at a kosher supermarket — but I do believe the terrorism we’re witnessing is but a shadow of the cosmic battle between good and evil. More specifically, between the powers of Heaven and the forces of hell. And for those of us who do call on God as Father, we’re conscripted into that battle. Our weapons may not be manhunts, no-fly lists or guns. We fight on our knees in prayer — for God’s Name to be made great; for strength and endurance to put to death the things that would lure us away from our sweet Savior and from each other (“Be killing sin,” John Owen said, “or it will be killing you.”); for the encouragement and perseverance of our brothers and sisters all over the world who are watching the cosmic battle unfold in front of their very eyes.

Prayer is the battlefield. We love the imagery of the armor of God. Of suiting up to head into battle for our King. But after we’ve put everything on and taken up our swords, we’re instructed to be:

… praying at all times in the Spirit, with all prayer and supplication. To that end keep alert with all perseverance, making supplication for all the saints, and also for me, that words may be given to me in opening my mouth boldly to proclaim the mystery of the gospel, for which I am an ambassador in chains, that I may declare it boldly, as I ought to speak. (Ephesians 6:18-20, ESV)

My biggest fear for 2015 and beyond is not so much ISIS or whether our personal freedoms will be taken away (though those do make me nervous!). My biggest fear is that we’ll become complacent. That we’ll choose comfort and reputation over proclaiming the truth. That we will love ourselves and our safety more than we love and cherish our God. That we will forget that we are engaged in battle every day, or that we’ll whittle the battle down to merely fighting the sin in ourselves and neglect the reality of the outside spiritual forces of darkness.

I think that’s just what Satan would like us to do — forget he exists, forget he’s still slithering around, inciting terrorism, hissing in our ears to get us to leave the God we love. After all, we can’t fight an enemy we don’t remember exists. If we don’t fight him, Satan’s got the advantage. And we love God too much to pretend His enemy, and therefore ours, isn’t real. Our mighty, powerful and warrior King is not Don Quixote, tilting at windmills, and neither are we.

Make us strong for the fight, Lord. Make us brave. And come quickly, Lord Jesus. Come. Quickly. 

Until then …

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I trace the rainbow through the rain

I am not getting married, am I?

This is the question I pondered in the haziness of the morning, as I lay in my bed (alone), beleaguered by a night of grieving over dreams that haven’t come true, and traced God’s hand across the tapestry of my life. Especially since high school, maybe earlier, loneliness has been a common theme, as it is in so many lives and across so many circumstances. Being hard of hearing has not been an easy pain to bear. I’ve had seasons of my life where I’ve been able to roll with it, to embrace it and even be grateful for it. And I’ve had seasons where I’ve wrestled with it, wished I could kick it to the curb and spent more time crying over it than not. The hardest part about those hearing aids of mine has not been not understanding what a particular sound is, or trying not to feel embarrassed at having to ask for help.

No, the hardest part has been the loneliness, the feeling of being on the outside of everything, of not keeping up, of not belonging. But it has also been the best part when it has pushed me into the arms of my Father, who has never, and will never, leave me alone. My loneliness in my hearing loss has been my limp, my thorn in the flesh.

Right now, I’m in a season where being single is bringing me more anguish than joy; a season that brings a different kind of loneliness, a different depth of pain. I do not know what makes this season harder than all the other single seasons, except that being single at 31 is a far different beast than being single at 21. I see more readily in my own body signs of aging, hints that it won’t always be up for the task of bearing or raising a child. The loneliness is more palpable somehow, as friends with growing families are less and less available, and as the pool of potential suitors seems to shrink with each passing wedding season.

As I trace God’s heart through the bittersweet loneliness of my hearing loss, and as I traverse the painfully lonely wilderness of spinsterhood singleness, a new question emerges: What if I don’t get what I want? What if this dream must die for God to work?

