Archives For Life and Death

When part of you is dying

Sometimes, words just need to be said aloud. I needed to do that here, girls. I am a bit serious, but trust me . . . There is joy, at the end of it all.

Apiece of me is dying right now. After all the prayers, on my knees, over the years and all the small deaths I’ve died already, there are always more deaths to die.

That’s the way it is, girls, isn’t it? Death welcomed or death rejected?

I am torn by the question: do I want part of me to die?

He says in yesterday’s Loop, “Planting”,

“My darling, let Me create something new within you today. I plant seeds of hope within you, and I promise to bring you joy. Do you believe I can and I will? Truly, do you believe?”

Why does He ask me that question again? Must He repeat it? And why does He continue to ask me questions about my heart and what I truly believe? It makes me uncomfortable. It makes me pause, and sometimes I just don’t want to pause. I want to keep going my own way. I want to feel comfortable, sure of myself, feeling like I know where I am going. I want to be strong and independent. I want to have it all together and be successful and well-liked and wise.

Is hope what I want? Is more of God what I want? Do I believe He would bring me joy?

He knows how I can so easily keep going my own way. But He also knows what is most true: My heart flails, and I sink, in despair, on my own.

So He keeps asking questions:

“Do you now ask what will it require, this planting? Do you wonder what you have to give to receive gifts of hope? May I ask you—is there somewhere else that you could receive these gifts, on your own?”

Oh, I am wrestling here. . . Do I think I can find joy and hope on my own?

I am good at living like I do.

Perhaps I am worried . . I am worried about what God’s planting seeds of hope in me would require of me. Because I remember Paul’s words: ”What you sow does not come to life unless it dies” (1 Corinthians 15:30).  Paul speaks of Jesus dying for our sakes, so that we may have new life. But in the Holy Spirit’s invitation to plant seeds of hope in my heart, I know God is inviting me to die, too. For seeds to grow, for His planting to be successful, I have a choice.

“Receive the gifts—my gifts to you, my girl—or not. But you can’t find hope on your own. And you can’t find joy on your own.”

He asks me another question:

“Do you believe I can give these gifts to you? Do you believe I want to? Why worry about what the gifts will require of you to receive them?”

I hear Him asking me if I believe Him, if I love Him, if I trust Him . . . if I believe He is good and faithful and my God.

My heart wrestles with Him–searching for what I really believe . . . wondering if I am willing to surrender so that I can both die and live. . . live and die.

Deep breath.

Yes. I do. I do. And I want Him to plant these seeds of hope. I am tired of trying to figure out how to find joy and hope on my own.

And then He tells me how to do it.

“The requirement of receiving hope and joy is trusting Me more than yourself, loving Me more than yourself.”

Letting God sow seeds of hope in me means that for hope to be born in me, I must be wiling to surrender and let the sinful part of me die. He is in control and I am not.

His plans for me are good.

He is love and He is light. He is beauty and hope and peace and joy. He is my Father and my Creator, and I want to follow Him.

No matter what it takes.

And I am dying.

And you know what. . . even though it hurts and I have been crying a lot this week, the heart that for so many years I believed was dead inside is now opening up to receive more of Him. And I see myself stepping back from caring about recognition and validation and the world’s standards of success just as I feel Him moving me to a new place of greater strength in my identity, in Him.

This is what I posted at the You Are My Girls Facebook community page yesterday:

“Sometimes, girls, you’re just in a soft place–a place where your heart feels vulnerable and a bit happy and sad all at once. You wonder if there is something wrong–’cause you cry easily, this day, but you can’t figure out why. But it is good, and you are glad–because you are feeling. You are filled with emotion and it makes you remember that you are alive and God is breathing and there was a sunrise today and this heart of yours is beating. I take a deep breath in these moments–because often, when my chest feels tight like this–I feel like breathing is the last thing I can really do. I can hardly catch my breath. And this is when I remember I need God to catch me. And that is what I needed all along.”

He plants in me the truth of who I am, and I am more myself today, this moment, than I have ever been.

There is no going back now.

I will take more death, any day, for more of this Life.

What about you, His girl? Are you receiving Loop in your inbox twice a week? It is His heart for us, here. I have never been more sure of that. (You can sign up right now, right here.) How do His words sit with you? How can I pray?

