There will be no Easter baskets or chocolate bunnies this year. There will be no eggs or new dresses.
These things are not wrong. We’ve done them many years in the past and I am sure we will do them again. But not this year.
This year, I just can’t. I can’t focus on nougat filled candy and frilly clothes. All I seem to be able to focus on is the cross.
This isn’t because I am good our holy. In fact, it’s the exact opposite.
I am not good. I am not holy. I do not measure up. I am not enough.
And that is the beauty of the scandalous cross.
I am a sinner and therefore separated from a holy God.
But because He loves me, He bore His own wrath through His own body.
He defeated death. He defeated my death. He defeated yours.
We are not righteous. But He has credited our faith as righteousness (Genesis 15:6).
The enemy is doomed, though he rages.
He knows his time is short. His defeat is past, present, and future.
He can no longer accuse us before God.
Imagine, Satan trying to accuse God that He Himself is sinful!
It is no longer I who lives but it is Christ who lives in me.
And Christ is righteous. I am not. He is. But because He is, I am.
And the life I live in the flesh I live by faith.
And He has credited my faith as righteousness.
Satan has been cast out of heaven. He has no standing before God whatsoever. He cannot bring accusations against the brothers anymore, “for the accuser of our brothers, who accuses them before our God day and night, has been hurled down” (Revelation 12:10b). Satan, though doubtless he has been operating on the earth since the beginning of the creation, is now restricted to the earth and has lost his access to God that had enabled him to accuse us before God so directly. —Scandalous, D.A. Carson
And so today, on Easter Sunday, I celebrate. I can no longer be [eternally] caught in Satan’s web of deceit and accusation.
And if Christ has not been raised, then our preaching [the gospel] is in vain and your faith is in vain. — 1 Corinthians 15:14
I celebrate the cross. I celebrate the crown of thorns. I celebrate the pierced hands. I celebrate the blood that was shed so that God might pass over and forgo the the loss of life.
I’ve already told you of my love for spring and how it shows me, again and again, that death can’t hold us down. Spring will always, always come—though not always in the way or timeframe we wish.
As we approach Good Friday and Easter, I want my heart to be even more mindful of the magnitude of the acts we celebrate. It’s just not that we believe in what Christ has done—it’s that we believe it is sufficient. It’s all we need. It is all-satisfying.
Jason and I attended The Gospel Coalition 2017 in Indianapolis last week. I don’t even have words for all I experienced. It was transformational.
One thing that has ministered to me this past week is a song we sang a number of times during the three days we were there. Beautiful, artfully written, and oh-so-appropriate as we approach the most scandalous and glorious days in history.
As the flowers and trees unfurl, as the spectacular beauty of God’s redemptive plan for His people unfurls, may we allow God’s word to unfurl our hearts, making them open to the breath of God which will blow to every tongue, tribe, people, and nation.
May our hearts still burn with fire as his Word speaks to us today
Faded hope and grim despair on the day of the murdered king Foolish minds and unbelief could not grasp what the prophets sing: Did not Jesus have to suffer, enter glory through agony? When the King unpacked his Word: Their hearts leapt and their eyes could see. Everything the Scriptures say in the Prophets, the Law, the Psalms, The Messiah had to suffer, had to rise on the first Lord’s Day; We proclaim to every land true forgiveness in Jesus’ name. We were deaf but now we hear
Scripture’s voice both in type and word. Unbelief that had us chained has become in our eyes absurd. Did our hearts not burn within us as he spoke with us on the way And our hearts still burn with fire as his Word speaks to us today. Did our hearts not burn within us as he spoke with us on the way And our hearts still burn with fire as his Word speaks to us today.
[If you just want to look at the pictures and would prefer an abbreviated version of this story, here it is: I drove longer than I needed to, I saw a pretty sunset, there was a full moon, I was glad. The end.
Or, you can read the six-word story version: Beautiful sunset. Full moon. Happy heart.
And finally, if you have the time, you might enjoy the more Janet-like version in 1850 words or less. Okay, not less. 1850 words exactly. About a sunset. That version is below ;)]
I don’t like to drive. I especially don’t like to drive at night.
