more than money

Bona is 17. When I met him in Ethiopia last week, I was immediately caught up in his handsome face and soul-stirring smile. Hearing his story and heart only endeared him to me even more.

His mom passed away when he was in first grade, and his dad died last year. There was a visible sadness in his eyes as he talked about loneliness, his older brother living several hundred kilometers away.

The social worker bragged on Bona for a bit. He is first in his class. In fact, he's been first in his class throughout his entire school career. Bona smiled, and I know his heart must have swelled in that moment, hearing all of us say how proud we are of him.

He's been sponsored through Food for the Hungry for five years. With their help and the grace of God, he's pressed on with perseverance and hope in the face of countless difficulties.

Next year, Bona ages out of the sponsorship program. All kids do at age 18. Food for the Hungry will continue to help him with his educational costs and supplies as he goes on to university. He wants to be a doctor, and he has the grades and the drive to actually do it.

I asked Bona how he feels about his sponsorship coming to an end next year. He told me that he really appreciates the tangible benefits of his sponsorship, but wishes he felt more connected to his sponsors. He said he feels as though he's missed out on the relationship aspect of sponsorship. "I wish they would write to me more. And even send me pictures of themselves. I don't even know what they look like."

Man, that hit me like a ton of bricks. Up front, we think the biggest commitment is the $32 a month. But ultimately, writing the monthly check is the easy part. And that's not even what the child is most hoping for. They want to feel connected—like they belong.{Don't we all?}

They don't just want our money. They also want our love and affection. They care more about the letters, notes, and pictures we send because those make them feel loved, cared about, and valued.

I felt so challenged and inspired in that moment to write to my sponsored kids more frequently, and to send pictures of myself, my family, my city, and things I enjoy. That takes more time and effort than writing a check, but these kids are worth it.

If you have sponsored children—through any organization—make some time this week to strengthen your relationship with them. Write a letter. Print some photos. Have your kids draw some pictures. And put a reminder on your calendar to do it again next month. And the month after that.

Let's not just be generous with our finances. Let's be generous with our hearts and our time.

For that's the most life-changing sacrifice we can make.

Originally posted on Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

ask a storyteller

Wow! The questions that came in for my Ask a Storyteller post on Deeper Story were good and hard all at the same time. Why didn't I get easy ones like What would your superpower be? or What's your favorite Starbucks drink? Nope. I got none of that.

You guys asked some seriously tough stuff, which demanded challenging, heart-level answers from me.

So brace yourself.

My Ask a Storyteller post is l - o - n - g. Way longer than any of my posts here have ever been. Feel free to skim it for just the questions/answers that interest you. Unless you're bored enough to read the whole thing. ;)

And I'll keep answering questions in the comments there all day, so feel free to keep the conversation going if you want.

Read my answers here >

on trust

Trust has always been a challenge for me. After my husband had a long-term affair with my friend, and then decided to leave... well, let's just say my trust issues multiplied. Exponentially.

When sharing with a friend about how hard it is to bounce back from that, and to learn to trust again, she said, "Remember the people you can trust and focus on them."

Solid words.

BUT...

Five years ago, I thought I could trust my husband. And I did.

See, my problem with trust isn't when it's misused by people I know I can't trust to begin with. My problem is when those I believe I can trust, end up abusing it.

So I find myself living in this tension of the desire to dig deep, live all-in, and trust those closest to me, with the reality that all of us are fallible and anyone can fall. Myself included.

I'm not really sure where it leaves me, except in a place of wrestling with who and how I should trust. What does healthy trust look like? How do I keep putting my heart out there after it's been trampled by the untrustworthiness of those who should have been trustworthy?

As always, I have more questions than answers...

Have you dealt with this in your own life? How do you navigate trust after it's been broken?

Originally posted on A Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

healing in the heartache

I flew to Africa over the weekend... I'm here for 5 weeks. I am spending a month in Maun, Botswana—the place that stole my heart for Southern Africa when I was only 15—to help Love Botswana Outreach Mission develop communications policies and strategies. Then I'm heading down to Cape Town for a week to work with Bridge for Hope on some project development possibilities.

That's what I'm doing now.

I consult with non-profits, assisting with communications and development—translating my 13 years of leading a ministry in Africa into ways I can strategically help other growing non-profits.

It feels like a natural fit and like I'm in way over my head all at the same time. But I am beyond grateful for the chance I have to do this, and the opportunities I have to still be involved with what God is doing through ministries around the world. Such a tremendous gift.

