i’m sorry, Lord
Lord, I’m sorry for thinking You love me the same way others do.
For assuming You’ll withhold affection until I’ve paid penance or until You’re “over” whatever I may have done.
For imagining that You hold me at arm’s length and invite me in only when You want to want me.
For thinking You view me through eyes of disappointment, seeing only how far I am from all I could be and should be.
For presuming You only love me because You have to and not because You want to.
For guessing You hold my mistakes against me, just as I do with myself.
For acting as though You think I’m discardable and unwantable.
For forgetting that You love me for who I am and not for who I can be.
Lord, I want to believe. Help me overcome my unbelief.
He held both
I can’t shake this thought, even though it’s really hard for me to dwell on right now:
Jesus hung on that cross to take more than my own sins. He also hung there to carry the sins of others that hurt me deeply. And in that same instant, He hung there to carry the pain and sorrow I feel because of those sins against me.
In the very same moment, He held both. Wept for both. Bore the eternal burden of both.
So that both of us could be free.
[Originally posted on this day last year,
when the bottom had just fallen out of my world.]
walk on
Sometimes I prefer to wallow instead of walk.
Wallowing is easier. It doesn’t really require effort from my end. I just float. But with each passing minute, I’m actually sinking deeper into the murkiness, making it that much harder to climb out of it.
It takes a conscious effort, a decision, to walk instead of wallow. To press on when I want to just sit. To move forward when all I want to do is keep things the way they are. To take another step when my foot feels too heavy to lift.
If I’m hoping in Him, I won’t grow tired in my walking. My endurance is fueled by my hope in Him. So when I am feeling walk-weary, I need to check my hope tank. When it’s running low, I need to remind myself: Put your hope in God.
I’m wrestling with that concept as I try to figure out what that really means. Telling myself to hope in God doesn’t seem sufficient to actually make it happen. It helps, and it serves as a challenging reminder. But that can’t be it.
How do I build up hope that’s diminished? I don’t have the answer. But I need to do what I know: Remind myself. Ask God for help to hope. Chew on passages that describe His character. Be strengthened through the encouragement of others. Take time for a selah.
When I hope in Him, I won’t be disappointed. When I hope in Him, I can’t help but walk instead of wallow.
Put your hope in God and walk on. I’m right beside you.
[from a post on this day last year]
psalm of my heart
Does the blind man ever forget he can’t see? Does the woman who lost her child ever not remember her loss? Does the broken heart ever forget its scars?
Hurt hangs close, like a thick heavy fog. It’s ever present. Always close. All encompassing.
I know God’s hand reaches through pain. I know His light pierces darkness. I know His voice reverberates in emptiness. But there is still pain. Still darkness. Still emptiness.
Reach far, God. Shine brightly. And for heaven’s my sake, speak louder. Because I need to feel You, see You, and hear You more than ever before.
[originally posted this day last year]
pabst beer
This still makes me laugh!
And tell me you saw these ads that CBS ran! Who decided these were a good idea!?
Oh my dang!
casting my cares
“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.” I know that. Cognitively. He cares for me. He cares about what I care about. I should cast my anxiety upon Him.
All too often, though, I subconsciously take the word cast to mean the same as it does in fishing. I give it to God, but I’m still hanging on to the other end. As far as I throw it, as much as I give it over, it’s still attached to me. Because I’m holding on tight.
“But I gave it to God…” I try to convince myself. Meanwhile I’m poised and ready to reel it back in whenever I want. And reel I do. I decide to take it back from God’s hands. Which means I think it’s better off in my capable hands than in His.
Oh to be so smug.
I looked up the word cast in the dictionary. When it’s not referring to fishing, it means to get rid of, to discard, to throw off or throw away; to hurl or fling.
I need to let that sink in a bit. I need to let it sink in a lot.
When I give something to God, I need to hurl it at Him (He can handle the blow), get rid of it (forever), throw it off me (with as much vigor as I can muster). And then I need to leave it there. For good.
Sigh…
“Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you…”
I’m trying…
[originally posted on this day two years ago]
listen up, guys
Men—
Can I talk to you for a minute? I’ll be quick, I promise.
The way you love your wife shows her the way Christ loves her.