The first fact is less not liking the act of driving and more the not liking of the time it takes.
The second fact is simply because I’m getting old.
Nighttime driving is difficult for me—my eyes and brain don’t work quite right and the bright lights affect my response time and I can easily become disoriented. It’s a split second, but when you are operating a motor vehicle, a split second can make the difference between life and death.
So, I don’t drive much at night. But sometimes, it’s a necessity.
Last month, Alaina (our new 14 year old!) and Caleb, had a “teen night” to attend. Our homeschool community has one of these almost every month, with the hosting homes rotating according to a schedule whichever kids can convince their parents first. I adore our children’s friends and I adore their parents. All of them. I couldn’t have asked for a better group of people to do life with. I do have one issue with them, though—everyone lives far away from each other. The whole “let’s just buy a big piece of land and live in a commune” idea hasn’t taken off yet. Until it does, doing life together means a lot of driving. On this particular night, the home was almost an hour away. And, as my mother would say, to add insult to injury, I was responsible for Alaina and Caleb’s ride home at 11:00pm—far past my bedtime.
And the drive was worse than expected. It was still light out, but that did not work in my favor. I now know why I remember hearing someone say, “If all else is equal and you are trying to decide between two houses to buy, purchase the one east of where you work. That way, you won’t drive into the sun in the morning or into the sun on your way home.” Wiser words rarely spoken.
Driving into a setting sun is no joke. Brightness doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s more like blindness. But we survived and the kids arrived to a home swelling with friends and fun.
My plan for the evening was to find a coffee shop nearby and enjoy some quiet alone time. I didn’t want to have to drive an hour home and then repeat the two hour round trip later in the evening. I could have stayed at the house where the party was being held (lots of parents do,) but I was really looking forward to some time alone to read and reflect and plan for an upcoming women’s retreat.
After dropping off the kids, I drove away, not really sure where I was headed. I wasn’t familiar with the city I was in, but I figured a coffee shop couldn’t be too far away. I drove back in the direction I came and then found myself wanting to just be home. I was surprised at the intense desire. Here I was, free for the next five hours, with no place to go but the quiet of my own introspective thoughts. And yet, my heart longed for home. I wanted to be with my little people and give them goodnight kisses and snuggle in for a bedtime story.
I fought with myself. It was ridiculous to drive all the way home only to have to turn around and drive back. Make that a double dose of ridiculousness when you account for the fact I hate to drive at night. I kept telling myself to stop and have a slow cup of coffee and read with no chance of interruption. And yet, the more I told myself to stop the more I kept on driving. And drive I did—all the way home.
As I was scolding myself for the insanity of intentionally adding two hours of driving time to my evening, I glanced in my side mirror and saw beautiful orange light. A look in my rearview mirror showed the same. The sunset was exquisite. I so desperately wanted to find a place to stop so I could enjoy the beautiful display of God’s goodness and His sovereignty. The world is a powerful place with powerful leaders, but no one but God can make the sun set. Or the moon rise.
The highway I was on didn’t offer a good place to stop and the rush hour traffic kept me moving. But every chance I got, I looked in my mirrors, trying to soak in the splendor of the scene behind me.
I kept driving, breathing deep as I was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. You see, I have a thing for sunsets. Indonesia, my home for five years, puts on the most incredible nightly show as the equatorial sun makes its decent over the water and the lush green of the rice paddies. I was so obsessed with seeing the sun set every night that my little ones called it, “Mommy’s sunset,” as if God showed off just for me. I think they may be right.
As I passed the halfway point of my trip back to my littles, the sun’s fire behind me, the moon began its ascent. And then I remembered: it was the day of the triple treat: a comet, a lunar eclipse, and the full “snow moon.” Add in the delight I have had the last few months as Venus and Mars have been so bright and clear in the early evening sky and oh my goodness…I couldn’t drive fast enough. I ached to be out of my car, looking into the sky, camera in hand (knowing full well I would set my camera down in resignation that sometimes the beauty of God’s creation can only be viewed in all its wonder by His perfectly designed lens of our eyes.)