Bittersweet at times, but still a priceless gift...

I forced myself to find words for what's going on in my heart being back in Africa again. About the unbelievable timing of this trip. About healing in the heartache.

And I'm sharing them over at Deeper Story today.

... ... ...

Fourteen years to the day since I first moved to South Africa, I arrived there again. On Saturday. My first time to return since I had to close our ministry and move back to the States.

Fourteen years.

To. The. Day.

The irony coincidence full-circle timing is unavoidable.

As if I didn't already have a kaleidoscope of emotions wrapped up in this first-trip-back, I go and do it on my Africaversary.

A big hot mess.

That's what I've been. For weeks now, leading up to the trip. On the entire (ungodly-long) flight over. And since my feet touched the ground.

The landscape of my life looks incomprehensibly different than it did 14 years ago. I'm no longer 19, chasing a dream, following a call... heart brimming with hope, expectation, and excitement.

Instead I'm exhausted inside and out... broken... still trying to locate and pick up the shattered fragments of my life... bearing what feels like a permanent scarlet letter... returning to a place that was home for so long, but doesn't feel like home any longer.

In fact—and I'm only realizing this now, as I'm typing it—it doesn't just feel like Africa is no longer home. It feels like she's betrayed me. Cheated on me. Hurt me.

But I know it wasn't her. I know I can't blame her for the heartache my ex-husband caused. And yet, there is heartache here nonetheless.

And there is nothing to do but face it and feel it, and trust the Healer to heal it.

To heal me. Through her.

Because while I don't feel drawn to live in Africa full-time again, I know I will be here often. And no matter what, at some point there needed to be a first-trip-back again, the hardest trip yet.

So these next 5 weeks in Southern Africa will be filled with old and new memories, heavy and light moments, grief and restoration. And then there won't ever be another first-trip-back.

The hardest will be behind me.

That's the joy that's set before me right now. Not sure if that's good, bad, or otherwise, but that's what's helping me keep breathing and keep going.

While she no longer feels like home, Africa still has my heart. She captured it when I was 15, and she will have it for always. Firsts, lasts, and everything in between...

So I'm trusting asking Him for the courage to do it afraid, to seek the healing in the heartache, to show me parts of myself I've lost, and to reveal parts of Himself I've never seen.

Originally posted on Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

On Getting Tested for HIV

I was the all-American good girl growing up. I turned my homework in on time, studied for tests, and got straight A's. I never drank or smoke or did drugs. I went on mission trips. I never dated. (I was, after all, part of the "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" generation.) And I saved myself for marriage...

I never even kissed a guy till I met my husband.

We fell in love as missionaries in his home country of South Africa. We got married and pioneered a ministry in the poorest region of the country.

It was the thing of fairy-tales...

So I never in a million years expected I'd ever have to get tested for HIV.

But I did.

Because my husband was unfaithful. And because we lived in the country with the highest AIDS-infection rate in the world.

He was with her for over a year-and-a-half before the truth came out. And when it did, he chose her. Over me. Over the ministry. He walked away from it all, in pursuit of a new fairy-tale all his own.

With my life crumbling all around me, I was forced to face things I'd never imagined.

Like an HIV test.

I couldn't hold back the tears as vial after vial of blood was taken.

My heart hurt far more than my arm did. I sobbed over the fact that I even needed to get tested. And I wished I had someone there with me. To hold my hand, literally and metaphorically.

My HIV test came back negative (for which I was—and am— overwhelmingly grateful), and I was given some heavy-duty antibiotics to kick any possibility of STDs. So all is well.

Physically.

But, even two years later, I'm still trying to process the reality that someone who professed for-life love put me in this vulnerable position.

And I wrestle with feeling that saving myself for him was a waste. (Even when I know it wasn't.)

I wish there was a pill that could cure my heart of distrust, fear, and insecurities. But there's no quick remedy for broken trust, a violated heart, and a deep-seated fear of rejection.

All I can do is trust the Healer...

Even when it still hurts.

Originally a guest post on Prodigal Magazine. Read the comments there >

5 Minutes with Discipulus

I'm being interviewed over on the Discipulus website today. My friend Moe asked me some killer questions. Like:

• Having served in Africa for thirteen years, what is the greatest lesson that you learned?

• You have gone through so much in life, and yet, you choose to love. What is the driving factor behind that love?

