Jesus died a horrible, brutal death on the cross. And then He was divinely and supernaturally raised from the dead.

He received the ultimate healing.

All of His organs and bodily systems were revived. Though His heart hadn’t beaten for three days, it sprang to life again.

He was fully restored. Completely whole. Totally healthy.

But His scars remained.

We know because He showed them to His followers as proof that it was really Him, back from the dead. He even invited Thomas to touch His scarred hands and feel His marred side.

Jesus certainly didn’t need to bear scars. The power of God that raised Him from the dead could have easily removed the visible evidence of what had killed Him.

So there must be a reason He chose to keep His scars.

I don’t presume to know what that reason is.

But I can’t help but wonder.

Maybe He kept His scars so I would know it’s okay that I still have mine.

Currently Reading: Ruthless Trust, by Brennan Manning and Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

Currently Looking Forward to: Seeing John Mayer in concert (he’s more bucket list than even U2 was!)

Currently Wondering: Why my right armpit sweats so much more than my left one does…


Your turn.

I recently realized that I’m not very self-aware. Which, for someone who isn’t self-aware, is a pretty big realization to come to. I’m just sayin.

I don’t feel as though I have a good understanding of my own personality.

I don’t connect the dots about things going on in my life. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. I just don’t seem to be cognizant that A + B might’ve equaled the C I’m currently feeling.

When I hear friends describe themselves or explain how they usually respond in certain situations or say that what they ate yesterday is messing up their GI track today, I always think, “Wow. How did they figure that out?!”

It just hit me that my lack of self-awareness might play a big role in my inability to choose favorites. Or be decisive. Because, honestly, a lot of the time I legitimately don’t know what I like. When I shrug and say I don’t have a preference, it’s because I really don’t know what I’d prefer.

I feel like the chick on Runaway Bride who doesn’t know how she likes her eggs cooked.

Although I do know how I like my eggs. If breakfast burrito counts as an answer. Seriously, cheese and salsa make just about anything better. That much I know for sure.

But for most everything else, I sincerely don’t know what I like. Or how I typically process things. Or even if my tummy issues are triggered by a certain food. I simply don’t know.

Because I’m just not self-aware enough to understand me.

What is up with THAT?!

Done.

I grew up in churches filled with happy, plastic Christians.

They answer “How are you?” with “I’m blessed!”

They don’t admit to being sick even when they are, saying instead that they are “healed in Jesus’ Name!”

And though I can’t judge their hearts, it always seems more fake than faith.

It seems like denial.

And hypocrisy.

The implication is that if things aren’t going well with you, it’s because your faith just isn’t strong enough.

And that’s crap.

But things can get out of balance the other way as well.

Under the banner of authenticity, a lot of people are just plain negative.

They complain. A lot.

They’re always responding to “How are you?” with far too much information. They let it all hang out, even at times when they “shouldn’t”.

And they just chalk it up to being real.

So how do we balance faith and authenticity?

When is it time to be honest about where you’re at and when is it time to speak words of faith?

Talk amongst yourselves.

I am being open and honest, but about my then, not my now.

It’s easier to share my weaknesses after I’ve strengthened them. It’s safer to talk about my failures once I’ve bounced back from them.

But it’s not really authenticity if it’s after the fact.

Genuine authenticity is transparent and unguarded and vulnerable.

And while there is some level of that in sharing about past struggles, nothing is quite as authentic as sharing about current struggles.

No matter what else I do in this year of risking more, nothing will be as hard as the risks I take with my heart.

But they are risks I want to take.

I desire the intimacy and closeness that comes with true authenticity. I crave the matchless relational connection that’s borne out of putting my heart on the line.

Even though it leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable.

I’m learning that with those I trust, I can be naked and unashamed.

So I’m stripping down and working on being more authentic in the moment.

And hoping the “unashamed” part will follow.

And that is exactly why I’m passionate about leadership development!

[Shout out to Matt who serves with me at Thrive
for putting together this fandamntastic video!]

Leading up to that first worlds-colliding visit a year and a half ago, I told her I was “nervousexcited” to meet her. I was nervous mainly because I wasn’t sure she’d like “in-person” me. But I was so excited to finally spend time with my friend. And from our very first hug, the nervousness quickly faded away. I can’t help but smile just thinking back to that ridiculous weekend in Boston. Good times.

Mandy was also the first “other” to consistently comment on my blog.

She literally threw the blogosphere door wide open for me. I remember being so blown away that someone I didn’t know wanted to read what I was writing. It completely changed my purpose of blogging. What started out as a way to keep a small group of friends and family updated on my life in Africa, evolved into a divine provision of community and connectedness. I am so grateful.

I’m down in Southeast Georgia spending time with Mandy again. In between the laughter, long talks, and southern food, I keep thanking the Lord for my friend.

To be honest, I often forget how we met until someone asks how we know each other.

Because the truth is, we aren’t blog friends.

We’re simply friends.

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.]

But not mine.

Because I never actually prayed for one.

Oh I talked about wanting to get away to some exotic location. But I never prayed about it.

Not because I thought God wouldn’t care, but because I don’t pray for myself very specifically very often. But that’s a blog post for another day.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

My incredible trip was an answer to your prayers.

Yours.

You know who you are.

I’ve been so humbled by the number of people who’ve been genuinely and faithfully praying for me. For months now. Some of you I know intimately, and some I’ve never met before. And yet you pray for me. Consistently.

It makes me welly-eyed.

I know many of you have prayed specifically for peace, rest, strengthening friendships, and even an opportunity to get away.

And God used some wonderful people in Middle-of-Nowhere, Pennsylvania to answer those prayers.

I am so incredibly grateful. For your intercession and for their obedient and generous response to His nudging.

Thank you for talking to Him about me.

He’s listening.

And He’s answering.

And as I asked Him to meet me in that place of brokenness, the Prodigal Son came to mind.

The story seemed to unfold behind my closed eyes, and a tear trickled down my face as I saw the father run out to embrace his son. God reminded me that it was Him running out to meet me.

No matter how far I’ve wandered, no matter how broken and messed up I’ve become, no matter how grimy and soiled I am, He runs out to meet me.

I saw with fresh eyes as He wrapped His robe of righteousness around me. He put His ring on my finger to remind me of the seal of His Spirit in my heart. And He didn’t just call for the fattened calf. He sent His prize Lamb—the perfect Lamb of God—to be sacrificed for me.

I think we got it all wrong in calling this the Story of the Prodigal Son.

I think it’s actually the Story of the Prodigal Father.

Prodigal means recklessly extravagant, lavishly abundant.

And that is the perfect description of the love the Father embraces His broken children with.