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...]

through

Last week I prayed "out loud" on my blog. I was nervous about it, and I deliberated long and hard before I hit publish. There was a lot about it that felt scary and risky to me. There's a lot about it that still feels that way. But, right or wrong, I hit publish... And there it was.

And then the comments started streaming in.

Words poured freely out of fellow velveteen hearts.

Honest, raw, heartwrenching words.

Of pain.

Of praise.

Of questions and answers.

Of deep soul aches.

Of longing.

Of love.

It has been so moving and humbling to read the words that spilled out in the hallowed ground of a simple blog post.

It's left me wishing I could say or do something that would make everything better.

But I know I can't. And I know it wasn't the point to begin with.

You didn't put voice to your long-unspoken prayers so that you'd receive platitudes and advice in return. So I don't want to offer either.

Just know that my heart is resounding an "Amen" to the prayers streaming from yours.

And as I was thinking about you and me today, the word "through" kept turning over and over in mind. And I thought of Psalm 23:

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..."

I was struck with the thought that "through" is the most important word in that verse.

Through.

He is leading us.

All. The. Way. Through.

Amen.

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

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.”

healing in the storm

Africa has the greatest storms. The rainy season finally comes after months of drought. By the time the first drop falls, the earth is cracked and parched. Lakes and ponds have all but dried up. The tall savannah grass is brown and brittle.

The earth is thirsty. Ready. Waiting.

And then, out of nowhere one day, the storm clouds roll in.

The blackened sky sobs heavy tears. You can feel the thunder deep in your bones as it echoes through the plains. The lightning makes you jump with fear and paralyzes you with awe all in the same loud, bright instant. The wind reminds you that only God could tie the trees down tightly enough.

Africa's storms are altogether wonderful.

And altogether terrible.

Water rushes into homes, through the cracks in mud hut walls and the gaps in old thatch roofs and the seams in tin shack ceilings. Gusts of wind blow right through bedrooms and marble-sized hail destroys gardens. Those with only their feet for transportation run for any cover they can find---the bus stop, the liquor store, the first home they can reach in the village.

The storms are harsh. And unrelenting. And inconvenient.

And yet, they are welcomed.

There is a joy about the rainy season. "We need it," is what you'll hear.

"We need it."

They find it easy to say. Easy to see. Easy to recognize and acknowledge that as challenging as the storm may be, good will come of it. It is, after all, an answer to countless prayers for the sun-scorched ground of Africa.

They know that the thirst can't be quenched without the storm.

Spring can't come without the rain.

New life can't bud deep beneath the surface of the dry, crusty ground until the heavens unleash their fury.

The drought doesn't end until the storms start.

We need it.

I need it.

I need this storm in my life. Not as punishment or discipline or as some cruel cosmic joke that has God chuckling to Himself. I need it because of what's waiting on the other side, that I can't see yet.

I need it because my cracked, dry heart doesn't remember anymore what it feels like to be filled to overflowing.

I need it because everything in my life has turned the bare, barren brown of winter. And I'm despearte for the life-awakening green of spring.

I need it.

Even when I hate it.

Africa reminds me to take joy in the downpour.

For there is healing in this storm...

Originally a guest post at Mary DeMuth's...

don't miss Him

I love the story of Esther. From start to finish, it's one of the most compelling books of the Bible. But sit down and actually read it all from the first verse to the last one, and you'll notice something intriguing.

If you notice it at all.

The word "God" isn't found in the entire book of Esther. Not even once.

Don't believe me? Read all ten chapters and see for yourself.

"God" isn't in there.

And yet, He is unmistakably all over it.

A timely reminder for me to read between the lines of my own life for Him.

Because He is clearly all over it.

Even when I don't see Him.

i kissed dating goodbye

I didn't date until I was 20, and my first and only boyfriend became my husband a couple years later. He is the only guy I've ever kissed; he's the only one I've ever slept with. And somewhere along the line, without even realizing it, I assumed that had earned me some brownie points with God.

After all, I'd "kissed dating goodbye". I'd saved myself for my husband. Subconsciously, I thought that guaranteed an incredible, lasting marriage.

But then he cheated on me.

And ultimately chose her over me.

In some ways, it feels like I'd saved myself for nothing... Like none of it mattered.

I know, at least on some levels, that that isn't true. I know that even my "all things" are intended for my good, even when it's impossible to see. I know that He is redeeming, restoring, rebuilding me, for His ultimate purpose.

I also know that redemption doesn't usually look like we think it will.