• Jesus asked His disciples, “Who do you say that I am”? Who do you say that He is in your life?

So to hear me unpack discipleship, soapbox about "avoiding the appearance of evil", and speak courage to fearful hearts (including my own), link over and read through the interview.

You are invited to ask questions in your comments there on the post, so if there's anything you wanna know about/from me... feel free to ask!

Hope to see you there...

bittersweet

When people hear I got divorced after 10 years of marriage, the question is inevitable. "Do you have kids?" I usually purse my lips together and shake my head while I answer. "No... No kids."

And then I hold my breath.

Because nine times out of ten, the response is the same. And I catch myself bracing for it.

"That's good."

I keep my lips pressed tightly together, and slowly nod obligatorily.

I understand what they're saying. With as much as my life fell apart when my husband decided to leave with another woman, I am grateful there weren't children's hearts also so deeply wounded. So yes. That part is good.

But what most people don't realize is there is such a bittersweetness there.

I don't not have kids because I didn't want them.

I longed to have children, and we were finally at a place of attaining certain goals that would allow me to step back from working full-time so we could start a family. And the irony is that he began pushing for a baby right when he started his affair. And since I knew something was going on—even when I didn't know how bad it really was—I knew adding a baby into the mix wouldn't "fix" anything. So I'm the one who made the decision to wait. Because I needed to be sure we were okay.

And we weren't.

And we never had kids.

So while I'm glad there weren't little people dragged through the devastation of my past few years, and I'm beyond thankful I don't need to figure out an international custody arrangement, there is also a huge sense of loss for what could have been... and for what will never be.

It's an added layer of grief. Of mourning. Of letting go. Of uncertainty about ever having the opportunity again.

So yes. "That's good." But it also sucks.

Just think twice before you make a quick remark to someone. We never know the whole story. We can never comprehend the full situation. Don't presume. Don't preach. Ask.

Ask questions. Hear what the other person is thinking... feeling... saying... not saying...

Don't jump to conclusions.

Just ask.

And love.

Originally posted at Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

on choosing your own adventure

Remember reading Choose Your Own Adventure storybooks when you were a kid? I loved those books. But I cheated.

I'd read ahead and skim the different options to see how they all panned out. And then pick the best one. I wanted the most ideal outcome to every situation — the best story possible.

In some ways, I've tried doing the same exact thing with my life.

When faced with choices, I wish I could peek ahead and see how all the options will turn out. (I'm not talking about moral issues, but things like where I live and what job I take.) I want to make sure I pick the one that is God's perfect will for me. I want to stay in line with exactly what He wants me to do.

But that way of thinking paints a picture of God having one ultimate plan for my life, which includes specific choices in even the smallest of decisions. And while that may sound holy, it leaves me feeling a bit like a puppet. As though if I get one thing wrong in my attempts to navigate His will, the rest of my life is basically a wash.

I'm not sure that's how it works. Maybe God doesn't hold my future in the balance based on where I choose to live. Or what career I step into.

In the midst of navigating the greatest transitions of my life, there is freedom in realizing God isn't controlling me. My prayers don't need to be, "Tell me what to do, God, and I'll do it." I can operate in the gifts, abilities, and common senses He's given me. Maybe He just wants me to discover and embrace who I am and what I would enjoy.

That doesn't mean my decisions are devoid of God. Quite the contrary. It requires an enormous sense of trust in Him as my Shepherd and guide. "Christ in me, the hope of glory..."

So maybe He really is letting me "choose my own adventure", guiding me with the desires, dreams, vision, and wisdom He's placed inside me. And maybe I don't need to strive so hard to peek ahead and confirm the outcome in advance, because no matter what, I remain in His hands.

I am still trying to nail down specific thoughts on all this... I'm in no way implying that we shouldn't pray or seek God's specific guidance. I'm not saying we can do whatever we want because His grace will carry us regardless of our willful choices to sin or disobey or go our own way.

I'm just saying I think there may be more lateral freedom in "God's will for my life" than I've ever before grasped.

What's your take on all this? I'd truly love to hear your thoughts.

Originally posted at Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

the beginning of the end

The past few years of my life have been filled with untold endings. The end of my marriage. The closing of my ministry. The loss of my home, job, community...

The endings can be so obvious that it's often easy for me to overlook the new beginnings. But they're there. When I take the time and make the choice to look for them — to dust for God's fingerprints — I see them. Plain as day.