Linking this post with the beautiful God-sized Dream community at Holley Gerth’s and with the courageous story-tellers at Jennifer’s (#tellHisstory).

April 16, 2013 — 22 Comments
In Life and Death, Listen, Loop
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It might be time to get up now

In the last couple of posts here, I wrote about surrender. This is a topic I write about a lot, in this space. It is what I share here and here. It is what prompts me to ask the Father again, “Remind me how everything I need is within me. Tell me again that You adore me and that I am enough. Strip this heart of mine clean that I may see You and receive You and walk the way my Brother did, my King. I want to be with You like He was while He was here on earth, spending each day by Your side.”

And He never tires of leaning in close, smiling at me in that way He does, to tell me again. “Girl, you are mine. There is not one thing I would do differently if I made you all over again. Please, stay here, with Me.”

Now, it is the staying here with God part that I want to talk about.

One thing I love about blog posts: I can say just a little bit about what I am thinking–in these tidy little snippets here and there. . . It’s super convenient, and expedient, too. But I need to return here to this idea of surrendering to the Holy Spirit within us, what it looks like to stay with God, because I want to clarify something.

Girl it might be time to get up

When I write how we need to surrender our will to God and rest with Him and know that He is the One in control and not us . . . When I write how we don’t need to strive to be more than we are because, in Him, we are complete. . . I don’t mean that abandoning the posture of striving and assuming the posture of being with God means that we sit around with God and do nothing.

I am not advocating doing nothing.

He has given us these amazing lives of ours to actually do something with them. Loving, in His name, is one of the two commandments Jesus shares as the most important for us to follow. Loving Jesus and loving others may begin with us sitting still to soak up God’s presence.  Absolutely. The Holy Spirit is in us, and sitting still with God helps us to remember we are not alone.

We need to sit sometimes, but we need to go, sometimes, too.

God gives us specific desires in our hearts to experience Him uniquely, moment by moment, based on our personalities and temperaments .  . . He shows us what we love to do, and He invites us on adventures with Him so we can experience even more the life He is in us. He marries the desires of our hearts with His invitations to love. We love His children through the things He has given us to love doing while on earth. Sitting still is one of the ways we can help ourselves hear His still, small voice within us and give ourselves the Sabbath rest He calls us to. Resting is an act of obedience to God . . . and it is good for us.

But sometimes, our call to obedience, our call to surrender, is not a call to rest.

Here’s the tension: In the surrendering, we are striving towards God, in the most beautiful way. We are choosing Him. We surrender our old selves and let Him clothe us with His righteousness. We recognize we can’t earn God’s love and grace; we can’t earn a gift, especially one we can never deserve.

Surrendering the old self and believing we don’t need to be the one in control takes obedience. And obedience to God is choosing connection with Him, whatever He calls us to do.

Perhaps obedience is sitting still, watching waves break at the ocean shore. Perhaps it is taking out the garbage and serving our family and driving the kids around and cleaning up after the dog. Perhaps it is packing our bags and going across the world and serving His children in need . . . or simply loving our neighbor down the hall or across the street.

Surrendering can mean sitting still, and it can also mean moving. The thing is, in each answer of obedience–whether sitting still in His presence or clinging to His hand as you rescue an impoverished child across the world–you are moving with God. Each act of obedience, each act of surrendering, each act of believing He is enough and we are enough, with Him, is being with Him, abiding with Him, moving with Him.

Even in our rest, and even in our going, we can abide.

Jesus could do anything in the will of His Father. He submitted His will to God. He experienced the freedom that comes from knowing His Father was the one in charge. He chose that kind of Life, just like we have the opportunity to choose this same kind of Life and freedom, too.

We are called to be obedient. We are called to abide–be with, live in Jesus’ presence, tune our hearts and minds to the posture of the Holy Spirit within us, our Guide that does not fail.

Perhaps one of the greatest challenges Christians face is not being willing to surrender our will to God and not being obedient to the Spirit that is within us. We might spend our lives trying to earn salvation by doing stuff for Jesus under the guise that we are doing that stuff with Him.

Let’s not confuse doing things for God with doing things with God. There is nothing worth doing that we can do on our own.

At my kitchen counter, as I assemble a meal for a friend, I hear Kim Walker-Smith sing loud through the speakers: “I don’t want to camp out and stay in one place, God” . .” She seeks His voice, “What are you doing, what are you saying  . . . I want to be with you tonight. . . I need you more . . Your presence is life to me . . . I need more of your presence every day, every day, God.” This is my prayer for us, here.

