His Still Whisper

This week I prayed for one who had taken her life. I do not know her name. I do not know her story. Questions fly. Why? How could she? Didn't she know? I could only bow my head to pray. For her hurting family. For her children.

I don't know her story.

But like so many others, I may know part of her pain. Hopelessness. Fear. Anxiety. Depression. Emotions so heavy and real. And so separate from any particular circumstance or event. They just are.

Early this morning in the quiet pre-dawn, fear hung over me like a too-small cloak, choking off my air supply. There wasn't a name for this fear, a cause. It just was. Maybe that is why it is so fearsome. When you can name something, you have a handle for it. When it is simply a sense of dread, running thick over you... clinging, its very elusiveness terrifies.

Who to call when you can't put a name to things? Pride moves in right alongside the terror, whispering lies. If I tell someone, they just won't get it. Who to tell that won't hide quiet disdain? Who to tell that won't give well-meaning but unproductive advice? That's what fear and pride do...get you all alone. They create a space where they can grow bigger and bigger.

This morning fear hung over me like a too-small cloak. But I pried a corner of the cloak away as I sat down to journal my thoughts to a God who seemed very distant and completely removed. My view of Him was all but gone, the giants of fear and pride looming large right in front of me. Yet, I pulled the corner of the cloak as I sat down to communicate with a God I couldn't feel in that moment.

I poured out my questions and thoughts. I cried tears of helplessness. Why can't I just pray this away? Why do I fight this all-encompassing battle with anxiety over and over and over again? If I was a better Christian. If I was a better person. If I did more. If I did less. If. If. If. Crying out to my Abba-Daddy, lump in my throat, hands clutching my pen and journal.

Spent, I opened my Bible app on my phone, and the verse of the day jumped out at me as if it was in neon flashing lights.

1 Peter 5: 8-9
Stay alert! Watch out for your great enemy, the devil. He prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Stand firm against him, and be strong in your faith. Remember that your Christian brothers and sisters all over the world are going through the same kind of suffering you are.

Feeling like the too-tight cloak had slipped off one shoulder and breath was coming a little easier, I opened to my readings for the day.

In the Old Testament, I was revisiting Elijah in 1 Kings 19. But that living and active Word meant something different to me today then all the other times I had read it. Elijah, after receiving God's amazing provision and revelation was now running scared from the evil Jezebel. I must sheepishly admit in the past when I've read this account, I've thought to myself, "Elijah! Seriously! God has shown you how He can provide and yet you are going to run scared from this woman?" Today, this thought didn't enter my mind. I was in a place of understanding fear. Of not being able to see past the looming shadow of fear. Today as I read, I was instead floored by the compassion God showed Elijah.

After running all day, Elijah sets down under a tree and prays to die.
Oh how my heart aches for this man. I feel his hopelessness and fear and the dropping to the knees and the crying "just take me!"

And he sleeps. And he is twice woken by an angel who urges him to eat and drink both times, preparing him for a journey. A Father meeting His child's physical needs.

He journeys to Mount Sinai, somehow sustained by this food and drink, though it is a forty day trip. When he gets there, he cries out to the Lord, telling Him why he has run. He cries out his fear. He cries out the unfairness of serving the Lord and yet meeting the fate Jezebel would mete out to him.
The Lord's response always brings tears to my eyes, especially today as God met me there in my need.

1 Kings 19: 11-13
"Go out and stand before me on the mountain," the Lord told him. And as Elijah stood there, the Lord passed by, and a mighty windstorm hit the mountain. It was such a terrible blast that the rocks were torn loose, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance to the cave.

I imagine the God of the universe, the Creator of the universe, revealing Himself to a scared man. And I imagine Him revealing Himself in a gentle whisper. A Father meeting His child's heart needs. And I cry tears turned to joy because He is mighty. But He is gentle. He is my Father. And I am His child. He is patient. And kind. He cares. And I cry just because I needed to know that today.

Though I can share the words that I spoke this morning. And I can share the passages in His Word He spoke soft over me, I don't know that I can convey the feeling of His presence. How I felt. Helpless down on my knees, worn and weary. But met by God. In that place of need. He spoke so tangibly to me.

And I am grateful. The cloak slipped off my shoulders, and I'm now breathing in full, sweet gulps of life-giving air. I am clothed, not by ill-fitting cloaks never meant for me to wear, but instead I am covered by my Father's hand. The fear and pride simply shadows in the background overshadowed by the shelter of my Father's wing.

I don't know the story of the woman who took her life. I don't know her exact pain. Why she felt helpless. Maybe her pain didn't have a name either, it just loomed big and heavy and fearsome, breathing hot and unrelenting on her neck. Maybe she was simply so tired and worn, one more day didn't seem possible. But I pray for her. And I pray for her family. And I pray for my Brothers and Sisters out in this world who face fear and helplessness and hopelessness. I pray for them to find the shelter of God Most High. That they would feel, instead of the shadows of fear and death, the shadow of His wing.