The beginning of my heart re-awakening. The launch of a new journey. The start of a new home, job, community...

I am reminded once again that the new life of spring actually begins with the dying leaves of autumn.

And I'm brought back to The Beginning.

"There was evening, and there was morning—the first day."

While we usually picture our day starting with the sunrise, God created it to begin in the darkness of night. Though it seems like an ending, the night — with all its bleakness and uncertainty — is really just the beginning...

What endings are you experiencing right now where you need to dust for God's fingerprints of new life?

Originally posted at Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

worship on a high pain day

I don't talk about my health issues very often. Or with very many people. For lots of reasons.

Not the least of which is that I have more questions than answers, both in terms of actual diagnosis as well as my heart's processing of it all.

So this post feels like a tremendous risk for me.

It felt frighteningly risky when I began writing it a month ago. And it feels even more so today as it goes live online.

So I'm holding my breath. And doing it afraid.

Because maybe my questions will help someone else. Even if it's only to let them know they're not the only one asking...

... ... ...

I believe You're my Healer I believe You are all I need I believe You're my Portion I believe You're more than enough for me Jesus, You're all I need

That song gets me every single time...

I have a love/hate relationship with it because I always feel challenged to sing the words honestly. Even more so this Sunday morning, because...

It's a high pain day.

I battle chronic health issues, some days worse than others. Today is one of those days. And today, the aches have settled angrily in my hands and arms.

Since I woke up, I've been subconsciously massaging my hands. Rubbing my arms. Trying hard to find some small bit of relief however possible.

And then that song starts.

You walk with me through fire And heal all my disease I trust in You...

Oh my heart...

I'm left whispering that simple prayer that seems to be all I can muster at times like this: I believe, Lord. Help me in my unbelief.

So I lift my sore arms Heavenward and declare -- maybe mostly to myself -- "I believe You're my healer... I trust in You... Nothing is impossible for You..."

My heart wrestles through the tension of trusting that God heals, despite the fact that He may never heal me here on earth.

I've seen Him heal. I've watched it with my own eyes. I've seen Him do it through my own hands.

I've witnessed cataract-clouded eyes opening, lame men dancing, deaf ears hearing for the first time. I've experienced scores of miraculous healings. And yet, every day, I live with pain.

So my heart continues to wrestle through the tension of faith.

How do I reconcile what I believe to be true with what I actually experience everyday?

I don't know that I can.

Maybe all I can do is choose to keep wrestling. To worship Him anyway, with my pain-ridden hands held high. To acknowledge with honesty, "God, I don't get it... but I want to trust You. I need to trust You. Help me trust You."

Painfully praising.

Wincing in worship.

It isn't mine to understand. It is only mine to trust. Even in the pain. And the uncertainty. And the heartache.

I'm not called to understand the mind of God. I'm only called to pursue His heart.

And to trust that ultimately His heart is for my good and His glory, no matter what.

So even though I may not get it, I want Him to still get me.

All of me.

High pain days, wrestling heart, unanswered questions, and all...

Originally posted at Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

God is good

I was raised to believe that blessings and healing and victory belong to those who believe. Which is a wonderful thought. But the flipside of that belief is that failure, sickness, and lack are signs of not believing enough. So while I was taught to instinctively respond to "God is good" with "All the time", it was understood that God's goodness is only reflected in the goodness of our own lives.

It's not in the pain or the difficulty or the challenges. For those, clearly, are signs of a wayward heart... a faltering faith... an unexposed sin.

Basically anything but blessing, success, and victory boiled down to me not being enough.

Not praying enough. Not believing enough. Not claiming the victory enough. Not speaking words of faith enough.

It was drilled into me that difficult and painful circumstances were never God's will for me. And if I found myself in the midst of them, then obviously I needed to change/fix/do something to get back in right-standing with God, so that things would turn around.

I think back now and I wonder how I processed all the stories I read in the Bible.

You know, stories like Stephen being killed because of his faith. And Joseph's decades of wrongful imprisonment. There's also Paul's beatings, jail sentences, and never-abating thorn in the flesh. John the Baptist, Jesus' own cousin, had his head chopped off. And let's not even talk about Job...

I don't know what I did with those stories that clearly flew in the face of the you-will-always-walk-in-blessings-if-you-have-enough-faith breed of Christianity I embraced.

Because the truth of the matter is this: There are a good many things in life that I simply can't believe my way out of.

