For When You Struggle to Trust

When everything is humming and life is working just as it should trusting God seems like second-nature to me. 

He is good! He is wise! He is faithful!

Then comes dissonance, a change in plans I did not choose, a moment that changes the harmony that were my days and doubt and fear push trust aside. 

He is far away. He has turned his face. He has forgotten me.

And I try to fix the problem.

I work, I strive, I stress. I talk to people and search for ways out. I chase after my own solutions and my own wisdom until I come to the end of my rope: this is beyond my hands.

But He won’t be forgotten and his message resonates:

Trust me, He says from every scripture I read.

Trust me, He reminds me as people casually ask without knowing my circumstances: "Are you trusting God?"

Trust me, he mutters as every song, devotional, and book chapter that cross my path prompt: "Trust God today."

And finally, slowly, once again, as I should have done from the beginning, as my last resort that should be first, with my last breath and no trace of pride I finally do.

I trust. I trust him. I let him have it all.

And after all these years…

I should know to do this first but I don’t.

I should know that rest will only come then but I don’t.

I should know to save my sanity but I don’t.

I should know better now but I don’t.

I should.

Because when I look back at my life over the last nearly twenty years I see the hand of God shaping my path unmistakably.

As I have obeyed his prompts He has molded my journey and twenty years ago I would never have imagined who I would be today and what my life would look like.

The labels by which I am known today are labels I never knew existed or would ever be associated with me! Minister’s wife, adoptive mom, homemaker, online instructor, homeschooler, women’s ministry enthusiast, small group leader, worship team member.

And God is never done with me. He is in constant motion of creating plans and dreaming dreams for me.

And while his plans and dreams can terrify me and overwhelm me as many have over the last two decades, I have stepped forth in faith time and time again trembling and groping in the dark, only to find his sure hand ready to hold mine through the journey.

And I’ve never been sorry.

So I want to know what is beyond today.

I want to know what new adventure He is planning for me now.

I feel the stirrings in my heart of a new beginning and, as much fear as that can inspire in me, I am learning to trust him. He knows what He is doing and He will carry me above the mountain that blocks my view of the fertile valley beyond.

But He seldom reveals anything beyond the very next step because He wants me to hold His hand all the way down the road.

"You don't walk alone. I know you can't see what's up ahead, but I do. Trust me...again."

Friend, whatever it is, wherever you are, just hold on tight.

And trust him today.

For When You Think You Cannot Forgive

I was heartbroken. I felt angry, hurt, and betrayed like never before. 

How could they say such things about me? How could they lie that way? I was blindsided and I didn't know how to process what I had just learned. I had no idea how I would continue to face them day after day and, worse yet, how I would continue to serve them and do life with them.

In desperation, I found a quiet spot and fell to my knees, begging God to take the pain away, to see justice done, to avenge my innocence. Instead, unmistakably as I had come to recognize, the Spirit of God whispered gently to my soul, "I want you to forgive them." "How?" I despaired for I didn't have the strength or the will. "I'll teach you," He replied.

And the journey started.

First, I had to understand the importance of forgiveness.

The Bible tells us that forgiveness is not an option in the life of a follower of Christ. It is a mandate that God takes very seriously. So seriously that He has said He would not forgive us until we forgive our neighbor...with all our heart.  No doubt forgiveness is difficult and it is costly, but it is necessary. It frees the heart and strengthens our relationship with the God who gave us the ultimate gift: His forgiveness.

Once I understood why I should forgive them I started to pray for the strength to make the decision to forgive.

Forgiveness is a choice and the decision to forgive often comes much before the feeling of forgiveness. It may take a while, but while we carry un-forgiveness our spiritual growth will be stunted. Un-forgiveness is that powerful a poison to a spirit.

One of the toughest moments was coming to accept that the people who hurt me may never apologize or admit their wrong. Forgiveness does not depend on the offender. We stand alone before our God and when we pray "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." There is no caveat that states "as long as they have apologized."

So I decided to forgive. And I moved on. Or so I thought.

But not long after, I found myself seemingly backsliding. I was still angry and hurt and I felt the work of forgiving was not going forward or well. In fact, there were days when I didn't want to forgive anymore. I wanted to still be mad. 

And I was ashamed for feeling that way. After all, God was walking me through this path to forgiving.

It was then I realized I had to pray that to be able to give myself grace as well.