The scene in my mirrors and out my windows only intensified. I was so excited I could barely sit still. I know most people don’t have a visceral reaction to nature and all its wild beauty, but I do. And I just wanted to take it all in.
Fire descending, white light ascending.
Stress and worry and fear for the future falling, beauty and hope and trust in God’s promises rising.
Finally. I was on the road to our house, the tune of the sweet (though slightly annoying) song my kids always sing when we turn onto our road playing in my head without permission: “We’re almost on Crawford Rd!” the song repeats.
I pulled out my phone, desperate to catch the last glimpses of the sunset. I couldn’t see what I taking pictures of, but I hoped I could capture even a fraction of the beauty making my heart beat faster.
Driving faster than usual on our long gravel driveway, I slammed on the brakes and ran into the house. Jason and the kids stunned, and I heard faint inquisitive words as I rushed past them to grab my camera. “I just wanted to be home,” I yelled as I breathlessly ran back up the driveway.
And there it was: a fiery descent in one direction and a glorious rising in the other. I clicked away, determined that if I could position myself just right, the magnificence of this moment could be mine forever.
After dozens of shutter clicks (oh who am I kidding, after hundreds of shutter clicks), I caught my breath as I walked inside. The moon was covered by thick haze so I decided to wait for it to clear and once again told myself that a better telephoto lens needed to move up on my wish list. Walking in, my husband’s face was clearly showing that he couldn’t fathom why I would be home. He knows how much I hate to drive and due to his work schedule, he wasn’t able to make the return trip. I restated my reason: “I just wanted to be home.”
I glanced around the room. On the fridge was a piece of paper, written in my ten-year-olds handwriting, the program for the evening clearly stated, including cards, popcorn, and a movie. Noticing half our table was missing (I was running for my camera to quickly to see the situation earlier,) I turned around and looked in the living room. There, with the other half of our table (we use two rectangular tables to make one large square), were my four younger kids, sitting and playing card games, just as the evening schedule said they would. I stared. Levi, my ever-sweet and miniature version of his Daddy, was patiently helping Zach with his cards. Smiles and giggles filled the room and I couldn’t decide which site of the evening was more beautiful: the grandeur of the display of God’s goodness in the evening sky or the glimpses of God’s goodness in the love-filled home where my feet stood.
And then I mumbled, stunned at my realization, “I would have missed this.”
If I squelched the unexpected desire in my heart to be home, favoring my own heart longings for a quiet of a cup of coffee and the delight of words in the books in the seat next to me, I would have missed it. I would have missed God’s unabashed display of His love for me.
If I chose the easy way (not driving home) and if I chose my own delight (quiet and uninterrupted time alone,) I would have missed the beauty of the sky and the beauty of my children’s hearts.
This isn’t to say driving two extra hours would always be the right decision, but rather, it is always right to quiet my heart enough to hear the promptings of the Lord and follow them, regardless of whether I understand them or not. I didn’t know what God had planned for me on this drive home, I just knew He placed within me a longing for home on that particular evening. And if I had ignored His promptings, I would have missed it.
A few hours and a few goodnight kisses later, I got back in the car and made the long drive west. This time, though, rather than resigned frustration of doing something I didn’t want to do, I enjoyed the quiet of a peaceful drive, relishing in the realization that in obeying a prompt in my spirit, the quiet I so desperately longed for earlier in the day was given back to me in the form of an hour-long drive with no words other than the ones of gratitude spilling out of a fully loved and satisfied heart.
Come and stand before your Maker Full of wonder, full of fear Come behold His power and glory Yet with confidence draw near
For the one who holds the heavens And commands the stars above Is the God who bends to bless us With an unrelenting love
Scrolling through Instagram, I see one of my favorite photographers. Her images aren’t created and staged to impress others, but are captured because life as it is is beautiful. I don’t know her “in real life,” but we have a number of mutual friends and we share similar life experiences. Raising little ones on the mission field is simultaneously filled with much joy and many struggles. Her images display it well.