The rain falls on the just and the unjust. Bad things happen to God-fearing people. Life isn't fair. And life is harder than anyone ever tells you it's gonna be.

A faith that only acknowledges the goodness of God when things are going great, isn't faith at all. It's nothing but a sandcastle mirage...

Faith is believing that God is good even when my life is anything but.

Faith is believing that God is good even when my world is caving in.

Even when the sickness isn't healed... When the pain gets worse instead of better... When my husband leaves me... When I lose everything...

Faith is looking at my world that's spiraling out of control and choosing to believe that the God of the universe is still in control.

God is good. And God is sovereign. And faith is believing both those truths at the same time.

Life is hard. This we all know.

But, still... God is sovereign, and God is good.

All the time.

No matter what.

Originally posted atDeeper Story. Read the comments there >

grace runs

"Avoid the appearance of evil." We've all heard it said before.

And while it comes from the Bible, I think we may have warped its original intended meaning. More often than not, I've seen it used as a weapon of divisiveness and judgment and condemnation.

I grew up in a Christian home. I went to a Christian school. We went to church religiously. And the message was drilled into me from an early age: Avoid the appearance of evil.

I was taught to avoid places, activities, and people that might raise eyebrows.

If my presence or involvement could be misconstrued, I shouldn't be there. After all... what will people think? Or worse... what will people say?

It's why we shouldn't go to bars or clubs. It's the reason we shouldn't get tattoos. It's why we shouldn't hang out with the "rough crowd". Because all of those things might give an appearance of evil.

Someone might see it or hear about it, and jump to the wrong conclusion.

Because clearly it isn't very Christ-like to be caught in a potentially compromising situation. Right?

Oh.

Wait.

Jesus didn't avoid the appearance of evil. He ran straight into it.

Party at the thieving tax collector's house? He's there.

Intimate conversations with prostitutes? One of His favorite pastimes.

Hanging out with the scum of society? Nowhere else He'd rather be.

Enjoying some wine with His friends? Of course.

No, Jesus didn't avoid the appearance of evil. He sought it out. He pursued it. And as a result, He quite often appeared evil.

That's why the religious leaders of the day hated Him so much. Everything He did seemed to fly in the face of their long list of do's and don'ts.

They called Him a liar.

A drunk.

A glutton.

Blasphemous.

Demon-possessed.

They didn't understand His approach to life and ministry, because it was the complete opposite of theirs. He embraced what they shunned.

The scandalousness of grace is that it runs toward evil, not away from it.

Being like Christ is not about what I avoid. It's about what---and who---I embrace.

Because, after all, Christ embraced me.

And I am no different than the drunks, whores, adulterers, and all-around "rough crowd" I was taught to avoid. I am them. And they are me.

And Christ embraces us all.

Who am I to pick and choose?

Originally posted at Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

taking it deeper: the double-standard of my heart

Photo credit: taliesin from morguefile.com

For years I've prayed for my ex-husband’s heart to return to the Lord.

For him to feel the conviction of the Holy Spirit.

For the consequences of his decisions and actions to open his eyes to how deceived he’s become.

For him to hit rock bottom.

For God to do whatever it takes to get his attention.

But if I’m being most honest, I haven't been as concerned with his repentance as I am with wanting him to feel the weight of what he’s done.

The reality is that I sometimes still want him to hurt like I’ve hurt, more than I want him to live forgiven and free.

I’ve had to come face-to-face with the double-standard of my heart.

Because my struggle to genuinely pray not only for his repentance but also for his forgiveness really only means one thing—

I don’t realize just how much I’ve been forgiven.

I want to accept the work of the cross for my sins, but not for my husband’s.

As if my sins have been lesser.

Or even fewer.

When they are neither.

“…God’s kindness leads you toward repentance.”

I remember gasping out loud when I saw that verse as if with new eyes.

And I’ve wrestled with Him long and hard over the implications of it.

It has taken me a very long time to get to this point, but I’ve begun praying—still with tear-filled eyes—for God’s kindness to lead my ex-husband to repentance.

I’ve started asking God to smother him with His goodness and grace and mercy.

Some days it’s easier to pray that way than others.

Some days I can’t at all.

On those days, I just sit in the reality of what it truly means. And I pray for God’s kindness to lead me to repentance.