I had to remember that just because I decided to forgive it did not mean that the hurt, disappointment, and desire for justice would just disappear from my heart. Deciding to forgive alone did not change my circumstance: the wounds were still fresh, the pain was real, the anger burned, and the desire for justice and revenge lingered.

But I had taken the first step. 

I had chosen to walk in the path of love rather than remain in the path of brokenness. And when I recognized that my feelings had not just magically gone away, I began to pray for wisdom to deal with the residual feelings.

Feelings are fed by thoughts. Dwelling on the offenses nourishes our anguish. I decided to stop feeding the hurt by capturing my thoughts and memories and laying them at the foot of the cross daily, minute by minute if necessary.

As I began to think forgiving thoughts and chase any others that fought my will to move forward, slowly, very slowly, everything else began to fall into place. One day I realized that, while I could not yet wish my enemies well, I no longer wished them ill.

Then one morning, the anger had changed to dull pain that no longer burned inside me but rather made me feel sad and sorrowful. In a little while, the pain began to ease. The wounds began to heal.

But what of justice?

They were wrong for what they did to me, after all. I brought this to the Lord and He began to teach me to pray for the faith to believe that He will deal justly, fairly, and mercifully with my enemies and with me.

He showed me that, while I was not quite ready to pray for the well-being of those who hurt me so deeply, He loved them and Jesus died for them as well. He asked me to let him be judge and executor. Neither revenge nor bitterness would help me move on, anyway. I had to trust that he saw my pain and that He alone could heal my heart.

Disciples of Christ are taught we are to forgive those who hurt us and pray for those who persecute us, all in the same sentence. But it is not always possible to do one right after the other.  There can be a great big gap between forgiving someone and being able to pray for them and it usually takes divine intervention to do so.

As God began to heal my heart, however, I found myself more able to feel compassion for those who caused my pain and praying for their well being.

Since I had to interact with the offenders daily, I also felt the need to pray for wisdom to understand what forgiveness meant in this situation. Does it mean seeking out the offender for reconciliation or simply no longer avoiding them? Does it mean trying to restore the relationship or simply moving on? Each situation is different and the Lord should guide our path in this as well.

Once I was able to see the situation from a more cool-headed perspective, I found that God was leading me to pray for discernment to see if I had a part to play in the situation that now required forgiveness.

This is not always the case, but many times there are two sides to an argument. In my case, I found that part of the fault in the breakdown of the relationship was mine. To the best of my ability, I apologized to those I offended, repented before God, and worked on forgiving myself as He forgave me.

The journey did not end there, however. I had to pray for God to help me with this process as often as I needed during that season of my life.

There were days when a phone call, a note, a careless comment seemed to revive the wound that had scabbed over, and it bled anew, but there was new skin that had built around it already and it no longer bled as long or as violently as when it was first inflicted.

Healing was happening.

It wasn't easy and it took a long time, and still today, any time I am hurt by someone I have to remember and revisit the steps I must take to get from the side of justice to the side of mercy.

Since that situation, I've had plenty of opportunities to practice forgiveness in many other circumstances and with many other people. And I've given others opportunities to work on forgiving me as well!

They say that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Walking towards forgiving can feel like a long journey of many steps. No matter the hurt or situation you are going through, go ahead and take the first one today.

You will find peace at the end of the road.

And freedom.   

For When Evenings Find You Exhausted

Wake up early, get a shower, get dressed, clean up the bedroom, wake up kids, make breakfast, prepare for the school day. It’s only eight, and I want to go back to bed.

Come to me you who are weary…

Spend the morning teaching Isabel and Noah, Bible stories, math, reading, writing, science, spelling, play time, piano, make lunch, clean up. By noon, one day feels like two.

Come to me you who are weary…

In the afternoon answer e-mails, manage my online students, grade their papers, placate colleagues with questions and requests. By four pm I think I have nothing left to give.

Come to me you who are weary…

Soon it's time to make dinner, to welcome my husband, to eat as a family, to talk about our days, to pray as a family, to clean up, to do dishes, to bathe children, to brush their teeth, to read one more story, to pray once again. Twelve hours after breakfast feel like a week.

Come to me you who are weary…

Then the house is quiet, so it’s time to do the laundry, to pay bills, to sweep the kitchen, to wipe the counters, to spend a few minutes with the man I love, to get ready for bed.

Come to me you who are weary…

But the rest my pillow offers will not satisfy or take away the heaviness this day has left over me. I am bone-tired inside and out. My body aches and my mind is racing. 

