till someone else comes along
When Niel’s affair came to light at the end of last year, I fell apart.
There are gaps in my memory of that week—parts I honestly can’t even remember. What I do remember is this: I punched my husband. I cried uncontrollably. I spent hours unable to breathe.
I remember knowing that, in spite of my world crashing around me, I wanted to work through this. I didn’t know how, but I wanted to forgive Niel. I wanted restoration in our marriage.
So I came to the States to see a counselor, and asked Niel to follow a month later to begin joint counseling. He came, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it. He was distant, unapologetic, and disengaged from the process. It seemed evident that his mind was already made up. So I knew before he told me. But on that bitter cold day in March when he finally put words to what his actions had been saying all along—that he was leaving me—I fell apart yet again.
A layer of pain buried 9 years deep rushed to the surface. This wasn’t my husband’s first infidelity.
Twice I had chosen, by God’s grace, to forgive. To ask God to restore and reconcile. Twice. And yet Niel still made the choice to leave.
His “till death do us part” really meant “till someone else comes along”.
His decision left me completely broken. I’ve since struggled with feeling unlovable and undesirable. Not enough. Not worth fighting for. Easily discarded. More replaceable than keepable.
While cognitively I know those are lies, when someone leaves me after making a vow that they won’t, it’s really hard to believe that abandonment isn’t always inevitable.
I hate that it’s easier for me to believe the lies of man than the truth of God.
God tells me that I’m enough, lovable, worthy… just as I am.
And I want to believe Him above all else.
upside down
I’m driving today. For however long it takes to get from Columbus to Atlanta. A long time.
Syd’z is keeping me on the straight and narrow, and iPod is riding shotgun. Okay, I’ll let Cathi ride shotgun, as long as she lets iPod sit on her lap.
You’re invited to road trip with us, too. If you want.
I figured it’s an upside down kind of day. (Remember how that works? I comment. You write the post.)
Your comments will come through to my phone, so I’m hoping you’ll keep us all-chuckles all the way to the ATL.
So tell me something that would make me say:
That’s what she said!
my eyes need to adjust
Jesus tells me that when I abide in His Word, I will know the truth, and then I will be set free. Abiding is not a quick fix. It means dwelling. Living. Setting up camp. Being content to linger. It means staying there until I know the truth.
I picture it to be like when I step out of a dark room into the bright sunshine. My eyes can’t take it. I have to keep them closed a while. Then I can open them, just slightly at first, and peer out of squinted eyes with a hand providing some shade. It feels painful and undesirable, but then… my eyes adjust. I can move my hand away. I can open my eyes fully. And I can see clearly.
Similarly, I need my eyesight to adjust to His truth. And that can only come from abiding in His Word until I know the truth deep down inside.
What truth of God do you need to abide in until your eyes adjust?
go home seeing
Jesus smeared mud, moist with His spit, on the man’s eyes. And the man, blind since birth, came home seeing.
I want to have the same effect on people. I want my words, actions, and very life to send them on their way seeing Him more clearly.
Sometimes, though, I cloud, rather than clarify, people’s vision. When I don’t reflect Christ well, I make it harder for them to see Him.
I need to remember that it wasn’t the mud that made the difference for the man born blind. It was Jesus’ spit.
When what comes out of me matches what comes out of Him, only then will people go home seeing.
coffee talk: betting the farm
What’s a cause, an idea, an anything that you’d risk everything for?
Talk amongst yourselves.
give me samuel’s ear
I love the story of Samuel. For so many reasons. But mostly because he knew how to hear the voice of God.
Even as a boy, he heard God speaking to him. And he learned to respond to His voice with, “Speak, for Your servant is listening.” God spoke. Samuel listened. And he put feet to what he heard.
Too often I approach God with an (unspoken) mindset of, “Listen, for Your servant is speaking.” And while I know I need to pour out my heart to Him, even greater is my need for Him to pour out His heart to me.
Jesus promises that His sheep know and hear His voice. I’ve been leaning in close lately to hear every word. I don’t want to miss a thing. I don’t want to miss His words because I’m not paying attention or won’t shut my own mouth. I don’t want to dismiss what He’s saying because it doesn’t make sense, or sounds too difficult, or seems too good to be true. I don’t want to disregard Him by giving more weight to the words of others.