I want to believe I’m asking the wrong questions, that it’s not for me to know yet, that I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I want to believe that somebody, somewhere might still find me desirable enough to agree to stick by my side for the rest of our lifetimes. But God did not redeem my hearing loss by making me hearing. He drew me to Himself in the pain and in the quiet so that I might hear His heartbeat more clearly.

Could it be that He will work in my singleness as He has in my hearing loss, that rather than redeem my singleness by making me a wife, He will redeem it by making me love Him more? Could it be that the most loving thing God has done and is doing for me, besides sending His Son to die because I am sinful, is to make me lonely in this world so that I can see more clearly how precious He is?

I think of Paul and Timothy, who recounted their afflictions in their second letter to the Corinthians:

For we do not want you to be unaware, brothers, of the affliction we experienced in Asia. For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. He delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will deliver us again. (2 Corinthians 1:8-10, ESV, emphasis mine)

Far be it from me to compare being a little lonely to receiving the sentence of death (!). But the same God who delivered Paul and Timothy from deadly peril can and will surely pour out His grace in such a way that I can clearly see I have no hope but Him, nowhere else to go but to Him.

I have wasted so many years of singleness angry that I wasn’t getting what I wanted. Angry at God because it felt like He was withholding good from me. This time, though, I will remember what He has done before, count on His goodness, and trust that His ways are infinitely better than my ideas of how my life should go.

I am tired of wasting my single years. No more. I will ask the Lord, sometimes daily, for a husband, for the mercy of not having to go through this life on my own. And then I will beg for the grace to bear this cup of singleness well, until I’m married, Jesus comes again or He calls me home; that my singleness will not be in vain; that it will drive me to the arms of Jesus, the Very Best Thing I ever will and can have, the Greatest Love that will never, ever let me go.

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The Very Best Thing

I have not decked the halls. There are no lights in my windows, or wreaths on my door. In fact, all of my Christmas decor is still safely tucked away in their (many) boxes in my closet.

But despite the lack of Christmas cheer, this season of Advent has been good. It’s been a bit quiet, maybe even a little lonely, but it’s in those quiet, lonely spaces where I find God. Or rather, He finds me. And He doesn’t just find me; He meets me here and we sit, my heart in His hands. In all my years wandering this earth, I have never found anything better than that, and for however many years I have left, I don’t expect I ever will. And friends, I’ve eaten Nutella with a spoon, so you know I mean it.

In Jesus, I have the Very Best Thing I could ever possibly have, a most precious treasure that can’t ever be taken away from me. I can’t say that about a husband, or a church, or a family or good friends.

It boggles the mind, really. God, who is perfectly perfect in every way, who has literally never made a mistake, a misstep or a faux pas, who is exactly who we mean when we say, “could have anyone He wants,” has set his affection on me — and yes, you. Sinners of the worst sort. A sorry lot. An unfaithful, unruly mob. He woos and pursues. He knows precisely who we are and has wrapped us in His arms around us and pulled us close anyway. He loves us, as Sally Lloyd-Jones says, “with a Never Stopping, Never Giving up, Unbreaking, Always and Forever Love.”

My jaw drops to think that not only do I know this passionate, perfect God, I am known by Him — known in the way we all want to be known: completely and without reservation. “Lucky” isn’t a word Christians like to use. We much prefer our “blessed”s. Yet more often than not, I find myself thinking, “How lucky am I?” Of course, it’s not luck — not chance and not a gamble. But lucky in the “what did I ever do to deserve this” way that leaves you breathless with awe.

And the answer, of course, is I didn’t do anything to deserve Jesus. Neither did you. We were just bummin’ around with our abusive ex-boyfriend, Sin, and Jesus came along and said, “You can do better than that,” and rescued us … because we always belonged to Him. We just didn’t always know it.


I don’t miss my decorations as much as I thought I would. Presents under the tree don’t hold a candle to the Very Best Gift we’ve ever, and will ever, receive.

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