I see her photos, with a style much like my own, and a phrase pops into my head: “That used to be me.” It hasn’t happened just once; it’s been a regular thing, so common I didn’t even notice. “That used to be me,” I lamented. “That used to be me,” I would say with melancholy resignation. “That used to be me,” said in a whisper with a sigh deeper than seems appropriate. For weeks now, those five words have occupied much of my thinking.
I used to be her. I was the mom with the sweet little ones, figuring out how to juggle homeschooling, constant transition, and cultural expectations and frustrations. I used to be her: the mom with creativity oozing out, making home and happiness intertwine in a beautiful display of God’s goodness in the mundane. I was the Pinterest mom before there was Pinterest. I used to take pictures of everyday life and show how beautiful the little moments are. Yes, that used to be me.
It’s been a while, though, since I’ve seen that old version of myself. Sure, she comes up for air every now and then — birthdays and holidays and vacations. But the joy-filled little moments I was determined not to take for granted gave way to a heaviness unbearable and I surrendered.
As my body has failed me these last two years, and I have become ever so thankful for promises of a new body and a lack of sickness and tears in my eternal home, I have forgotten who I used to be—who I am. That mom, the one who delighted to serve up tea parties and breakfast on the lawn and spur of the moment trips to the park, has faded into photo albums. That woman, the one ready to host visitors for dinner or bring a plate of cookies for someone just because, is but a distant memory. Amidst doctors appointments and tears and learning what fighting for faith looks—and feels—like and coming to grips with the agony of being asked to offer sacrifice of praise, the woman I was—the woman I want to be—dissolved ever-so-slowly and one day I woke up with a new phrase: that used to be me.
The doctors appointments are fewer these days (though the meds are more). There are no long hours of me spewing my verbal vomit on someone too kind to tell me to just. stop. talking. The glimmer in my eye is—at times—shining once again. But still I see those images on Instagram (a social media platform I resisted for so long) and think, “That used to be me.”
It’s been too long. I don’t even remember how to be her, the woman I once was. I don’t know how to be the mom I worked so hard to become. Sure, my kids are still loved and doted on. They still are amazing to be around, their smiles brightening the days of those around them. They don’t question my love and they aren’t lacking for affirmation. I have stayed in control of my words and and almost never does my anger find it’s way out in yelling or belittling. And yet, I am still a shell of who I once was, so desperately wanting to fill what has faded away. It’s like I knock on the door to my old self and I know someone is on the other side—I can hear her and make out a faint outline—but the door just won’t budge. I’m here. I’m ready. I’m knocking.
Tactics of survival took the form of habits meant to preserve energy and protect a mind raging. Even if it meant hibernation rather than hospitality, even if it meant sleep over socializing, and even if it meant rest instead of running, I was holding on to a fraying rope and habits of self-preservation kicked their way in and made themselves at home.
Once formed, habits are hard to break. I read a lot of “brain books.” The way the human mind was created and how it functions is utterly fascinating to me. What I have learned is that much of what we do happens not out of a conscious choice, but rather, by habit. We don’t think about it; we just do it. Our brain was designed to conserve energy and anything it has done on a regular basis is moved to another part of the brain, one that specializes in automaticity. By moving oft-repeated thoughts or actions, the premium location of working memory is made available for new things. It takes repetition to form a habit, but once formed, it is grafted in so impeccably that you barely remember that it didn’t use to be.
Habits can be broken and new habits can be formed, but not simply from wishful thinking. It takes work. Lots of work. Our brains are so amazing and so adept at conserving energy that it will always choose what it knows best. Most of the time, this works to our advantage. It’s a good thing we don’t have to give much thought to reading, driving, or walking. But in other situations, habits we don’t want burn deep ruts in our minds, and like a well-worn path down the mountain rain is required to follow, these habits show themselves superior to our good intentions. The path chosen is almost always the easiest, not the one we want the most. Our mind, without direct defiance from our resolve, will always take the path most traveled. Choosing a different trail means blocking the old path and blazing a new one.
Some say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. Honestly, though, that’s not insanity. That’s habit.
And my habits now run deep. What was once meant for self-preservation has become self-centeredness. Rest and retreat have evolved from what is best to what is easiest.