Originally posted at Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

this is my story

I moved to Africa with a couple of very-full suitcases, $200, and a heart-cocktail of faith, naivety, passion, and foolishness. I was only 19. I didn't know much, but I knew that I loved Africa and her beautiful people. I didn't set out on any grand mission or with any huge goals. I just wanted to meet needs where I could, and see what God would do with my meager fish-and-loaves life. I was hopeful that He could write a magnificent story for me and with me.

In the chasing of my dream, I found love. I got married, and together we pioneered a ministry that trained leaders and taught AIDS prevention in the poorest region of South Africa. God did astounding things. Constantly.

I watched Him open blind eyes, show up with eleventh hour provision, stop wildfires from destroying our mission base, and radically transform lives by His Spirit. After a decade of ministry, our team had grown to over 60 staff members, primarily African nationals. We trained over 100 pastors a year and taught 4000 public school students each week about living lives of purity and purpose.

God was writing a story I never could have imagined.

He truly multiplied our fish and loaves to nourish the masses. He created something out of our nothing. He made life out of our brokenness.

And then the story changed dramatically.

Everything crumbled to pieces when it came out that my husband had been unfaithful. For a year and a half. With a staff member, a friend of mine.

The pieces shattered even further when he announced he was done---with me and ministry. No matter how tightly I tried to cling to it all, I couldn't hold any of it together. Not my marriage or my ministry or even my life... Everything seemed to unravel out from under me.

I fought both my story and the Story-teller. This isn't how it was supposed to be!

It felt as though my story came to a screeching halt. But He kept writing...

After 13 years of ministry in Africa, I was forced to close down our operations in December. I permanently relocated back to the States, walking away from my home, my work, my community, my vision, my history.

I've been divorced for a few months now. It still feels strange to say, and even stranger to truly accept at a heart level. Losing someone by their choice evokes a grief deeper than death. There is loss and there is hurt. There is sadness and anger and mourning and relief and remorse. Sometimes all in the very same breath.

And underneath it all is the hole left in my everyday by the loss of someone I've lived one-third of my life with. It's the small things I miss the most. Our comfortable routines. Our stupid jokes that no one else would ever think is funny. The way he'd draw diagrams when he was explaining something to me. His laughter...

The missing is deep. It's a missing of what was. A missing of who was. A missing of what could've been. A missing of the story I was once living.

It's as though I lost not only my future, but also my past.

I can't find words to really capture what it means to feel as though I've lost my own history, but lately that is what I'm grieving the most. I don't have a single person left in my life who walked that African road with me from start to finish. No one who was with me for all the memories, all the provision and lack, all the joys and heartaches. No one to corroborate what happened, fill in the blanks where my memory forgets, simply remember with me.

There is a unique loneliness in that.

And even as I type these words with no clear end in mind, I hear Him whisper: I was there. Sigh... To be honest, it is so hard to feel content and satisfied in that. But I know it's true. He was there with me. In Him I still have history.

His. Story.

My history is more His story than mine anyway.

Whether  or not anyone else knows the details, or my fuzzy brain loses track of it all, or I ever get to speak them out loud again, they are still there. They are His. And they are mine. No matter what.

In Him I still have a future. It is going to look very different than the one I'd been on track towards just a few years ago. It will be nothing like I ever thought it would. But He is already there, going before me to prepare the way. And to prepare me.

My story is more than the sum of my experiences. It is more than what I have seen and done and endured. It is more than what has happened to me.

I, too, am more than the sum of my chapters. I am more than my past or my present or my future. I am more than my history, forgotten or remembered.

I am His.

No matter what.

And that is my story.

: : :

Published in the Praise & Coffee online magazine. Follow @praiseandcoffee on Twitter. Click below to see the entire magazine.

potsc

I am the harlot.

The prodigal.

The murderer.

The thief.

I am the one in need of scandalous grace.

Undeserved love.

New mercies every morning.

New mercies every moment.

I am People of the Second Chance.

:::

So honored to be sharing my voice and my heart on the People of the Second Chance blog. Would you join the conversation?

We are the hem of His robe...

even when i deserve stoning...

I keep thinking about the adulterous woman who was dragged before Jesus. Mainly because I can't help but see myself in her. The crowd was ready to stone her for her sin, for her failure. And then Jesus spoke. He looked the mob straight in the eye and actually challenged them to go through with it. Under one condition.

He called for the one without sin to throw the first stone.

