Learning to Trust

I pulled out of the parking lot and came to a stop at the light, the air quiet save for the rhythmic click of the right turn signal.

“Turn left here,” my husband says.

“Really? Because the only way I know how to get there is by turning right.”

“Just trust me. Turn left.”

“Okay, but I was going to turn right, and then make a left down the next street, and in a little while we’d come out by Walgreen’s, but I guess I’ll trust you and turn left.”

“Oh, this is you trusting me, huh?” He says with a chuckle.

“Yeah, well, I do trust you, but that’s the only way I know how to get there.”

The light turned green, and I turned left.

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In hindsight this seems like a ridiculous conversation. My husband is way more directionally savvy than I am, and from past experience, I have absolutely no reason not to trust him. It is, however, a very revealing conversation. Out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks, right? While a good social worker will tell you there’s a reason for every behavior, there’s also a heart condition behind the curtain of every conversation, and what this one tells me is I have an issue with trust, specifically regarding the unknown.

It hasn’t been the only red flag lately but one in a series of realizations that have given me eyes to see an underbelly of pride and fear I’d been blind to before: I’m afraid of the unknown, sometimes so much that it prevents me from listening and obeying, or at the very least, putting up a fight before I do so.

Most of humanity can probably relate, though. The fact is, the unknown is scary. Not being in control is scary. But it’s just like us humans to focus on what is being asked rather than whom is doing the asking. The reality is, God is fully aware we don’t know what’s going to happen next. He’s God, and we’re not. But God doesn’t ask us to focus on the unknown when choosing whether or not to obey. He asks us to focus on Him.

Do you trust Him?

I mean, do you really? What if He asks you to turn left, and the only road you're familiar with veers right? How much do you lean on your own understanding instead of the One who gave us the understanding we own?

These are some of the questions rolling around in my head this week. Maybe they are in yours now, too?

Holding tightly to anything that isn’t ours to cling to is ultimately a burden, and one that needs to be laid down, however begrudgingly, for us to live freely and lightly. For us to learn the unforced rhythms of grace. While we try to control and manage our surroundings, God invites us to come to Him and recover our lives, find rest for our souls, and live free.

Walking in Humility: Ministry is Messy...and It's Supposed to Be

{This post was originally published on September 23, 2016}

Between the not-quite-housetrained puppy, the 7 month old baby, who still spits up, and the random 10+ children who are in and out of the house on any given day, our carpet is, in a word...GROSS.

Even still, we try to do what we can to keep it from getting worse. We take the dog outside often, wipe up accidents/spills as best as we can, and encourage everyone to take their shoes off at the front door. In typical kid fashion, though, they're forgetful and don't always remove their shoes. Other times, they just plain don't want to listen. Because it's inconvenient, or they think they know better. Rules can be hard and stupid. So along with "buckle your seatbelt," "pick up your garbage," "dirty clothes go in the basket," and "don't fart on your brother," I've added "take off your shoes" to the soundtrack that plays on "repeat all" in our home. 

It will come as no surprise, then, that one day we discovered someone had dog poop on the bottom of their shoe. Unfortunately, that shoe had already made its way around most of the first floor, particularly the carpeted area. The kids were disgusted and screaming, the little boy felt terrible and was crying, and Ben, of course, was in disaster mode and calmly doling out instructions to everyone. He functions much better in a crisis than I.

"It's ok. It's not a big deal," he said to the little boy. "We can clean it up. Why don't you give me your shoe and I'll wash it off in the bathroom."

I took a kid into the living room with me and we started on the carpet. The little boy was sitting at the table with his sister, just sobbing, and both Ben and I kept assuring him it was ok. I can only assume he must get in a lot of trouble at home for making a mess.

The child who was helping me was indignant. He was mad that the boy didn't take off his shoes, mad that he didn't notice the poop sooner, mad that he had to help clean it up--and he kept loudly voicing his grievances. For as often as he wears his own shoes into the house, it could've just as easily been him who tracked in poop, and I encouraged him to be gracious.

I have to admit, I was frustrated, too, but trying really hard to maintain a poker face. This is why we tell them to take off their shoes, I thought. We have rules for a reason. I gently reminded the crowd of that fact and went back to cleaning the carpet. And as I was kneeling there, scrubbing the filth away, my husband quietly said to me, probably sensing my irritation, "this is the cost of doing ministry, babe. It's ok. It's just carpet."

See what I mean about calm under pressure? But I knew he was right. This is the cost of doing ministry. 

You see, ministry is messy...and it's supposed to be.

It's supposed to be difficult, frustrating, annoying, and even loathsome at times. Ministry isn't heart-eye emojis and feel good music and the, "we're all doing fine," business. Because the reality is, we're not all fine, and certainly not all the time.  