And that there are no brownie points to be had. There are no guarantees, no obligatory blessings, no automatic protections or provisions.

Life is just plain hard. Even though God is good.

Even though God is good.

And even when I "kissed dating goodbye".

I hope to someday see the bigger picture. The full circle. The "none of it mattered" transformed into "every bit of it mattered".

But even if I don't, even if I won't, I'm still called to trust Him. To live on the truth of what He says and who He is.

Because then and only then...

All of it mattered.

Originally a guest post at Love Wins

trusting God

I woke up with this phrase running through my mind--- "Trust in God, and trust also in Me."

Jesus said that. Right after He said "Don't let your hearts be troubled." Which means I'm allowing my heart to be troubled when I choose not to trust in Him.

I need to hear that again.

I'm allowing my heart to be troubled when I choose not to trust Him.

I'm gonna stop right there, because that one sentence gives me plenty to think about and try to put into action today.

Sheesh... if only trust were easy.

And if only I hadn't chose to risk more this year...

eternity in our hearts

"He has planted eternity in the human heart."

Such a beautiful, divine thought...

Eternity is planted deeply in the soil of my heart. Placed there by God Himself.

If eternity is within me, then the past and the future exist in each moment just as much as the present does.

Trying to wrap my brain around that makes my head hurt. Such an unfathomable concept.

But the idea that eternity courses through me with every beat of my heart, seems to make some sense of my too-often struggle with being fully present in the moment.

I'm not very good at living in the now.

I am more likely to dwell on the past or restlessly wander ahead into the future. Both hold fears and hopes, of entirely different kinds. And both can either rob me of my present or enhance it.

God is timeless---existing simultaneously before now, after now, and right now---and He's planted the seed of His timelessness inside me.

As a gift, not to be fought against, but to be embraced.

There is a reason He wants me to live in the tension that past, present, and future create as they collide in every single moment. There is a purpose in the struggle.

Maybe embracing the now doesn't mean switching off the ever backward- and forward-wandering of my heart.

Maybe, instead, it means choosing to engage my present in light of the regrets and joys of my past, and the hopeful, sometimes fearful, yearnings of my future.

I need to remember that the One who was and is and is to come, lives within me, stabilizing me in the uncertainty of what was and is and is to come.

When I do, I live more mindful that God is in control. I live with more active trust in Him.

The constancy of Christ at work inside me---He who is the same yesterday, today, and forever---provides an anchor for my unpredictably inconsistent heart.

And that anchor holds fast.

No matter how turbulent the storm may be.

[Originally a guest post at Mel's World...]

forgiven

By far, the hardest person for me to forgive is myself. The personal standard I hold no one but myself to is unreachably high. So I fail often. Beyond that, I sin often.

And while I seem to be able to forgive others relatively quickly and easily, it's not as easy to extend that same grace to myself.

I've somehow convinced myself that I can't be let off the hook that easily. I have to feel the weight of my mess-up. It has to be held against me for at least a little while, as some sort of penance.

So when God says I'm forgiven and He won't count my sins against me, it's as though my heart responds, "That's not enough! I must feel the weight of what I did."

I know there are natural consequences for sin; I know that in some ways, feeling the weight of it is unavoidable. But deeper than that, part of me feels like someone must hold it against me.

Even if that someone is me.

So I punish myself because God doesn't.

As if I could possibly atone for my sinful brokenness better than He did. Ugh.

The truth is that God is faithful to forgive when I come to Him. And because He forgives me, I can forgive myself.

When I don't, I'm slapping Christ in the face and telling Him the cross wasn't enough.

Ouch.

Who am I to hold against myself what Christ has already fully pardoned?

It's time to start living forgiven.

let Me love you

When my husband's affair was exposed, my entire life turned upside down. Everything changed. Overnight.

And though I didn't think it was possible, everything crumbled into even smaller pieces when he filed for divorce.

In one big swoop, I lost my marriage... my ministry... my home.

After a decade of living in Africa, I've now been back in the States for a year-and-a-half. Almost nothing in my life is the same as it was two years ago.

Nothing.

My world fell out from under me. And it was surprising to see the people God used to catch me.

It wasn't who I expected. In fact, some were people I never would've expected.

But that's just the way God works, isn't it?

Often, those we think "should" be there for us, aren't. And those we'd never expect to be, are. It's painful in some ways and joyous in others, but ultimately it reminds me to keep my eyes on God rather than on man.

And while it never plays out the way we'd script it, God uses people to bring redemption and restoration to our lives.

The greatest hurts always come from relationships. But so do the greatest healings.