I have my excuses. My rationalizations. My justifications. But I know better. I have a storehouse of God’s word and I know that our God is a God of order. The fight of this world will always be for disorder—of priorities, praise, and promises. Satan doesn’t mind us wishing and wanting to obey as long as we don’t actually choose to obey.
But I am choosing to engage in the battle: to fight against what is in favor of what was and what is to come. I am going to work, harder than I ever have. I am going to have to make difficult decisions and drastic changes in order to find my way back to the trail God was taking me on as He was carrying His good work unto completion.
It isn’t about the beautiful photos or the Pinterest parties. Finding my way back to me means blocking the path called surviving and taking the machete in my hand and clearing the overgrown trail called thriving. It’s called the Abundant Life. Finding my way back to me means taking my eyes off of me, and placing them instead on the One who can lead me to a rock that is higher than I.
I don’t want to see photos and think, “That used to be me.” I want to see my own beautiful life and photos of a home well tended and a life well lived and think, “That is me.”
It’s my favorite time of year (at least when living in North America). The days are slowly lengthening, the temperatures are slowly rising, and the death and decay of winter are slowly giving way to life and light.
As much as I dislike winter (ask anyone who knows me and I’m sure they will have a story to tell!), I am thankful for it in one sense: Winter allows me to see in the physical world a reality of the spiritual world.
This idea—that the physical world, with its joy and sorrow are meant to communicate something about the spiritual world—is coming more into focus for me. On some levels, it is easy to see and understand. When I experience the sheer joy of seeing my children laugh or play, or when I giggle in delight of draping purple wisteria, I know and believe the joy I am feeling is just a glimpse of an eternal joy I will one day experience. Thus my oft-used hashtag, #glimpsesofhisgoodness.
On other levels, though, especially in suffering, I have struggled much more to grasp that all of what we see during life on earth is to put invisible (and eternal) realities on display. The scales, so thick and so strongly adhered, are only starting to fall from my eyes.
If I approach seasons and situations with the firm belief that God is telling me something, that He has something about Himself He wants me to see and know, new meaning is brought to the experience. General revelation is just as divinely inspired as special revelation (see here for a beautiful description of both).
It is from that angle of thought I have pondered deeply, these last two years, on winter. Yes, I’ll say it: I have a theology of winter.
I have many words to say, but too few minutes in which to say them, and so I’ll simply share what has been percolating in my heart most recently, especially as my camera and I are drawn to the warm afternoons and budding bushes.
With every new blade of grass and every new blossom on trees, we’re saying goodbye to winter. But, it’s not just to the cold we bid farewell. If we allow Truth to work in our hearts, we can also bid farewell to fear of death. And if we can bid farewell to fear of death, shouldn’t we also be able to bid farewell to any other fears that keep us from focusing on Christ?
And what a love we found Death can’t hold us down We shout it out We’re alive Cause you’re alive
I’m thankful that if I have to experience winter, at least I get to do it in the northern hemisphere, a place that offers us me opportunity to experience spring—death giving way to life—during the Easter season. What a beautiful physical experience to help me better understand an eternal reality, namely that Christ wasn’t held back by death (or anything less), and neither are we.
Just the other day, as the kids and I were outside enjoying one of our 75° days (sorry, not trying to rub it in!) I was looking at all the bushes in our front yard flaunt their new greenery, and I noticed a bucket behind the deck. In it were weeds and dead branches that had been pulled up last fall. But look! What we once took for dead is now triumphantly displaying its life!
Feel the darkness shaking All the dead are coming Back to life Back to life Hear the song awaken All creation singing We’re alive Cause You’re alive
As I march forward (pun not intended but oh-so-appropriate!) in this Lenten season, I want to remind myself at every opportunity that nothing could conquer Christ. And if nothing could conquer Christ, not even a brutal crucifixion, and if in fact I have been crucified in Christ and it is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me, then wouldn’t this theology help me to understand that nothing can conquer me? Not death? Not fear? Not suffering? No. Nothing.
And though this world, with devils filled, Should threaten to undo us, We will not fear, for God hath willed His truth to triumph through us…
The body they may kill: God’s truth abideth still, His Kingdom is forever.