His presence is the beginning girls.  We can’t do a thing without it.

Oh, Father, I am so thankful we don’t have to.

Do you feel the tension between staying and going, as you abide, girls? How is He calling you to move with Him? I would love to hear a bit about your journey with Him now.

March 13, 2013 — 8 Comments
In Adventure, Life and Death, Surrender
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Rejecting Grace

[I] want so much to push against You, Father.  Beat on Your chest, prove to You how, really, truly, I am just not worth all this – this new life.  I want to reject You, remind You of what I did, how despicable it really was.  And You say You love me?  How?  Why?

My friend Jen, in My Girls on Monday, grabs my shoulders at the kitchen sink, telling me she read my post, and I don’t want to talk about it.

“Oh, yes, I closed the comments.”

“Why?”

“I needed to write it, to express where my heart is right now . . . and I didn’t want anyone to feel like they needed to cheer me up.  It’s where I am.”

Without hesitation, she turns to face me square on, eyes earnestly locked on mine, “I came to tell you, you do deserve it,” and I turn away.

“No, I don’t believe you.” And I usher everyone from the kitchen and into the front room.

Father, no, how can I?  I deserve nothing.  I deserve death.  I do know that is the point of You coming, of Jesus’ sacrifice; but, if I’m honest, Father, I struggle because, sadly, I want to deserve it.  And I know, no matter what I do, changing the past or not, I know I can’t.

Oh, Father, how I need You to come.

And You do.

Jen leads this morning.  She reads Your scripture, Father, piercing my heart:

I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.  The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.  I do not set aside the grace of God, for if righteousness could be gained through the law, Christ died for nothing (Galatians 2:20-21).

I have heard these words, Your words, Father, so many times.  But I hear You wanting me to believe it this time.  Believe it is true.

And, oh, how I just want to earn Your grace somehow, Father, and I can’t.  I want to go back and fix it all, go back to that moment, under the tree, when I made that decision . . .

Jen plays two beautiful songs by Gungor, one which speak of our dry bones, our desperation for God and our feeling like dust.  The other celebrates the truth that we are each created anew, in His image — that with Him all things are possible, and He calls us, in Him, to new life.

She asks us, while we listen to the songs, to consider the state of our hearts:  What is the dust in your life right now?  How is God bringing you out of the dust?  Or, are you still clinging to the dust, in your life?

The lyrics build . . and my chest tightens and tears  pour from my eyes the whole way through.

I am dust and He plants His fingers in it, bending low, writing in it my new name, reminding me He does not condemn me, all while I expect to be stoned.

And my friend begins to read Brennan Manning’s words, from All is Grace:

My life is a witness to vulgar grace — a grace that amazes as it offends.  A grace that pays the eager beaver who works all day long the same wages as the grinning drunk who shows up at ten till five.  A grace that hikes up the robe and runs breakneck toward the prodigal reeking of sin and wraps him up and decides to throw a party no ifs, ands, or buts.  A grace that raises bloodshot eyes to a dying thief’s request — ‘Please remember me’ — and assures him, ‘You bet!’  A grace that is the pleasure of the Father, fleshed out in the carpenter Messiah, Jesus the Christ, who left his Father’s side not for heaven’s sake but for our sakes, yours and mine.  This vulgar grace is indiscriminate compassion.  It works without asking anything of us.  It’s not cheap.  It’s free, and as such will always be a banana peel for the orthodox foot and a fairy tale for the grown-up sensibility.  Grace is sufficient even though we huff and puff with all our might to try to find something or someone it cannot cover. Grace is enough.  He is enough. Jesus is enough.

The Father asks me, whispers to my heart, that under that tree, where He sat beside me, when I chose to end a life that He gave, I was beautiful then.

For He had already taken it all — all my sin — before I had even committed it.

Yes, vulgar grace.  Too beautiful for me to comprehend.

Too beautiful for me to turn away.

To ask you the same questions my dear, wise friend, asked me, “What is the dust in your life right now?  How is God bringing you out of the dust?  Or, what dust is still clinging to you that the Father is asking you to give up to Him?

