x marks the spot

One of my favorite things about the Old Testament is the stories of people building an altar to commemorate a moment with God. Abraham did it when God promised to make him into a great nation.

Moses did it when the sun stood still so Israel could win the battle.

Joshua did it when the Israelites crossed the Jordan on dry land.

Gideon did it when God called him a "mighty warrior" even while he was cowering in fear.

They would make a pile of rocks and take time to acknowledge the moment.

It was their way of saying "God showed up, and I was here. And I don't ever want to forget it."

They would see it and remember. And others would see it and ask. And then they would get to tell.

It was their own personal "X marks the spot". I love that.

I think of all the altars I haven't taken time to build in my own life. I've forgotten countless moments where God's faithfulness ruled the day. Where His hand pulled me from the mire. Where His voice calmed and strengthened me. Where He healed me, delivered me, saved me.

God showed up. And I was there. But now I can't even remember....

When I was at re:create a couple months ago, God met me in a way that I knew I didn't want to forget. And so this post serves as my altar. X marks the spot.

Because this...? This I want to remember.

During a time of breathtaking worship, an Anglican priest led us in the Holy Eucharist. And though I'm not typically one for liturgy, the beauty and wonder of those sacred ancient words and traditions were absolutely overwhelming to me. It was so holy and so intimate.

At one point, the priest asked us to say aloud the names of those we want to pray for. And while there are many loved ones dear to my heart who are consistently in my prayers, in that split second all that came to mind was... Niel.

Niel. My still-at-the-time husband. The one who had cheated on me. Left me. Divorced me... His was the only name I could think of.

No, God. No. I can't say his name out loud. Not now.

I wrestled. I cried. And then finally, as the beautiful music continued to wash over me, I surrendered.

And as I whispered his name, the tears flowed harder than they had in a while. Words bubbled up out of me, sincere prayers for the man I'd loved... I wept as I prayed God's grace over his life.

I've forgiven, and I continue to forgive, but in that moment it was as though I felt forgiveness a little more than I ever have. I felt sorrow over my own failings and the ways I've hurt him over the years. And I felt deep grief for where his heart has gone.

I don't know what it all means. I don't know that it means anything. But I don't want to forget it.

So I'm bringing the stones.

I'm building an altar.

And I'm saying "X marks the spot."

Because God showed up.

And I was there.

And this one...? This one I'm going to remember.

Would you build an altar? Here in this sacred shared space? I would love to hear a God-moment you don't ever want to forget it.

velveteen heart

I remember so vividly our Sunday morning routine when I was a child. There was screaming and fighting and swatting and tears.

Always tears.

Like an unseen bully, the volatile tension would follow us into the car, its presence thick and heavy and loud.

I'd hold my breath, and silently beg for a ceasefire. The words "please stop" would turn over and over in my mind. All the way to church.

And as we pulled into the parking lot, there came the inevitable instruction: "You better put a smile on your face before we get inside."

I'd do my best to dry my tears. Wipe my snot. Calm my blotchy skin. With my plastic smile crookedly in place, we'd walk into church. Together. A happy family.

And so I learned to live a double life.

I don't have much of a poker face -- my eyes always give me away -- so I tried my best to be invisible. In the church foyer, I'd scurry away from my family as soon as I could. I'd walk close to the wall, stick to the outskirts of the crowd, avoid eye contact. And when I inevitably still heard my mom's voice from across the room -- "Oh, praise the Lord!" -- I'd recoil inside. I'd roll my eyes, let out a groan, and inwardly seethe with resentment.

I wanted to scream; I wanted to run and hide. I hated feeling like a genuine fake. But somehow I knew that exposed truth would hurt more than hidden truth. Besides, who could I possibly tell? And how would I ever find words that could explain?

So I became good at remaining unseen. Master of the phrase "I'm fine". Proficient at simply being quiet. Skills I still excel at, even though I am desperate for different...

And so I live in the tension of my love/hate relationship with authenticity.

I despise artificiality, yet I find it strangely comfortable. I crave transparency, yet I cower away from it. I so deeply long for authenticity, but I am scared to death of being laid bare.

So I learned to be authentic in past tense. To speak of what I've overcome, how much I've changed, what I used to struggle with. But past tense authenticity isn't really authenticity at all, is it? The present tense, bare-boned kind is vulnerable and exposing. Naked, with nowhere to hide. Just me, broken and battered.

Deep down, I want to be Velveteen-Rabbit real: threadbare and worn, and loved even more for it.