No matter how bleak things look, whether in the “dead of winter” or in the “dark night of the soul,” the light will shine again and death will give way to life. Even against all attempts to bind life and hope and grace from the world, they will, like a determined daffodil, poke through, laughing at the futility of confinement.
I know spring is still not yet for some. This maybe true seasonally or spiritually. Others are basking in the warm sunlight and smiling at the crocuses, planted before the icy cold, finally popping up. But no matter how much spring is your reality right now, think deeply on it. Don’t waste your winter. Look around you and ask yourself what you can learn about God and His ways through what He has revealed—both in the delightfully created world and in the divinely written word.
There is much to learn as we watch death give way to life.
Lyrics from Your Love Awakens Me by Phil Wickham and A Mighty Fortress is Our God by Martin Luther.
Our sweet Katie will turn nine next week. It’s hard to believe. I still think of her as the spunky little three-year-old who entertained Facebook with all of her crazy quotes.
“Katie, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“Um…a hot dog stealer!”
That’s our Katie.
But the thing is, she isn’t so little anymore. She’s nine-going-on-teenager and I find myself taken aback as I walk into a room and see her tall, lean legs standing on her tippy toes, filling up the coffee pot with water to brew yet another pot for our coffee-loving family. Where did all the squishy rolls and curly pigtails go?
KATIE’S THIRD BIRTHDAY
When our oldest kids turned nine, it was a pretty big deal. They were the oldest. But with Katie, things are different. She isn’t the oldest, she isn’t the youngest, and she doesn’t really know where she fits. She doesn’t think or act like the bigs, but neither does she think or act like the littles. She is clearly stuck in the middle. And she feels it.
I have been trying to be more intentional about spending time with her, helping her navigate this presently-lonely path. It’s not that she doesn’t spend time with the other kids —she does—but you can just see from the look on her face that her place in the family isn’t quite comfortable. It’ll do, but she’s hoping for something better.
A few weeks ago, she asked me to take pictures of her. She is starting to take more notice of her looks, always wanting to find cute outfits and work on doing her hair. Photos are a way to show how old she is looking, and she wanted them. Plus, she wanted the extra time with me.
As I was editing these photos and thinking through where she is in life, it struck me: I don’t know where I fit in either. Like Katie, I am the middle of three girls and I never felt like I could measure up to them. My older sister’s artistic ability put my measly attempts at creativity to shame. My younger sister’s charm and social skills made me realize just how awkward and shy I truly was. But, it isn’t in those ways I feel stuck now. It’s really just being stuck in the middle — of life.
I’m not young (the big 4-0 is calling my name), but I’m not old. I’m not approaching an empty nest, but I’m not rocking babies, either. I am not a published author or famous speaker, but I’m also not lacking in basic skills and desires to reach people with truth. I have dreams for the future, but am still very committed to the right now.
Really, I am just asking, “Where do I fit in?’
Katie watches Alaina, now 14, and wants to be like her. She sees how good Alaina is with hair and fashion and so Katie tries. A few weeks ago, she wanted to curl her hair. She got burned.
Katie watches Bethany, almost 6. She sees how cute and funny and full of spunk she is and Katie tries to be like her. Except, it isn’t cute when it is contrived.
That’s me. I look at those “ahead” of me, whether in age, experience, or opportunity, and I want to be like them. I think of the books I want to write and the lessons I want to teach. But I know if I run ahead of the place God has me in, I’ll get burned.
I look at those “behind” me, again, whether in age, experience, or opportunity and I think longingly of who I once was. But, I am not that woman anymore. I have grown and matured and been humbled beyond all recognition. My kids have grown and matured as well. I don’t fit in mommy-and-me playgroups and I’m not at the grasping-for-two-minutes-to-go-to-the-bathroom-in-private place in life (at least most of the time!)
Caring for little ones isn’t an this-is-all-I-can-do process anymore and yet, Lord willing, I still have 14+ years of kids in the home, who, regardless of age or ability, still need their mama.
Who am I? Where do I fit in?