Things No One Ever Told Me... or "Confessions of a Thirtysomething Former Know-it-all"

No one ever told me that the realization that I was now the adult in charge could bring terror, not the jubilation I always imagined.
They also didn't tell me that I could hand the reigns over to my Father because I was still His child.

No one ever told me that you don't outgrow fear. The monsters lurking just take on a different form is all.
They also didn't tell me that in these shadows, I would learn to lean on God the most.

No one ever told me that love is often a choice you make, not an emotion you feel.
They also didn't tell me that the love would be even sweeter for the choice made.

No one ever told me that the pink and blue bundles of joy placed into my hands would one day bear wounds from their mama's tongue. That my inadequacies, faults and sin would loom ugly in the mirror of their innocent eyes.
They also didn't tell me that there is perhaps no sweeter forgiveness than that of a child who hugs mama close and loves her despite her brokenness and failure.

No one ever told me that I would speak words that had once wounded me. That the words would spew forth as if out of my control.
They also didn't tell me that I would find a way to forgive the one who had wounded me, now equipped with the sweet knowledge that those words hadn't been meant to hurt me but came from a deep well of fear and insecurity.

No one ever told me that I would sometimes get lost in the cacophony of little voices clamoring for my attention. That indeed I could turn them off and get lost inside my own head.
They also didn't tell me that sometimes one small voice would reach through the discord, reminding me that I just had to meet one need at a time.

No one ever told me that someone else's pain could hurt far more than your own.
They also didn't tell me the sweet release of surrendering your loved ones to a caring Father.

No one ever told me that life in this fallen, broken world could be so filled with ash and debris. That I would sometimes stumble through the disarray in confusion and sorrow. But in those moments, He would bring beauty from the ashes, rising up like a brave wild flower taking root in the cinders. The beauty all the more exuberant and wonderful for the dismal surroundings. That when we take root where He plants us, He uses us in our weakness to breathe life to others.

No one ever told me these things

And really, if they had...if they did, I wouldn't have listened. I would've smiled in secret smugness knowing that I would love and live better. Love and live smarter.

Because something else no one ever told me?

I, too, would be more beautiful for the ashes. When I would finally allow myself to be humbled. Kneeling. Broken. Then. Only then could I hear Him whisper quiet, sure words laced with love.
Only then would I let Him shine through this weak, broken vessel.

And that is something worth telling.

 

The Play Maker

Walking into the gym, I saw third and fourth grade girls warming up. They had attended practices and studied the plays. Some of the girls patiently waited, confidence emanating from their faces, while others nervously paced.

As the game started, it seemed we might be a bit outmatched. But the girls doggedly continued racing up and down the court trying to remember the difference between defense and offense. As the coach yelled reminders and instructions, his words were joined by parents’ voices. Some shouting encouragement, others yelling instructions. Once in a while, a reprimand hung in the air.

Now, a friend and I always joke that should we coach, she’d be the “bad guy” while I’d be the overindulgent (read: nonproductive) coach, promising a trip for ice cream after the game “no matter the score.”  And my softer side was coming out now. I felt sympathy tugging at my heart as some girls looked clearly bewildered and scared while most went about the game putting the pieces together: offense, defense, plays…working all these pieces together to play the game of basketball.

And it hit me.

This is what I feel like most days.

I’ve read the Play Book. I’ve listened to the Coach. I’ve rehearsed possible scenarios in my head, and visualized what they might look like out on the court in a real game.

But just like the bewildered grade-schoolers, sometimes the plays and shots come at me faster than I’d like once I’m actually on the court. I don’t take time for a time-out and end up winging it, forgetting all the plays I’d rehearsed with Coach.

And sometimes, I fail.

But the thing is, God doesn’t keep a score board for me. Others do – they keep score of my inadequacies, my ‘hypocrisies’, my falls and stumbles. From their vantage point, it is simple: I know the plays, now that I’m on the court, I just need to put ‘em into action.

Yet from my vantage point, the plays aren’t so clear. I have circumstances and people coming at me at an intense speed. Through the sweat dripping off my brow, I see the Coach holding up the Play Book and calling my name, but sometimes I try to do things on my own because I can’t seem to hear His voice. Or I have the right play but use it at the wrong moment.  I trip and fall. And finally, either by admitting my need for help or by a holy time out called by the Play Maker, I crawl over to the bench. Tears in my eyes, wearing my failure like it’s my uniform, I grab the Play Book and start searching again. And sometimes the Coach shows me what I’ve got to do next time. Sometimes, He asks me to redo what I’ve already done. And always, His sweet grace surrounds me as He underscores the points in the Book, hands me Living Water and says,

“Take a swig and get back out there.”

Then I start playing again. And I sometimes I score. And most often, I fall. And because I am vocal about my faith, people view my stumbles or inadequacies as pretenses or hypocrisies. 

But He still isn’t keeping score. When I look at His score board, it simply says “Redeemed.” And He’s given me amazing teammates who hold me accountable for my game, who lift me up when I’m beat and who study the plays with me.

And so I keep on, keepin’ on.