Sharing with Jennifer:

And with Ann and Emily:

April 24, 2012 — 37 Comments
In Community, Faith, Grace, Life and Death
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New Life Kiss

The trees are quiet here, leafless, buds still playing hide and seek till Valentine’s Day.  I know these orchards, not in the plant-it-yourself, dig your hands deep into the ground kind of way — but a sure knowing, all the same.   Possibility is aching to burst forth, these hidden buds sleeping to awake again to sweet, popcorn-almond blooms.  So grateful that life doesn’t sleep for long.  I now tread softly on this rich, hallowed ground.  

God walked here, sitting with me under this tree, this cold earth one December.  I know what it means to lie postrate on frozen earth longing for death.  With the longing for death comes the dying of a heart.  And also, in the coldness, comes Life beating, unable to detach from love pressing long — His gaze, His hope, holding fast.

In the looking back, in the worship of a Father who brings warm life out of cold shadow, I see, again, the beauty of restoration. This morning air brings light again to memory.  I see You again.  With these feet running through these rows where life began — in the dying — I remember how little good I deserve.  Death knows my name but still life claims me.  I deserve to be buried, lifeless, in this cold ground.

But, sweet girl, I see you now.  This woman-child looks back, moves through these rows, trees organized like soldiers, faithful, branches steadfast, reaching high.  And she sees.  She sees what could have been and what is now.  She chooses to see beyond what her eyes perceive and trust this heart-whisper that tells her she is adored, treasured — a broken, chipped pot found beautiful again and restored.

We, dear sister, are about to bloom.  We are restored, found treasure.  Can you see it?

Heart-thankful for

      • my mom’s sweet words of encouragement regarding pursuing what God puts on my heart
      • my eldest son’s joining me on my run with our dog through the orchard, climbing the dirt pile with him and seeing how far out we could see
      • my mom’s homemade vegetable soup
      • cuddles with my husband on the couch
      • arriving back home and finishing decorating the Christmas tree
      • My Girls gathered in my living room and laying down the vulnerable, hard thing to receive His good grace and light

I am happily linking to Ann Voskamp’s Multitudes Mondays, as well as L.L. Barkat’s ( The Wellspring), and to Laura Boggess’ (Seedlings In Stone) beautiful blogs.

On In Around button

December 5, 2011 — 5 Comments
In Faith, Life and Death, Worship
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Warrior Daughter

I will sit in the stillness with You, Father.  I will stay here and not turn.  I will remember who I am and what I need.  I will seek You and I will be found.

You bring peace to my heart:  slow me down, stop me from turning.  I do things on my own, and the day runs fast and I do my best to keep up.

And fail.

I want more of You, Father.  I remember the feelings of self-loathing, the lie surging, making me despair, rather than rejoice, for needing You so desperately.   Is my heart so much more attached to this world, than to You, that slowing feels like weakness? When surrender feels like losing, giving up with no gain?

I am your daughter, a princess, a warrior in a battle for a life to surrender so for other lives I can fight.  I am humble but not meek.  I am small but not weak.  I am one, but I stand with You, Jesus.  The Father in You, the Father in me.

I follow.

I am tired of quick turn-and-run-prayers on the go.

And so I will sit at Your feet and I will listen.  And I will climb up into Your lap and rest my head against Your breast and hear the beating of Your heart.  Your love for Your daughters, Your sons, pouring over me true.

I sit, and I let You show me the blood of Your wounds, Your body lifeless and torn when Joseph and Nicodemus took You, worked hours bent, blood-tear-soaked hands wrapping Your body in cloths, worshipping their King who recovered them from ash.

Your body they laid down quiet – bracing deafening silence about to burst in a stone dark tomb.

Word come Life rises.  Death splits wide and You pick up our pieces scattered all around.

In this stillness, where I listen, I see my pieces still scattered, my heart still heavy from the burden of running, forgetting I am gathered up, thinking I am the gatherer of my life, thinking I am King.  I work for life, not following the One who already gave it, too busy to slow and sit, hear Your words beating live.

My daughter, You are not your own.  Let me carry the words, the future of this life.  Stay present now.  See the beauty now.

Yes, it’s not complicated.  Life with me is not complicated.  The world’s lies are complicated.  My love is not difficult to understand.  I love all.  I do not discriminate.  I do not withhold.  My Son trusts me fully, and He completed the work I gave for Him to do.  What work do I give you to do?  