There is only one place I can go to find the respite my mind, body, and soul desperately need.

So finally, finally...

When I surrender the busy-ness of the day and at last quiet my heart enough to notice, I hear the words the Spirit has been trying to whisper to me all day long as I rushed through each task:  

Come to me you who are weary…and I will give you rest.

And I breathe a sigh of release, of freedom, and of gratitude. I let go and unburden my shoulders of the weight of the world.

The days are heavy and long and weary. But I don't have to carry them alone.

I pray tomorrow I will remember this before my feet first hit the floor.

For When Sorrow Threatens To Drown You

There are days when the weather is cold and my skies are gray; when I'm feeling vulnerable and raw from some recent, difficult situation.

In those days, present circumstances and voices from the past mingle to make it feel like the weight of everything that has ever gone wrong in my life is threatening to crush me.

Childhood hurts, adolescent mistakes, adult heartbreaks all pile on these thin shoulders and bend me over until I look 100 years old instead of 37.

All the people who have spoken words of discouragement and condemnation to me resurrect from their tombs in my history and speak again, even more vilely.

All the wrongs I've endured, all the unfair treatment, all my own errors and the apologies I have had to make crack open the scars they formed in my heart and bleed anew.

In those days, I cover my eyes with my hands and let the tears flow freely.

But then...

Then I do the one thing I have learned will keep all that explosion of grief from turning my heart bitter and hard:

I pray.

No, I don't really just pray.

I pour, I expel, I purge.

On my knees, I let Jesus have it all.

It is too heavy, too dark, too...much.

A few minutes later I'm still crying.

Just as hard.

Ugly, wracking sobs.

And I still feel as heavy and bent over.

But what is crushing me now is the relentless weight of all the beauty He has created out of the ashes of my life:

The infertility that turned into adoption.

The mistakes I made which turned my heart towards compassion and empathy for others.

The pain that pushed me to deeper, more meaningful relationships.

The rejections that taught me to forgive freely and to understand grace.

The losses that showed me how to love better and hold on more tightly. 

And my heart is then thick with thankfulness it can't contain within itself.

So I continue to spill, to pour, to return.

But this time in praise, not sorrow.

For Those In Need Of Strength

We know King David as one of the most famous men in the Bible, but there were many people who did not like him. And most of the time it wasn't because of anything he did but rather a product of his circumstances. 

King Saul hated David because God anointed him as the next king. David didn't ask to be king. 

The Philistines despised David because he was a good warrior. David was only following God's instructions into battle. 

His wife, Michal, felt contempt for him because he danced before the Lord in praise. David was only responding to the joy he felt. 

Nathan chastised David harshly for committing adultery and murder...Ok, that one was on David's head. 

And because he was hunted by Saul like a dog and there was a price on his head, David lived on the run and in fear for years.

The Bible tells us that David was envied, mocked, scorned, spurned, and misunderstood plenty. Many of the Psalms he wrote tell of his anguish, his fear, and his frustration with the people and the situations around him. 

In 1 Samuel 30 we find yet another moment in which David was afraid for his life because of a situation over which he had no control. 

He and his men were living among the Philistines, enjoying the friendship of King Achish. The king decided to fight against King Saul and the Israelites and demanded that David and his men accompany them into battle. So David and his men followed the Philistine army. 

When the other Philistine soldiers saw them approaching, they rejected them and told King Achish that David and his posse were not welcomed, so David and his men had to turn around and go back home.

When they arrived home they found that the Amalekites had raided their town and taken everything, including their wives and children. The men were heartbroken, bitter, and angry and began to talk about stoning David. As if it was David's doing! 

And it is in the midst of this situation that we find a very short sentence that, I think, defines who David was and why he was called "a man after God's own heart." 

Facing the unfair wrath of his men, who were threatening him with murder, the writer of 1 Samuel simply states: 

"But David found strength in the LORD his God" (1 Samuel 30: 6b). 

The story tells us that David asked God what to do and went on to rescue all that was stolen from them by the Amelekites.

Maybe you find yourself in the middle of an unfair situation today. Maybe you are being accused of something you didn't do. Maybe you are despised for things you have no control over. Maybe you feel misunderstood, misinterpreted, or mistreated. 

Even in the middle of God's will, even while doing His work, even while knowing we are right where we need to be, there are times when, like David, we are mocked, scorned, spurned, and envied.