I want to hear even His faintest of whispers. God shouldn’t have to raise His voice to get my attention.
I want to follow closely, hear clearly, and obey directly. Give me Samuel’s ear.
What’s God whispering to you lately?
simple
Tell me something I don’t know about you.
spiritual visine
“We let people dictate the framework through which we know God rather than God being the framework through which we know ourselves and others.”
My friend Tracee wrote that to me in an email, surreptitiously tucked away in the middle of a paragraph. I tried to keep reading, but I couldn’t. I had to linger there a while before I could move on. Because she’s right. I’ve allowed people and the experiences of my life to shape my view of God, rather than the other way around.
Since people are fallible and hurts are inevitable, seeing God through the lens of my past makes Him appear far too small. Far too human. Far too unloving. I imagine Him responding like so many others have; I picture Him treating me the way I treat myself.
I see God with clouded vision. And I want to see Him clearly.
I’ve spent a lot of time in the past several months identifying my lenses. Naming them. Considering what triggers them. Pondering how things look without them. And asking God to remove them.
Because my lenses stem from wounds, fears, and insecurities deep inside me, this process has challenged me to be more vulnerable than ever before. That’s been hard. And scary. But my vulnerability has been met with an intimacy I’ve never known.
God is so very good to me.
I desire to live with Him as my lens. I want Him to be the filter through which I see and experience life. That would change everything about how I think, feel, respond, act. So I’m trying to renew my mind, take captive every thought, and soak myself in His truth. I want to saturate myself with His character, His heart. The more I know Him, the more I will see through His lens rather than my own.
While I still fail miserably most of the time—old habits, they die hard—I am changing. Slowly but surely my lenses are wearing thinner. And He is coming more into focus.
My intention today, and every day, is to know Him more deeply and intimately. Because ultimately I don’t want to be a better version of me. I want to be more like Christ.
i’ll never be good enough
I often find myself more easily believing lies than the truth. I’m realizing, though, that sometimes what I consider lies are really just distorted truths. And they’re equally deadly.
I will never be good enough to please God. That’s true. But it gets twisted into something negative, when it was really intended to set me free.
The fact that I’ll never be good enough to earn His love and grace isn’t bad news. It speaks of my value, not of my lack of value. Even though I’m not good enough, He still chooses me, loves me, pursues me, uses me. There is freedom, not condemnation, in that. It speaks of how overwhelmingly unconditional His love for me is.
But the very truth that was intended to set me free gets used by the enemy—and people—to beat me down. It gets distorted and manipulated into something that tells me I need to strive for His love. It makes me feel like I have to work harder, be better, do more.
But the fact remains: I can never be good enough. That means I need to trust Him alone. It takes the pressure off me completely.
It frees me to live not for His approval but from His approval.
And that changes everything.
crawling back onto the altar
“To live a life of prayer, of sacrifice, of surrender to God.”
Twelve years ago I penned those words as my life mission statement. I wanted to be intentional about making my life count for something greater than me. I wanted to be deliberate about leveraging my life for His glory. And everything I could see myself doing boiled down to that simple statement.
I said simple, not easy. ‘Cause it’s been anything but easy.
Those words have been ringing in my ears this past week. Prayer, sacrifice, surrender to God. Do I still mean it?
I want to say I’m willing, even when I don’t know what He’s asking me to do. I want to follow Him even when I don’t know which way He wants me to go. I want to serve Him even when it means giving up my own notions of how I can best do that. I want to honor and glorify Him with every breath, every word, every step.
The only problem with being a living sacrifice is my tendency to crawl off the altar. When I can’t see what’s next, when the flames of uncertainty seem too much for me to bear, sometimes I climb off. I choose to follow fear instead of faith. I long for the certainties of Egypt over the uncertainties of freedom.
But I’m done. Today I’m climbing back on the altar.
The Lord Himself goes before me and will be with me. Among all the unknowns and uncertainty, He is already there. He knows. He is certain. So if I remain in Him, I can have confidence and peace even when facing more uncertainties than ever before in my life.
As I’ve ruminated on it and wrestled through it, I know this much is true: I still want each moment of my life to be one of prayer, of sacrifice, of surrender to God.
Use me however You want, God. However You want.