Love.  Love fully — with Me, in you.  Love well.  Do not discriminate.  Do not withhold.  Trust that I live in you.

See it in My people, now.  See the anguish, the heartache apart from Me.  I do not bring suffering, child.  But I sometimes let it happen so that My children turn to Me and see more of My face.  I so long to hold them and bring joy and peace to their hearts — the places that ache and churn and do not feel peace.  I go out to these places, child.  Do you see?  Do you see Me?  

Broken windows, twisted lives, heartache and despair?  Lonely blank walls behind which My children are left to die, without knowing My face?  Can you help them know My face?  Can you help bring My heart to them?  I ache for them to know Me.  

My girls, let me bring you home.  Remember your home.  That ache is the part that misses Me, that longs for peace and truth to land.

And with His love we are called to rise, warrior daughters.  His love our strength and shield.  His sacrifice brings life for us to share.

Warriors daughters, sit and listen to the beating heart that made you.  He has fought the battle for you and won, and you are mighty and strong in His name.  There is another battle He invites us into, with Him, to fight.

The tomb is empty, and there are more hearts that don’t feel His heart beating.  I want to sit, listen, and follow.

Will you, sister and friend, come, too?

August 22, 2011 — 4 Comments
In Adventure, Identity, Life and Death, Words in Me
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Birthing Pains

Morning reaches in, warm light beckoning towards newness, rebirth.  I let it drape softly, gentle blanket of promise, if not comfort.  I am not sure I am ready for birthing pains again,  insides dry and cracked.  It always hurts, this turning over, brittle crevices of heart breaking to let the new growth, already beginning, arise from within.   To be filled in and made new, always a choice, always an offering, an invitation for insides to be scraped, made straight, and  cleaned.  All before the pieces crumble a bit more, falling quietly towards rocky soil, and turning, ever surely, to dust.

And Jesus, and the Father comes . . .  for me, for you, His girls.

My daughter, I have not forsaken you.  The water is drying up.  Who will fill it?  From where does it come? Can you fill it?  Can you fill to its capacity?  My Father can fill it.

I am your King, your One who fights for you.  I never leave or turn.   There is much to do, and I have placed you where I need you.  My delightful one, see where you are, where I am.  Look for Me, and trust where I go.  Can you walk with me this day?  Can you look for Me and come out of hiding?  Do you think your way is what is best — that I would leave you and hope you fail to turn back?

No matter what path you take, I urge you to turn back.  I want you to turn back.  You are My delight.  My heart aches when you are not close.  We are meant to be together.  That is when you feel most whole.  Worthy one, you are worthy of My love.  How can I not adore, cherish, dote on what I have created?  And I know what is best for you, so you do not need to fret.  I did not create you to let you fall behind when you are out of My sight.  My love equips you to go out and love well.  It is impossible for you to fall short.  It is impossible for you to fall when I am with you.  And why would I leave you?  Do you stand with Me?  Love Me?  Adore Me?  Cherish Me?  Stay with me and you will.  My love burns for you and you are drawn to Me.  I can’t be ignored.  That ache, that unsettled feeling, is Me stirring you to turn again to Me, for I have much in store for faithful ones who lay it down — who remember who holds their life — and turn.

Turn, daughter, turn.  My eyes are gently on you.  My love pushing through the world — the world I want to scoop up and hold close, the world I came to save.  And I save you.  Remember, I saved you.  Remember what has already been done for your freedom — freedom of your heart to love Me or not, turn to Me or not.  But peace will not enter your heart unless humbleness is what leads you to stand, and My eyes are what you see, and My heart is what beats in yours, and my life gives life and joy grows and grows.

For My joy for you does not cease.  You bring Me joy.  You are enough and perfectly made, daughter!  Forget the past!  It has shaped you — and looking back is good if you let Me do the healing.  I heal you now.   I restore you now.  I have plans for you now.  Heed My whisper, daughter, in the rejoicing of the angels and the coming of the dawn in the  night. I am for You.  I am in you.  I am the light in the darkness and the place where you land.  Let me prove it to you by you trusting Me and going where I call you to go.  Trust Me, daughter.

My tears fall when you turn away and don’t let Me come in to heal.   I am sorry for the pain, and I long to take it away if you let Me.  Do you trust Me?  Do you hear Me?  Do you see Me?  My daughter, are you there?