How should we then respond? Should we strive to defend ourselves, to set things right, to show the world how wrong they are? 

Perhaps. 

Perhaps there is a time to defend, and a time to set the record straight, and a time to speak up. Even David proclaimed his innocence before Saul in many occasions. 

But I think 1 Samuel points us to a deeper truth, a failsafe response regardless of the situation in which we find ourselves. Scripture directs us to find our strength in the LORD our God. 

Our strength does not come from talking to others about our situation, or setting things right our own way, or getting back at our attackers. Our strength to face the difficulties that come our way comes from the LORD our God. 

The simple question is this: 

Where are you looking for strength today?

"I look up to the mountains;
    does my strength come from mountains?
No, my strength comes from God,
    who made heaven, and earth, and mountains." 

(Psalm 121:1-2, The Message)

The sparrows, the lilies of the field and the parking spot.

Last weekend I was driving to meet a friend for coffee downtown. As I was nearing our meeting location, she sent me a message that she has arrived but that downtown was terribly crowded and parking was proving a nightmare to find.

I panicked a bit. Most of the parking on the streets of our downtown is parallel and I will admit right here and now that I don’t know how to parallel park. It’s not that I don’t like to do so. I don’t know how. I did it once to pass my driving test more than twenty years ago and have not done it since. I go to ridiculous lengths to avoid it, actually.

Lately, God and I have been having an ongoing argument, debate, screaming fight, conversation about trust. It has way too many layers to be dissected here but let’s just say that I have deep trust issues and that this can make a relationship that is, at its very core based on trust and faith, difficult. So we struggle on. Him telling me that He is trustworthy and me saying, “Yeah? Show me.”

The morning of the parking situation we were not at our best, God and me, so I sarcastically prayed (can you be sarcastic with God?): “Ok, God of the parking space, Lord of the parking lot, find me a spot.” I had always secretly sort of smirked at people who would give God public thanks for finding them a good spot to park. “God surely has better things to worry about than you not having to walk a few more steps, come on!” was my very Christ-like thought towards those people.

Not 1o seconds and a half a block later I saw a car pulling out of a parking spot which was at the end of the line (no parallel parking!), less than 20 feet from the coffee shop where I was to meet my friend, and there were even 40 minutes left in the meter. Score!

I’ll be honest. With a world full of hunger, wars, slavery, poverty, pain, and suffering to care for I have a hard time understanding why God would hear my sarcastic, inane, seemingly irrelevant prayer for a parking spot on a Saturday morning. But He did.

He remains a mystery to me in so many ways. But as I continued my dialogue with Him that day (this time much less sarcastically) a thought began to emerge clearly in my heart:

God cares.

And no, I don’t think that God will always help me find a good parking spot. This is not about a parking spot. It is about a God that finds ways to say: “I love you. I see you. I hear you” wherever we are, in whatever situation we find ourselves. Big or small.

I guess I can compare it to walking by my daughter on my way to the kitchen and stroking her cheek gently. It’s not much. It’s a simple gesture, really. But it is an easy way to let her know she is loved.

That morning, the parking spot was holy ground. I turned the car off and, before I got out, felt a stroke on my cheek: “You are loved.” I breathed a prayer of thankfulness to the God who cares about the sparrows, the lilies of the fields…and me. 

No longer Thomas, the doubter

I have been David, confronted by Nathan, shamed and found out. Redeemed and given a second chance.

I have been Peter, thoughtless and big-mouthed, passionate and bold. I have denied Christ and I have been restored.

But above all, I have been Thomas. Doubting Thomas. I have walked with Jesus and I have seen his work. I have been faced with his grace, lavished by his mercy, surrounded by his love. And yet I have doubted.

No.

I doubt.

I doubt daily.

I say: “Unless I see the wounds on his side, the piercing of his hands, unless I see them…I will no longer believe!”

And over and over Jesus shows me his wounds, tells me the story of how He died for me.

Over and over.

Day after day.

Long after I’ve been David redeemed, long after I’ve been Peter restored, I am still Thomas doubting.

And I’ve worried: will his patience run out? Will He tell me one day, “Enough already, you faithless girl!”? Will He tire of the endless cycle of my doubt spitting in the face of the endless cycle of his faithfulness?

Then He speaks.

My eyes fall tiredly upon a story I have read a hundred times before.

There is a father whose child is dying. He comes to Jesus for help and is faced with a phrase that has become familiar to us today: “All things are possible  for the one who believes” (Mark 9:23, NLT).