But I despise my own frayed edges, torn limbs, matted fur, missing whiskers. Afraid that if anyone really saw me for who I am, there's no way they would love me... There's no way they could love me...

Sigh...

In an attempt at present-tense authenticity, I don't have a red bow to wrap this all together with. I don't have a grace-lined ending or some nugget of Scripture that ties this all neatly together. Just an honest confession of my constant struggle to be really real.

And I keep thinking about that stuffed bunny who became real because he was deeply loved. And how I want the opposite to be true of me.

I want to be deeply loved because I am real.

Maybe not so much despite my flaws and failures and shortcomings... but because of them.

[Originally posted at Deeper Story...]

*photo credit

four-minute friday: 1000

Go. I realized today that this is my... drum roll please... 1,000th post!

I can't believe I've been at it for this long. 5 years of blogging. 1000 posts. And someone (many someones, really) actually shows up to read it. I will never cease to be amazed.

That, to me, is the significance of the number. Not 1000 posts of my words, but 1000 posts of yours. Because what makes The Grit what it is, isn't what I have to say. It's what goes on in the comments.

Encouragement. Prayer. Friendship. Family. Love. Laughter.

I am so grateful that you are here. That you come, however often that may be, and cozy up on our big ol' Glorious couch. You listen to my threadbare heart (and even my ridiculous confessions), and you share your heart in return. Joys. Griefs. Struggles. Victories. All poured out over hot frothy beverages and fleece blankets. (Or you know, through laptop screens and keyboards. Whatever.)

You have made this sacred space feel like home.

Comfortable. Warm. Welcoming. Safe.

And I can only hope you've found as much solace, healing, and strength here as I have.

Happy 1000, friends!

Done.

brOKen

I'm whole even though I'm broken. It seems like a contradiction, but so does most of what Christ calls us to. The last will be first. The servant is the greatest. Give and you'll have enough.

The paradox of faith doesn't make sense in my logical head. I guess that's what makes it faith.

I'm flawed. Imperfect. Shattered.

I'm wounded and marred.

But I am still whole.

Because He made me whole.

Complete. Adequate. Sufficient.

I am enough because I AM is enough.

Long ago, a friend reminded me that I may be broken, but I am ok.

brOKen.

When I let Him fill up my cracked places and shine through my impurities, I am brokenly whole. Wholly broken.

There is beauty in my ashes. Life in my death. Light in my darkness. There is triumph in my tragedies. Strength in my vulnerability.

No matter what labels others stick on me -- or even that I stick on myself -- His banner over me is love.

I am loved.

I am His.

All my broken bits and shattered pieces.

Whole and complete, in Him. Not in the fulfillment of my dreams or in the relationships I cherish. Not in the work of my hands or my strivings for perfection.

Whole and complete, in Him.

I'm forcing myself to "lift my eyes". To look Him full in the face. To let my brokenness dissolve in the restoration and redemption that can only come from His hand.

I want to let Him love me to shalom.

Where I can be broken and more-than-ok all at the same time.

brOKen.

the forsaken God

For months now, I can't seem to shake this thought: Only a forsaken God could understand my forsaken heart.

I have felt the suffocating feeling of abandonment. I've been discarded. Forgotten. Invisible.

I have known the despair of a shattered heart, the pieces too small to ever put back together. I've failed even at simply picking them all up.

I have been wounded, sometimes even deliberately, by those who claim to love me. And worse, to love Him. Almost nothing hurts more.

I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death. And I've teetered very close to the edge, in that darkest of places.

But, if I allow my heart to wander there, I know... So has He.

I think about Jesus in the garden, wanting desperately to find another way. I think of His heart, shattered by the abandonment of those He loves deeply. I think about Him on the cross, broken and in agony. And I think...

He gets it.

"My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?"

In that moment, Jesus---God with skin on---felt forsaken by God.

God abandoned Himself. And while there's no way on earth I'll ever comprehend that, I can't help but turn that thought over and over in my heart.

Only a God who's experienced the wretched pain of forsakenness could reach through the darkness of my pit and pull me out.

Only a forsaken God could understand my forsaken heart.

And if by His wounds I am healed, then maybe by His forsakenness I am found.

Desired.

Treasured.

Adopted.

Loved. Forever.

It's because He was forsaken, it's because of His suffering, that the brokenness of my heart finds solace in Him.

As Alfred North Whitehead said,

"God is the fellow-sufferer who understands.”