Psalm 73:21-28

When my heart was embittered
And I was pierced within,
Then I was senseless and ignorant;
I was like a beast before You.
Nevertheless I am continually with You;
You have taken hold of my right hand.
With Your counsel You will guide me,
And afterward receive me to glory.

Whom have I in heaven but You?
And besides You, I desire nothing on earth.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
For, behold, those who are far from You will perish;
You have destroyed all those who are unfaithful to You.
But as for me, the nearness of God is my good;
I have made the Lord GOD my refuge,
That I may tell of all Your works.

1 Peter 1:3-10

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who according to His great mercy has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to obtain an inheritance which is imperishable and undefiled and will not fade away, reserved in heaven for you, who are protected by the power of God through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you greatly rejoice, even though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been distressed by various trials, so that the proof of your faith, being more precious than gold which is perishable, even though tested by fire, may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ; and though you have not seen Him, you love Him, and though you do not see Him now, but believe in Him, you greatly rejoice with joy inexpressible and full of glory, obtaining as the outcome of your faith the salvation of your souls.

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July 20, 2011 — Leave a comment
In Life and Death, Surrender, Words in Me
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I Know

I know what it is like to not want to surrender. I know the heartache, the frustration and pain, the walls pressing in so I can’t breathe. I know what it is like to wish for God to wave His magic wand and transform me, to come fix the situation so peace would come.

I know what it is like to want Him to save me, without me doing a thing, and to desire for Him to make it all new.

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June 20, 2011 — 2 Comments
In Confession, Faith, Life and Death, Surrender
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Hard Love

In the orchard, cold ground, although just December in California, and she wants to end it here.

This choice, the weight of the decision before her is that she thinks she has no choice.  Her life, the self-absorbed focus on her life, only hers, creates the walls of the darkness.  This garden is not the garden where Jesus wept, heart shaking, for the journey His heart prepared to endure.

Her bare legs pressed into the dark soil and she thinks about herself, her dream, her image, the lies pressing in and choking her in the darkness.  The love of self, the desire to put oneself on the throne, above Him, has already squelched the life in her and then killed the chance of the life in her that was not hers to take away–and all she thinks, to survive.

Hard love.

It is not this.  Rather, it is choosing to sacrifice, to give it all, for another, no matter the cost, knowing exactly the cost, and doing it anyway.

Hard love.  And He came next to her in the darkness, 20 years later she sees it; she never knew He was there all along.  Kneeling there, bare almond branches overhead, and He loves.  Here, in the darkest places of the heart.  He loves.  He comes.  He rescues.  He redeems.

 

Above is what I wrote in a “5 minute Friday” with Lisa-Jo, at The Gypsy Mama.  She offers the challenge of  writing “for 5 minutes flat with no editing or tweaking”.  She encourages “let’s  just write and not worry if it’s just right or not.”  I encourage you to jump on over and join in!

April 22, 2011 — 4 Comments
In Confession, Life and Death, Story, Suffering, Words in Me
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I Declare

i-declare-003

I am Your daughter, Your chosen one.  I am no mistake.

I reject that I am not enough, that my life is small, that the the eyes You have given me, the heart that yearns to align with Yours, to break for the hurting, to cry out, in the darkness, for more light, is not powerful.  With You, Father, I stand.  With Your Son, I walk, holding tight, wanting nothing to separate me from Love.

I reject the lie that I have no voice, that my life is not significant, that I have nothing to contribute, that the place where You have me lacks meaning.

I reject that I am alone, that I am isolated, that no one understands the cries of the world’s pain.  I reject that You don’t hear my prayers, that You don’t speak, that You only speak to the chosen, that You have favorites, that You love some more than others.  I reject that I am lost and could never be found.

I declare that You have taken my sin, the darkness of my heart, You take it now, the frustration of my heart, my caring what anyone else thinks other than You.  Let me be obedient and not want to own any outcome.  This life is not mine.  Remind me Father, and take it, again:  It is Yours.   Let me see only Your face  . . .

I declare with all the Saints that You are all I need, that I will stand with You, go where You call me to go, claim this voice You have given me and that Satan has tried to hide.

I declare that I will not hide from this heart–that at its foundation, my beginning, my being knit together, You in me, I am good, I am holy, and that You are big enough to take away any darkness that lurks and wants to lessen my faith.