And this father utters what is becoming my life verse:

“I believe but help me overcome my doubt.” (Mark 9:24, NLT)

And with those few simple words from a man I’ve never met I have been set free.

I am free to confess my doubt honestly and openly because Jesus did not chastise the father. He did not cast him aside or called him faithless. He met this man at the point of his desperate need and healed the boy.

Such love.

Such patience.

All God is asking of me is to take one step towards him (I believe!) and admit I have no more faith to take another (Help my doubt!). He will come to me and give me grace to walk the rest of the way.

He is not angered by my confession of my need for him. Neither is He surprised. I think He is glad to know that I know that I don’t have it all together. That is not by my works or my strength that my faith grows.

My faith does not come from my own struggle to believe but by his power alone, and by his willingness to keep showing me his wounds and telling me the story of his sacrifice.

And so I learn, because of this father’s tale, that I don’t have to remain a Doubting Thomas. When doubt creeps my way and faith seems to elude me, I become the father and repeat brokenly and trustingly “I believe BUT help me overcome my doubt!”

Over and over.

Day after day.

The #1 Fly Killer

I was in the den working when I heard the noise. It was coming from behind the door of my bedroom. At first it sounded like the faint whine of a puppy and it continued in a slow crescendo until it reached a full, roaring scream: “mooooooommmmmyyyyyy, ahhhhhhhhh!” I would love to say I ran full speed to see what it was but I know my children are prone to drama, so I calmly walked to the bedroom and opened the door. 

I found Noah plastered against the wall opposite the window, sobbing uncontrollably, snot and tears mingling near his chin. His eyes were fixed on the window in sheer terror. I followed them and could see nothing. And then I heard the buzz. It was loud and disturbing but it was coming from a common house fly, ugly and big but harmless. 

Unless you are six. 

“What’s the matter, Noah?” I asked him. “It’s chasing me!” he wailed back. I explained to him that it would not harm him and that house flies don’t bite (do they?) and to keep reading his book so I could finish my work. I shut the door and went back to the den. 

About two minutes later I heard the screaming again. This time, with much less patience and an edge to my voice, I went back and reminded him that the fly would not hurt him, that I was too busy to try to chase it out of the room, and that he was a big boy, much bigger than the bug, in fact. I firmly closed the door and left him in his little private hell. 

As I sat in front of the computer the Still Small Voice enveloped my thoughts: “He’s only six years old, you know? He is just scared. Can’t you be more gentle and understanding?” See, I am very practical. Too practical even. It was just a fly, for goodness sake! 

But at that moment the Holy Spirit opened my eyes to my lack of empathy and helped me to see the world through the eyes of my little boy. I realized I often expect my children to think, behave and understand the world like adults. That fly was a monster against which Noah felt powerless to fight and he had no hero to show him how to conquer his dragon. 

So I breathed a prayer of wisdom and patience and went back in. I held him until he stopped crying and then I told him about how a simple magazine can turn into a magic secret weapon against flies. I showed him how to use it and, while we did not kill the fly then, I left him fully armed. As I was leaving the room I mentioned in passing that if he killed the fly I would give him a medal of valor.  

I returned a few minutes later when the silence was too suspicious and found him perched on the bed, still as a statue, weapon ready. I asked him what he was doing. “I’m waiting for the fly to come back my way so I can kill it!” he said with excitement. He spent the rest of the day chasing! flies until one let itself be killed by this tiny dragon slayer. As promised, I gave him a medal. 

(The medal says: "#1 fly killer: Noah, the valiant")

Empathy is powerful. Noah needed his fears validated, not minimized. Once he knew he was heard and understood, he became courageous. Once someone came to his side and empowered him, he believed in himself. This morning he even tackled a cockroach with his daddy’s help!

Grown-ups need empathy too. We may not wail in public despair at the sight of our fears or openly beg for a friend to come rescue us. “You just don’t do that,” we tell ourselves, perpetuating a lie that keeps us estranged from each other, unable to let someone else step into our shoes.

But we are just as terrified and helpless before our dragons as a six-year old before a giant house fly. And sometimes we just need someone to come alongside to pray with and for us, and to encourage us to discover that we can become dragon slayers. No perfect words or wise advice. Just a shoulder and a friend.

And we may not completely understand someone else's fear or pain. We may think "it's just a fly, for goodness sake!" We may even expect them to get over it or to realize, logically, why they should not be afraid. To behave like we would in that case.