I’m very aware of the passing of days, of months, of years, of lifetimes. Always the idealist, I have always been fearful of wasting my life—getting to the end and wondering what I had done and if any of it mattered. Not wasting a life will look 100 different ways for a 100 different women. But I have a deep desire to know that it looks like for my life.
Does it mean finding joy in the seemingly small but oh-so-important task of raising these six precious children? Does it mean that as the years offer me new hours with a choice of how they are spent, they should be used in a specific way? Does not wasting my life look like me waiting for God to open doors for using the gifts and abilities He has given me or for me to seek opportunities, praying for HIs blessing along the way?
I just don’t know.
But, I’m not fretting. I know that God knows. And I know that if I ask for this wisdom, He will give it. I also know I have women in my life who know me, my heart, my family, and my intentions and will help guide me as I seek God’s will for the use of my time, money, and emotions.
I don’t know where I fit in, but He does. And so, like Katie, I’ll try to find rest in not being big or being little, and I will just enjoy the present day, recognizing that I am not who I want to be, but I am not who I once was, either.
I wrote this post back in October, but never published it. I wasn’t ready. But now, Lord willing, I am ready. Humbly I open myself up with hopes that only He will be magnified.
Is this thing on?
(answer: it is now, but it disappeared for a while—partly by my choice, partly due to my hosting company.)
Does Janet still have a blog?
(answer: it appears so, but the lack of signs of life make it questionable.)
Is Janet even alive?
(answer: yes, but hibernation has been necessary in order to preserve energy.)
Often, when God is doing complex things in my heart and mind, I move towards silence. Those who know me “in real life” may scoff at that statement, attesting to the fact I am rarely without words. However, the deepest ponderings and stirrings of my heart seldom make it past my lips (or fingertips). Well, at least they don’t come out in the during. The sharing I do is usually in the after.
There is definitely a lot of during still occurring in my heart right now. But, I think, there is also some after. There are ideas and thoughts and dreams and convictions which are ready to be formed into words and sentences. It is so very tempting for me to stay silent, to hide in the safe places of my mind and family. I am tempted to let all that rages in my thoughts stay right where it is, hiding in its juxtaposition of forceful conviction and fumbling cowardice.
The truth I am embracing, though, is that stewarding what God has given me necessitates letting it permeate the artificial boundary I have drawn between my heart and the eyes and ears of others. God has bestowed me with certain gifts He fully intends not to be hoarded, but rather, to be freely spent on behalf of His Body.
I still don’t know exactly what that looks like, but I am at least asking the questions. I — the one with all the fears and insecurities and intense hatred of all conflict and confrontation — have opened not God’s gifts (a spirit of power, love, and self-discipline) but instead, the gift of the world and its ruler (a spirit of fear.)
It’s time to throw out the sparkly yet worthless trinkets and rip into the real presents.
I was not created to hold God’s gifts at arm’s length, timidly placed within my fretful boundary lines, refusing to open these precious gifts because I don’t know what so-and-so will think or who so-and-so will make backhanded comments to. But I need to, instead, take my cues from Jesus: He knew when to remain silent and He knew when to speak boldly. Oh how I Iong for His wisdom!
But even with the wisdom I lack, I choose—with more feelings of insecurity and intimidation than is probably healthy—to take steps to share myself with others, to let the little sprouts I have kept buried finally see the light of day. I may look more like untamed weeds than a precise row of marigolds, but if I have learned anything over the past few years, and especially over the last few months, it is this: untamed beauty is often far more captivating than artificial perfection.
And so, I choose to share myself, untamed wildness and all.
Remember, though, it isn’t me I long to share. It is God in me. And those are two very different things.
And so, I welcome myself back to the world of writing. And speaking. And proclaiming God’s goodness to anyone who will listen (or take the time to read.) I am flawed, sinful, and arrogant. But what I must never forget is that my faith has been credited to me as righteousness. I am not righteous, but mercy says I have been found without fault and grace says I have been blessed with every spiritual blessing. And because of these indescribable and indisputable truths, I must declare God’s goodness to others, with boldness and expectant hope.