I declare that I will take up my sword and fight this battle with You, my Lord, that You have come and defeated all darkness and I stand with You, fighting now, for the hearts of the women around me, the hearts of the people You call me to love, with Your love, the lives that You awaken me to, the lives You love more than Your own.  Let me love like that, Father. Let me forget myself, stand with Your truth in me, see only Your face, and Love.

I will not accept anything less.  I don’t even know what Love is without You.

And You show me.

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And I say this knowing, from the truth You give me, that You bring glory to this world.   I say this knowing that You have come to share with us the glory that You had with the Father before You came, the glory that was within You, because of the glory of Him in You.   You brought down Life to us when You came.

Spirit, You are in me. With You in me, I have that Glory, too.  I have the Father in me, too.

My life is only for the purpose of being loved by You and, from that Love, pointing hearts to You.  I don’t do that well, Father, unless I lay down all in me that threatens to get in the way, all lies that want to penetrate and stick, all wounds that I don’t want to surrender for You to heal, all ways that I want to keep in the darkness and not bring into the Light.

Bring me into the Light, Jesus.  Let me stay there, Your eyes on my face, my eyes locked with Yours.  Hold me close, give me strength to love.

You came, Jesus, as a voice to the broken, to mend our hearts, to bring hope and make ashes rise from death and bondage to freedom and Life.

Humble me, Father.  Take this life.  Let me rise, loving well, with You.

March 15, 2011 — Leave a comment
In Faith, Identity, Life, Life and Death, Prayer, Surrender, Words in Me
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This Weekend, Lay it Down

I continue to stay in this place, my heart tugging to be laid down.

And I do, again, this day.  And I continue to listen to this song, the same song all week.  Here, in the video clip below, Matt Maher introduces the inspiration for his song, “Lay It Down.”  Following that is another clip with a video which shows the words of the song.

Bless you, this weekend, as He calls us each to surrender, for the sake of Freedom and Life, His love, again.

Jennifer

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March 12, 2011 — Leave a comment
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Confession and Pride

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I sit here a total mess, trying to save myself again.

Forgive me.  Let me not forget, Father, that You are the Redeemer, the One who saves, the One who has come for me, and comes everyday, to transform my heart.  When I was small, You gathered me up, watching over my every step; before I was born You prepared for and anticipated my arrival.  You knew my introduction to the earth included being educated in Your mighty love, the obedience of Your people, the ultimate sacrifice of Your Son.  But this was book knowledge for me, stories told about You with meanings that I didn’t yet absorb.  My heart had not connected with You yet.  You were distant to me, stories I tried to understand, a God I yearned for but did not know.

I remember how You came for me later, when the days of Sunday School ended, when I had left the safe place of home and struck out on my own, away from the quiet home in the almond orchards.  But before that, when I was little, I remember searching for You, believing in You, but not knowing what it meant to follow You.  I ached to be understood, as any child does turning from complacency–my dependence on my parents for all knowledge–to an earnest seeking of the relevancy of my existence.  From the core of me,  with the pain of a heart not yet found, I wanted to matter.   And You know how I looked for my significance in the validation received through  good grades, a beauty pageant, relationships based on sex.  Why didn’t I know that all is empty without the validation received through the acknowledgment of a heart?  Why does this world separate us from the core of who we really are?  So much destruction of self occurs when we believe that who we are is who this world sees.  Lord, I understand now, the truth of me is only who You see, who You created in the first place.  Show me that girl, Father.  Bring her to the Light.  Show me that girl, cowering in the darkness, lost, unable to find her way to You.

Father,  I was lost–and am still lost–when I think it is up to me to find my way Home.

Remind me, Father, it is not up to me to find You.

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My heart opened to Life when, so desperate for love and community, I attended a Christian retreat in college.  During a time of worship and prayer, in a sanctuary filled with over a hundred people, I heard His voice press into me for the first time.   He wanted me to go up to receive prayer.  In my longing for Him, He answered my heart with showing me His desire to heal.  I had tried on my own–without telling a soul except my boyfriend, who was with me through it all–to deal with the darkness of my choice to abort my baby.  Standing in worship at this retreat, I was overwhelmed.  What? What was going on?  What I had done was four years ago, at the age of sixteen.  I had asked His forgiveness and I thought it was something that would be kept just between us.  But He was coming for my heart and the truth had to come out.  It was what He had in mind to begin the severing of my heart’s attachment to the validation of the world.