But when we stand beside them and face the window from their perspective we just may feel how big and ugly the fly looks to them.  That fly may just look like a dragon we recognize. And suddenly, our eyes are opened to their reactions and responses. 

And empathy happens. 

Paul understood the strength that comes in numbers. He reminds us that God’s intention for community is for us to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep. It’s a calling to never under-estimate the power of the words: “I understand. I am with you and you are not alone.”

More than just not calling him a name...

The other morning I woke up early to spend some time in prayer. It was an ordinary morning and I began talking to God in my ordinary way. A few minutes into it, however, the conversation took an unexpected turn. It went something like this:

Me: “Lord, be with Matt today. Help him to have a productive day, to seek your will in his decisions, and to be surrounded by your grace. Give him wisdom to do his job, strength to tackle his responsibilities, and a greater desire to serve you.”

God: “Yes, child, he is a good man, isn’t he?”

Me: “Yes, Lord. Thank you for him and his love for me. And Lord, help me to be a good wife to him, a good helpmeet, and encourager.”

God: “You know? You don’t always treat him with the honor and respect that you should.”

Me: “Huh?”

God: “Yes, daughter. Sometimes you talk to him as if he was your child, not your husband.”

Me: “Wait, what? I was just praying that he has a good day and…”

God: “Listen. You know the times you ask him to fold the laundry while he watches that show and he forgets? You know how you put your hands on your hips and chastise him? He is your husband, child, not your son. That is not very respectful.”

Me: “But, but he… but I… but...”

God: “You know the times when he eats a donut for breakfast and you roll your eyes at him? Do you think that is honoring to him?”

Me: “No, Lord. I understand.”

God: “I’m not finished. Sometimes you tell him what to do as if you knew best, criticize his choices as if he was not very intelligent, belittle his opinions as if yours were the only valid ones. Would you treat a stranger in this way?”

Me: “No, Lord.”

God: “Then honor your husband. Respect him as you should. Be a wife who serves, who encourages, who forgives. Speak only praises of him before others. Make your home a place to where he wants return to every night. A safe haven from the pressures of his day. Treat him like the blessing and the treasure he is in your life. Don’t forget.”

Me: “Yes, Lord. Thank you for being so gentle in your rebuking.”

I walked away from this conversation changed and I was reminded of what I vowed to do almost thirteen years ago before all those friends and family members.

We said for richer of for poorer and we have survived times of plenty and through times of need.

We said in sickness and in health and we have made it through less than healthy times.

We said for better or worse and we have navigated tougher than tough times right to the other side.

But we also vowed to honor and respect and I guess I thought that honor only meant to be faithful and respect only meant not to call each other ugly names when we argue. And it is that...but it is also much more.

To honor means to deeply value. It means to appreciate the tremendous contribution he makes to my life, to our children, and to our family by the kind of husband, father, and leader he is. Honor means to focus on what he brings, not on what he lacks. It means to be keenly aware of what his absence would mean so I can cherish every day of his presence. 

And to respect means to be considerate of. It means to extend him the same grace to err, to fail, and to be flawed as I would want extended to me. It means to be gentle, to be kind, and to generally treat him with the deference with which I would treat a friend. 

But I'm finding that it is in the daily living, in the every day navigating of life together, that honor and respect are most important but most difficult to achieve because when you live with someone you can find a million opportunities to be aggravated by them and with them. 

And it is the continuous wear and tear of a relationship, the small, annoying, seemingly insignificant disagreements, “fussing” my father-in-law calls it, which can destroy a relationship little by little if not handled properly.

Like a leaky faucet, I can wear my husband down with my ongoing criticism, nagging, and contempt. And who can stand that for very long? He may not leave me because he is a man of his word, but what kind of marriage would that be? What kind of example would I be for my daughter?

No wonder wise Solomon once wrote how it is better to live in the corner of an attic than in a lovely home with a quarrelsome wife!

I asked the Lord to help me remember that, while I criticize Matt, I am far, far from perfect. I asked him to give me patience and humility, wisdom and humility, grace and humility to pray daily a version of the serenity prayer for my marriage that goes like this:

Lord, give me the serenity to accept the things about Matt I cannot change, the strength to change the things about ME that I can, and the wisdom to show honor and respect to my husband in every interaction that we have.  

Paper Altars

I journal to remember.  