Ministry is being "Christ with skin on." That's how my husband describes it, anyways. 

It's easy to think, and I've certainly been guilty of this myself, that "ministry" is a rosy, glorious, wonderful thing. Like we're going to take all these lost people in our neighborhood or workplace and we're going to listen to them, we're going to feed them, we're going to tell them how much Jesus loves them, and wouldn't that be just grand. Maybe they'll start coming to church with us on Sundays, and if we're really lucky, we might even be able squeak out a sinner's prayer. And then we can check them off our list. Mission accomplished. Job well done, good and faithful servant.

But if you sit with that phrase for a spell and dig in to what that really means, I believe you will find this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. {Romans 5:8}

Ministry, in the truest form of the word, is entering into the mess and filth of broken lives and loving well enough to stand in the gap between them and God. It's the privilege of being able to stay, with arms outstretched, that it's okay. Regardless of the mess they find themselves in right now, they are loved. They are wanted, valuable, and important. Not in spite of themselves, but because of Christ, who died for them. In their place. And there's nothing more they need to do, because it is finished. 

It's the gospel in the flesh.

True ministry exists in the gap between sinner and Savior. We must be willing to enter into the mess, to kneel down alongside them in the filth and start scrubbing. In order to become Christ with skin on, we need to hang our desires, our possessions, our control, and our pride up on the cross and let them die.

The carpet cleaner washed the dirt away, and the stains were barely visible by the time we were done. It was like it never happened. The little boy finally calmed down and realized he wasn't in trouble, that everything really was okay, and they all went back to running and playing as usual.

Only in the paradox of Christ is it possible that out of death flows new life and from surrender, victory. That he who loses his life will save it. The gap in between death and resurrection is a holy one--it's where God does His best work. 

Every time I give a gentle reminder, change a poopy diaper, scrape gum off the basement floor, scrub dog dirt from the carpet, shuttle a child to the doctor, or help a teen sort out a tricky relationship issue, I'm standing in the gap. A witness to impending new life, both in my heart and in those around me. That's ministry, in all it's messy glory. 

And God is glorified in this holy obedience to the ordinary. 

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This post is part of a series I’m writing for the month of October called, Walking in Humility: Learning to Abide with God in the Everyday. If you’re interested in the reading the rest of the series, you can find it here. Enjoy!

Walking in Humility: Further Thoughts on Speaking the Truth in Love

 Jesus is a gentleman.

It's something I heard often in those early years of Christianity, when I didn't know much of the character of this God who lovingly swooped into my life and stole my heart. But I was eager to learn.

He will knock on the door of your heart, but He will never barge in. He's a gentleman. He will wait until you open the door.

He's a gentle man. Humble in heart. Unconditionally loving. He hung on the cross so we wouldn't have to, so we may live free, out from under the burden of sin.

But in order to be resurrected into freedom, there must first be death. For Jesus, it took three days, but for us it often takes a lot longer. It takes time to loosen the grip of selfishness. Time to exhaust all other options; time to see ourselves for what we truly are.

The journey to surrender is often an arduous and painful one, but it's a destination we must arrive at willingly, with a heart of humility and repentance, before we can ever attempt to lay down our lives for Him. Sin surrendered out of pressure to conform is still tethered to the heart, and it's human nature to pick it back up again, eventually.

But we are such a stubborn and prideful people that we often continue to exist suspended in the misery of our pain, stuck somewhere on the path between conviction and repentance. It's hard to pry our fingers off of the life we think we always wanted, or the way we thought things would go. We are afraid. In our heart of hearts, we sometimes don't trust God with the unseen, so we take matters into our own hands and attempt to do damage control. 

We self-medicate to dull the pain of unfulfilled existence. We watch too much TV. We continue to eat long after we're full. We get angry at the people we love for interrupting our time or needing too much. We drink or take drugs. We long to feel wanted and loved, so we engage in illict sex. We spend money we don't have. We lie, steal, and talk badly about others.

We get mad at life and mad at God.

And yet, He waits for us.

Hosea tells us He's the loyal, unconditionally loving spouse to a whore of a wife, who is constantly wandering and seeking fulfillment and pleasure elsewhere. He's the one who repeatedly buys us back from the auction block, rescuing us from the misery of our sin, even though we've failed to see our value and worth in Him. Again. Even though we've run off and sold ourselves to cruel masters when, all along, His yoke is easy and His burden light.

He patiently waits for us, even though He knows we will abide with Him for a time, return His love for a time, only to run off again after the next abusive substitution we allow close to our heart.

He's a gentleman. And though His heart aches for the lost, He will never force their hand. Because that isn't love.

We're fellow sojourners on this road toward freedom and true life in Christ. It's a journey that requires much patience, grace, respect, and love, as people wrestle out their issues with Christ, as they manage the pain of limbo, and as they do the hard work of offering up their deepest selves to the brutality of the cross.