I can only imagine the shift that instantly took place within the crowd. They knew they were just as sinful as the woman was. They were well aware of how stoning-worthy their own hearts were.

So one by one, the crowd slowly turned and walked away.

All of them.

Until Jesus was the only one left with the woman. Perfectly fitting with what He'd said... "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her." He alone was sinless. He alone had the right to judge.

Yet the One without sin cast no stones.

Instead He barraged her with grace.

Just like He still does with me.

It doesn't matter how many accusations are hurled at me. Or how many I throw at myself. It doesn't matter how far I've run, how deeply I've messed up, how ashamed I feel.

He casts no stones. No judgment. No condemnation. All He casts is love.

Every single time.

[Originally posted at Deeper Story...]

refine us

Some friends of mine, Justin and Trish Davis, have walked a road similar to mine. But ended up in a completely different place. After infidelity and separation, their marriage has been restored and God uses their story to minister to countless people every week. I believe strongly in them and their ministry, and felt really burdened to pray for them on Monday. Through that, I ended up writing something for them that they put up on their website today.

I'd love it if you'd link over to Refine Us to read my post and, ultimately, find out more about the incredible ministry and resources there.

Maybe this is for you...

beauty

photo © 2009 Kevin Gessner | more info (via: Wylio) I see beauty all around me. I find it in painted sunset skies and majestic mountains. I recognize it in the joy-filled eyes of the poor. I discover it in the authentic sharing of hearts.

I see beauty all around me. But I can't see it in the mirror.

My self-image---that picture inside my heart of how I view myself---has long been distorted from a lifetime of feeling not enough. No matter how hard I try, being good/smart/funny/pretty enough has always felt far beyond my reach.

Looking back over the past few years, I can see, as if in slow motion, how that belief was reinforced even more.

My husband's 18-month affair with my friend shouted that I wasn't desirable enough. When he left me after ten years of marriage, I heard that I'm worth leaving more than I'm worth fighting for. And when he told me on his way out that he didn't love me and probably never did, it reiterated that I'm not valuable enough to be loved.

The fragile remains of that picture in my heart loudly shattered into a million pieces.

I am not enough.

Slowly God has been restoring my heart and, with it, the picture I have of myself.

I know He wants me to see myself as beautiful, but the reality is, it remains a daily struggle for me.

Like Alabama in the aftermath of its tornado, all I see in my reflection is the broken, messy, ugly devastation of my life. And I can't help but question how there can be beauty in all this rubble.

God responds by lovingly and gently showing me.

As I hear from people who've found hope and strength from hearing my story, I get glimpses of the ways He's making life out of my brokenness.

But I know God doesn't only want me to see the beauty in how He's using me. He wants me to see the beauty that's in me.

If I'm being most honest, that part is probably going to take a while. Possibly a very long while.

I know a healthy self-image will come solely from staring long and hard into Jesus' face. I catch my true reflection only when I see myself in His eyes.

It's there I see that I am enough because He is enough.

It's there I see that I am desired, valued, and fought for.

It's there I see that He recklessly loves the beautiful mess that is me.

[Originally posted at Deeper Story.]

scarlet letters

I'm divorced.

::Deep Breath::

That's the first time I've actually said that word out loud.

Over the past two months, I've used varying versions of "my divorce was finalized", but I've avoided saying the actual word.

It's as though I feel a shameful sting in the word divorced. I hear unspoken judgments, like What's wrong with her that made her husband leave? and She's used goods and even simply a sigh of disappointment.

I hear them because my heart has also condemned others that way.

My good Christian upbringing left me judgmental. Pious. Spiritually stuck-up. I've unconsciously viewed divorce as the ultimate failure.

And now here I am, walking around with a red D on my chest for the world to see. And I feel not only the weight of others' judgment, but also the historical weight of my own.

Oh how arrogant I have been...

A friend recently spoke some healing and freeing words for my heart:

Divorce is no more a sign of relationship failure than marriage is of relationship success.

And even just typing those words out, my breath catches in my throat. Because I know it is true.

Even when it is hard for me to believe.

I hope someday I won't feel completely defined by my divorce. And that I can eventually say the word without hanging my head in shame, or feeling the need to justify it with an explanation, or wincing as I hear it megaphone my insufficiencies.

Because though it feels like divorced has been written on my heart in permanent ink, I need to remember... So has beloved. Chosen. Loved. His.

And those are my true scarlet letters.

[Originally posted at Deeper Story...]

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