In my bookshelves there are volumes of my life. I write in the sad times and I write in the happy times and sometimes, in the in-betweens. I write prayers, poems, psalms. I write sobs, laughter, and screams. I write whys, whens, wheres, and hows. 

I write when I can't pray and I write when I can't keep it inside anymore. There are days of never ending ink of praise and thanksgiving and there are blank pages with only the date on top and I know those were days of deep pain and disappointment.

I write for the days when God seems to be silent and hidden. For the days when I wonder if anyone is listening to these ramblings of my soul. I write to remember that He has always been faithful and He will be faithful again. I write love letters and dear John letters and why-have-you-forsaken-me letters and I-will-always-love-you letters to the same One reader to whom I have been writing for almost 20 years.

I go back and write the date of the answers to the prayers I have bled into the paper. There are many, many "yes! yes! yes, child, yes!" and many, many "child, this time you need to wait" and many, many "no, child, not this" 

And I rejoice. Anyway. Even then. 

Because I know there will be a date next to each prayer. Some dates are separated by years and years and some by mere hours and some are still date-less.  But a date will come because He listens, and He sees, and He loves.

So I journal to remember. 

Each volume is an altar. A place of remembrance. Of sacrifice and offering. Of prayer and praise. Like Noah and Abraham and Joshua before me I build altars of thanksgiving made with words instead of stones, paper Ebenezers to the God who goes before me.

Because my mind is forgetful and my heart is weak. Because He has said taste and see that the Lord is good, and when the darkness descends and uncertainty threatens, and when He seems far away and the path is crooked, and when I am hopeless and I feel alone, I pull out a tome of our story, His and mine, and read, and read, and read. 

I read until the memories of His never-failing, never-wavering, never-leaving love come alive again and build towers of refuge around me, and I can continue this journey secure not in the feeling but in the fact that throughout the best and worst times of my life Jesus has held me by the hand. 

Pride and Prejudice (well, maybe more like Pride and Humility)

They say the first step towards recovery is to admit you have a problem. 

I admit it. 

I have a problem. 

I have a problem with pride that has reared its ugly head for a few months now. So last night I laid it all out to the women of my Bible study. We are studying the Book of James and James, man, James does not strive to treat you gently. He will lift you off your feet, shake you like a rag doll, and set you down roughly. And this week, he did me in again.

I have not written for a while and it took some wrestling to figure this out. I don't write consistently. True. I tend to write when something gets a hold of me and I have to put words to it. But lately there have been stories floating around me that I just can't seem to pin down. I'll start one and never finish it. My virtual waste basket is full of wadded pieces of paper with discarded ideas. But it took an ancient writer to confront me and point out the truth to me: you don't write because you don't write like her, her or her.

James has harsh words for jealousy but I sat smug in my chair. That is a illness from which I don't suffer. I don't envy these bloggers. I'm not jealous of them. I celebrate them. I encourage them with comments. I share their sites with my friends. 

But then he got to humility and my smugness turned to conviction.

I have read post after post about not comparing yourself to other writers, about writing the story God gave you, about how even if one life is touched by your words it is worth doing it. I know. I know. I agree. I've uttered those words. And yet... I'm struggling to accept that God can use anything less than this right here. 

And so, my friends, this is pride. 

"If I cannot write like that, I will not write at all," says my heart stubbornly, in essence denying that God is smart enough to know what gift and to what measure and for what purpose is ours to have.

I know God has called me to write. I know He has given me tools. I know when I write I am changed and I know that some of you also walk away a little different. So why is that not good enough for me? James would not mince words in telling me that it is because I lack humility to accept my place in the Kingdom of God. 

Joan Chittister said that "humility is the admission of God's gifts to me and the acknowledgement that I have been given them for others." Pride is forgetting where those gifts came from but it is also discarding His good gifts and His holy calling in our lives because they are not as important/developed/talent-full/necessary/interesting as other people's.

It was an epiphany. 

I have to stop hiding behind my excuses that I only write when I "feel" it, or that maybe God is not really calling me to write, or that I just don't have the time. The truth is I suffer from pride when it comes to my writing. And the road to recovery will be long because those amazing writers are still out there writing away. Temptation to compare and to desist will keep coming. But I took the first step and it was tough: I admitted it. And not just to myself. To a room full of women who know me.

The cure for what ails me is a dose of humility. And there is nothing more humbling that to speak it out loud: I am prideful.

So here is to step two: hit "publish" and pray for the Lord to continue to teach me who He's called me to be.