In the past couple years, I have felt the deepest pain of my entire life. But I've also felt more loved than I ever have before.

It's as though the raw hurt was matched, depth for depth, with immense love.

Deep calls out to deep.

And I wouldn't know how to love and be loved so intensely if it weren't for the pain I've endured in my life.

In the midst of such indescribable personal grief, God built an amazing support system around me. In unfathomable ways.

He gave me friends who've loved me hard even when I had nothing to give back to them. Friends who've prayed faithfully and sincerely for me. Friends who've held me as I cried, talked me down off the proverbial edge when hopelessness set in, and pushed/carried/dragged me when it felt impossible to take a single step.

In a lot of ways, being on the receiving end of so much care and support has been really hard for me. But over and over again I've heard God's unmistakable voice:

"Let Me love you through My people."

In allowing myself to receive others' love, I've discovered new depths of the love of God. I've experienced more of His character. I've learned to love more deeply in return.

I am grateful for the community God's given me. I'm thankful for the amazing people I get to call "friends" and the ways God uses them to bring healing to my heart.

He continues to show me aspects of who He is that can only be expressed through His people.

In spite of great loss, my life feels incredibly rich.

And it makes the pain worthwhile.

So I lift my eyes and whisper... "Thank You."

[Originally posted on (in)courage...]

pondering

"Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." I do the same.

With both my greatest joys and my deepest heartaches. "All these things..."

Some feelings and experiences are simply far too wonderful, much too precious, for me to even begin trying to explain them to others. And so... I ponder them in my heart.

Some situations and raw emotions are too big, too extreme, too altogether horrible, to ever try to put words on them. And so... I ponder them in my heart.

Some moments, both magnificent and wretched, simply won't fit inside the alphabet. They can't squeeze into words. They can't be packaged and given to others. They are only to be experienced. And felt. And pondered.

The past few weeks have been filled with some of my most wonderful and most painful moments. I live in the tension of the two extremes that war at each other within that pondering place of my heart.

Cooped up. Fighting for elbow-room. Unable to both fit within the confines of my insides.

And unable to be shouldered by anyone else.

Only me.

I'm not talking about dwelling on things in the worrying sense, although I do plenty of that. But there is a realistic need to just sit in things sometimes. There's the unavoidable truth of not being able to escape the crap of your own life, no matter where you go or who you're with.

It is what it is what it is.

And sometimes it's fighting to get out---to be acknowledged, to be shared---but will never find phrases big enough to offer it a means of escape.

Some things are simply meant to be pondered and held onto.

And my heart feels every ounce of their weight.

green flossers and good intentions

The ziplock bag filled with green flossers caught my eye this morning, and reminded me that good intentions aren’t enough. Two weeks ago when I packed for this trip, I deliberately counted out enough flossers for every day I’d be gone. Even though I don’t normally floss everyday.

Oh, I wish I did. But the reality is... I don’t.

Yet I put 19 flossers in a ziplock and tossed them in my toiletry bag. Somehow simply bringing them made me feel better about my oral hygiene habits.

As if the desire alone is enough to get the job done.

But as I repacked my toiletry bag today, I couldn’t escape the truth that I didn’t floss any more than I normally do. And that I was bringing 16 flossers back home with me.

All my good intentions got me was a false sense of accomplishment at the start and a guilty conscience at the end.

Though I started off feeling quite proud of myself, the end result is a sense of failure. Over something silly like flossing.

But that's because this is actually about something far bigger than dental care.

It’s really about self-discipline. And follow-through. And genuinely doing something about those things I want to do something about.

Because good intentions alone won’t get me very far.

So excuse me... I need to go floss...

what is good

I am still on my blogging break. (Hope you're not getting sick of these "talk amongst yourselves" posts...)

But I wanted to let you know that I'm sharing the most painful part of my story over on my friend Jenni's blog today. She's in the middle of a series on God's redemption even in adultery. You need to read every single one of those posts! The raw honesty of the hearts being shared there is so incredibly beautiful.

And today is my day to share.

As the only contributor without an obvious "happy ending", I'm hoping God uses it to uniquely speak into the hearts of others who find themselves in a similar situation. And that the right people stumble upon the post if it's something their hearts need to hear. Pray with me for that?

Trusting today that God can redeem even this.

::

Now... Back to our regularly-scheduled program...

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Which of those three statements resonates most deeply with you?

things that matter

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What do you need to speak up about?

take care

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Now what?

dangerous prayers

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What's the most dangerous prayer you're too afraid to pray?

all that is necessary

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What do you need to do?