Too much pressure for a fallen man?! I didn’t say it. God did. “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the Church…”
Your wife will believe and experience Christ’s love for her to the degree that she believes and experiences your love for her. God can miraculously work in anyone’s heart and life, and women with very ungodly husbands can certainly still experience intimacy with Christ. But God puts the responsibility on you to show your wife how much He loves her.
Help your wife believe that Christ values, treasures, and adores her today.
[From a post on this day last year,
which may read a little differently now that you
know what was going on in my life at the time I wrote it.]
all of me for all of You
Surrender. Hands in the air. Defenses down. Heart open. All of me for all of You.
Here is all I am.
My messes, weaknesses, failures. My successes, strengths, victories. My muddled thoughts, my doubts and fears, my misgivings. My hurts and questions, my joys and confidences.
The parts of me I love, the parts of me I despise. Everything I know, everything I don’t. My pieces, my fragments, my whole parts. My insecurities, my all-too-securities.
The things I often give and take right back, the things I’ve never given before, the things I’m not even aware of. Everything I know I need You for, everything I think I don’t.
Here is all I am.
Even when I feel I can only open the door an inch, this is me giving You permission to bust it wide open. Even when I feel I’m unable to offer You more of me, this is me asking You to go ahead and take it anyway. Even when I feel I have no words, this is me asking You to respond to my one-word prayers for “Help” with all You know I need.
Be aggressive with me. For I’m not aggressive enough on my own behalf.
Take all of me and bombard me with all of You. All of You is certainly more than I can handle, but I want to feel crushed under the weight of that burden.
That burden isn’t a burden at all.
[from a post on this day two years ago]
brokenhearted
I’ve heard it said a thousand times. I’ve probably said it myself just as many.
Break my heart for the things that break Yours.
And I agree with that wholeheartedly. It’s a prayer I need to pray more often. I so easily get caught up in the routine, the busyness. The to-do lists and endless meetings. My heart breaks over unaccomplished tasks, unmet goals, insufficient funds, inadequate sleep. My heart needs to break more often, more consistently, for the things that break God’s.
God’s heart breaks for lost sheep. Prodigal sons. Rich young rulers. Prostitutes and tax collectors. Priests and agnostics. Kings and commoners. And for them—for the people He loves—my heart needs to break more. Much more.
Lately, though, I’m even more captivated by this thought:
God’s heart breaks for my broken heart.
He loves me that much. His compassion is that far-reaching. His grace is that incomprehensible. God’s heart hurts for my hurting heart.
The King of the Universe aches for me. The God who spread out the expanse of the sky, flung the stars into place, set the sun in its perfect position, and carefully placed the moon to simply reflect a light not its own… this God also reaches out to me, pulls me onto His lap, wraps His arms around me, holds me tighter than I realize I need, and refuses to let me go.
He weeps with me.
He doesn’t say much; He doesn’t need to. He certainly doesn’t feed me ridiculous clichés: “Smile, I love you.” “I work in mysterious ways.” “When I close a door, I open a window.” “Let go and let Me.”
His tears say enough. They tell me He understands. He cares. He sees my hurting heart and He holds it in the palm of His hand. And He holds it ever-so-gently.
God’s heart breaks for my broken heart.
[from a post on this day two years ago]
follow after peace
Follow after peace. I’ve said that a lot. And now I’m thinking about what it really means.
I’ve always described peace as a calm amid the storm; a sense of confidence and security when my circumstances are screaming in my ears for me to be unsure and insecure.
But I don’t think peace always means a complete lack of uncertainty or unsteadiness.
Courage isn’t the absence of fear; it’s the pushing onward in spite of it. Courage means doing it afraid. I think peace is the same.
Peace isn’t the absence of inner turmoil. It isn’t a heart devoid of confusion or unknowing. Peace is the pushing onward in spite of it all. Peace is remembering that there is One who is above the storm, who controls the storm, who holds my hand as I walk through it.
I can experience peace even when my heart feels otherwise.
I can follow after peace even as I second-guess each step.
I can be flooded with peace even while I’m flooded by overwhelming circumstances—and even when I’m feeling completely overwhelmed by them.
I can be at peace even when I am afraid.
Today I choose to follow after peace…
[from a post on this day two years ago]