Only in Christ can death give birth to freedom and new life and surrender yield victory. Be gentle with one another and humble in heart, as you seek, by His strength and grace, to follow after Him today.

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This post is part of a series I’m writing for the month of October called, Walking in Humility: Learning to Abide with God in the Everyday. If you’re interested in the reading the rest of the series, you can find it here. Enjoy!

Walking in Humility: Honest Self-Assessment

"She's so open about her shortcomings that it makes it really hard to use them against her."

It was a line spoken in jest on the Best Friends Whenever episode my daughter wanted to watch this morning. 

Huh, I thought. Isn't that freeing. 

Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. 32 Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” {John 8:31-32}

The truth breaks down walls, unlocks chains, and sets captives free.

Not only the truth about God and what He thinks of us but the truth about everything. The truth about relationships, gifts, talents, personality, limitations, resources, and support.

Lies in any form will keep us behind bars and from reaching our God-given potential, but so often we choose to live there, closing the door of our prison cell with our own hands. We lie to ourselves for many reasons but mostly to try to meet a legitimate need in an illegitimate way. We are desperate for love and affection, we long for approval, we don't want to be in pain, and so we lie.

He would pay more attention to me if only I....

They didn't really mean to treat me that way. I must've just misunderstood.

If only my life were like hers, if I had what she had, then I'd be happy.

I'd be more attractive if I were a couple sizes smaller.

They are really awful people, so it's okay if I rip them apart on social media.

I mean, I know some bad things happened, but it all worked out okay. The past doesn't matter.

Every time I see her, she's so calm and patient with her kids. She's a much better mom than I am.

Those people are all addicted to drugs and don't deserve my money or resources.

This food/person/relationship/workout/thing will make me feel better.

If I'm able to live up to the ideal image of a _________, then I will be satisfied and fulfilled.

Facing the truth about reality is often painful, so painful that many people will go to great lengths to avoid ever having to think about it. We bury the truth, subvert the truth, mask the truth, avoid the truth, and hide the truth, even from ourselves. The truth, while sometimes more painful than we care to imagine, is also more beautiful and freeing than we dare to admit.

We have to be willing to look at things for what they truly are and grieve, if necessary, to live free and out from under the heavy burden of lies that hold us captive.

As a young mother, I lived with the weight of the ideal homemaker, Christian, and wife on my shoulders.

It was exhausting.

Certain ways of doing things, which in and of themselves were efficient and exemplary, were, at least in my experience, portrayed as "the only way." Anything short of that meant, well, you're not very good at this. You failed. You haven't measured up.

I lived in the shadow of this ideal for years, and it literally gnawed away at my soul to the point where I wanted to give up and throw in the towel on the Christian life. I told a friend in confidence on a retreat that I was done. Done trying, done striving. I knew how to "play church" as well as anyone, and I would still show up on Sundays with a smile on my face, but it wouldn't mean anything. I didn't know what else to do.

She didn't know either, but she listened. She welcomed the opportunity to know the real me, truth and all. We half-heartedly agreed to spend more time reading our Bibles.

But as time unfolded, I began to lay those ideals down and grieve their passing. To admit, yes, I will never measure up. And you know what? It's okay. Because I realized "the only Way" that was true and good and perfect and right was Jesus, and there was nothing more I could do then what He had already done for me. Furthermore, His relationship is different and unique with everyone. It's certainly not a one-size-fits-all gig.

It's freeing to realize a lot of the "how to's" preached in Christian circles cater to disciplined, type-A personalities.

Wake up early in the morning, before anyone else, to spend time in the word and prayer. 

Read your bible every day.

Journal and apply scripture to your life. Doodles and embellishments optional but highly encouraged. 

Get your Read Through the Bible in a Year Plan and start checking off the days. 

Make sure to attend a bible study to continue learning and growing.

It's also incredibly freeing to realize that I am not one of those type-A people...

But I spent years upon years trying harder, vowing to do better, setting resolutions, and journaling apologies for my failures, again. Until I finally was able to see the truth that God just didn't make me that way, and it's okay. 

Although I may not read my bible daily, the Holy Spirit is ever-present in my heart and ear, and I can meet with Him just as deeply poring over the Word as I can pouring water out of dirty dishes at the kitchen sink. 

I can learn about Him while attending a bible study or Christian conference, but I can also learn about Him in the eyes of my children, in their gaze of unwavering love and trust. I can smell Him on the wind as fresh air breathes life into my lungs. I can walk with Him in the cool of the day and know the sound of His footsteps. I can hear His still, small voice as I go about the mundane tasks of my day.

The truth breaks down walls, unlocks chains, and sets captives free, but we have to be willing to humble ourselves to see it. We have to be willing to look it square in the face and own it. 

And it's worth it, friends, because when we finally surrender, we find victory in Christ. Walk with Him in humility today. 

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This post is part of a series I’m writing for the month of October called, Walking in Humility: Learning to Abide with God in the Everyday. If you’re interested in the reading the rest of the series, you can find it here. Enjoy!

Walking in Humility: Even When You Don't Have Enough, Build a Bigger Table Anyway

It's funny that as soon as we got a bigger kitchen table, children from the neighborhood seemed to emerge from all directions to sit around it, like the "if you build it, they will come" idea playing out in real life. 

At the beginning of the summer, there was a very intentional invitation. Come inside, we would say. You're welcome here. Gather around the table with us as we share a meal and talk about our day. When they left, they would tell their friends about the cute baby they got to hold or mention that there exists a table around which there is "extra food," an oddity in a neighborhood where scarcity is the norm and children fend for themselves.

And it organically multiplied from there.

I stood at the counter prepping the meal, the kids busy behind me with their assigned chores. As my hands ripped systematically through the cold head of lettuce, I thought about the phrase, when you have more than you need, build a longer table, not a higher fence.

I love the sentiment behind it--one of generosity, inclusion, and community. The importance of building bridges and gathering together in solidarity and fellowship. The idea of sharing what you have instead of hoarding it for yourselves.

When you have more than you need....

That part bothers me a little with its strong, Confucius-like qualities. You see, God is a God of abundance, of plenty, of enough. And when there's not enough? He makes it enough. That's what He does. Jesus turned Confucius' popular Golden Rule on its head and said instead, "so whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them." {Matthew 7:12}

When you have more than you need...

The phrase is limiting and narrow in a culture that has forgotten the line that exists between need and want. As I rinsed the lettuce shreds out in the sink, I thought, how sad. Because when we live life in a comfortable little bubble of our human limitations, we fail to leave room for God. How sad that we miss out on the miracles, the provision, and the overflow that happens when we step out beyond ourselves, beyond what seems possible with what's in front of us.

When you have more than you need... 

But what about when you don't?

I was moved to tears as I leaned over the counter, chopping up cucumbers and recalling all the times we looked at what was for dinner and glanced around at all the mouths it was supposed to feed and wondered how exactly that was going to work out. All the times that God took our meager offering of loaves and fish and multiplied it to feed the masses. And unless the offering was macaroni and cheese, there was almost always leftovers.

Today we invited two people over for lunch. Then a third asked if it would be okay to stay. The third went to retrieve brothers, which became four and five. Six walked arrived as we were finally getting a very late lunch on the table, well into the afternoon. A quick call to the daughter playing next door, and we figured, at this point, what's one or two more? 

When the neighbor and her grandson walked in the front door, our number had swelled to 17 in all. Come on in, my daughter said to her friend, the little neighbor boy, as they stepped inside with grubby fingers and dirt-stained pants. It's okay. See? This is my family...

And I could see it unfolding before my very eyes: God purposed to give me a tangible example of His incredible ability to provide. He was putting feet on my thoughts at the kitchen sink, just to show me He could.

I'll do you one better today: even when you don't have enough, build a bigger table anyway.

Because when we step foot beyond the tangible, beyond our resources, beyond our abilities--that is the fertile soil in which miracles grow. It's the soil from which the Creator of the cosmos flung the stars into place and crafted the very ground on which we stand, the soil from which He formed the shape of man. It's the same soil in which God plants our temporal fear and doubt, and right before our very eyes, gives birth to new life. 

Even when you don't have enough--especially when you don't have enough--build a bigger table anyway, and watch God work and move in ways you never would've imagined. Because it's in community gathered around a table where the best of life's lessons are learned. Regardless of the color of your skin, the orientation of your gender compass, your various sins and preferences, in that moment, you're all just a bunch of hungry people sharing a meal. 

The ground is as level beneath the kitchen table as it is at the foot of the cross. 

With a warm cup of coffee in hand and a full belly after the meal, she utters, I'm so glad I came over here today. I just feel really...loved. 

Yeah, food and family will do that.

We all need to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. Why cling to your meager share of loaves and fish when God wants to show you a miracle? When He's waiting just past the margin of safe and a hair beyond logic to multiply your belief more exponentially than you ever could've dreamed?

So often, we forsake the unseen for the comfort and the safety of the known. We fail to see that the unknown, the holy ground on which God Himself treads, is found in reckless abandon. It's found in love that knows no bounds, in lavishness that makes no sense, in generosity that doesn't add up. 

It's found in FAITH. 

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This post is part of a series I’m writing for the month of October called, Walking in Humility: Learning to Abide with God in the Everyday. If you’re interested in the reading the rest of the series, you can find it here. Enjoy!