The journey with my Father began with me, for the first time, trying to lay down my pride and tell someone the truth of what I had done.  I couldn’t keep it in the dark any longer.  He was coming for me.  He wanted me to know Him.  And for me to know Him, He wanted my darkness to be brought to the Light.   He wanted me healed.

With heart beating to a rhythm that threatened to burst my heart out of my chest, I walked to the front of the church and knelt down in front of one of the prayer leaders .  It happened to be my bible study leader from my dorm.  With whole body trembling, not yet sure how I made my way down the aisle, I confessed to another, for the first time, the truth of what I had done.  I was not going to cower in darkness anymore.  I needed my Father desperately, more than I even realized at the time.  I only knew that I was tired of hiding, that I was alone and tired of cowering in my sin.  For Him to take this from me, my heart needed to repent of what was underneath the choice to begin with, what was buried deeper in the act itself:  pride.  There was no room for Him when I cared about me, what others thought of me, more than Him.  There is no truth in darkness. Shaking, my mind reeling, I could hardly believe what has happening.   In His tender, all consuming love, He came, and for the first time, I stood outside the prison of darkness and saw His light.  The walls were coming down.

I cannot save myself.

While seeds of His truth were planted in me at a young age, “God was causing the growth” (1 Corinthians 3:7).  I put myself back in the darkness when I think I can do anything on my own, when my pride puts me in the driver’s seat, looking for something that equates to me looking to me for answers, rather than where any answers can be found:  in the Light.  My Father rescued me, bringing me into His light.  He offers each of us an invitation to step out into it with Him.  Our longing for Him, that stirring in the deepest places of our hearts, the places of dissatisfaction, loneliness, hurt, suffering, is where He wants His Light to shine.  He comes for us, girls.  Step out of the darkness into the Light.  Again.  I have to do this each day, again, and again:  Each day anew, making the choice away from my darkness and into His light.  Daily, I have to lay down me, the darkness in me that I only see because of what He has revealed, through His love.   Help us come to you, Father.  You have already saved us.  Let us step into the Light.

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March 7, 2011 — 1 Comment
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Remembering/Forgetting

Remembering/Forgetting

Father, do I remember who I am? Can I forget myself in order to seek Your face?

Doesn’t it all come down to that, remembering and forgetting?

Last night, in a conversation with a dear friend, my oldest son’s godmother, who we are visiting this week, in Southern California, we were talking about our journeys with Him during the last two years, what He has been doing in our hearts since the two of us had last met face to face. To be able to articulate a condition of the heart, how He has dealt with us in the past, how He comes for us now,  is a great challenge, isn’t it? And, for me, it is so necessary if I want to move toward Him, with Him, at all.

In talking about seeking Him, in the remembering the past and seeking Him now, I realize how much of my journey with Him is about remembering and forgetting–remembering the truth of who I am in His eyes, while forgetting myself at all.  Father, You want to be first in my life, to lead me and for me to step down. I tell my friend the  story I know is so true– the struggle of my past, the struggle I face now:  putting You first, before all.

Forgetting me, and remembering Him, how He came and how He comes.

I need to forget and I need to remember.  The story of my heart is knowing who I am, seeing Him more as He shows me how He loves, and then desiring to seek Him with all my heart. I need to remember how He has come to see where He now leads.  I do desire that.  Help me see You, Father.

Remembering/Forgetting

Can you remember how He has come for you in the past? Do you remember how He first stirred your heart towards Him? Do you see how He comes for you now?  Can I remember, Father?  Can I see?

I head out on an adventure with my family today, camping in February, in the desert, and I see You stirring me towards this remembrance of the past, Father. I long to continue to forget/remember what is untrue and hold tightly to–remember– Your truth, above all.

He  shows me what to remember by showing me what to forget.  Remember who I am.  Your girl, Your beloved, Your cherished one, that there is nothing I need to do to make myself more Your daughter.  It is my identity.  It is the truest thing about who I am.

Let me forget myself, Father,  in the remembering.  Let me lay down all of me so that nothing separates me from You.  Let me be united with You, fully, Father.  Show me love, living in me.  Hold me close so I remember.  Hold me close so I can only see Your face, hear Your heartbeat, feel Your arms holding me.   Let me stay here, let me remember, so then I will forget.



February 21, 2011 — Leave a comment
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Forgetting towards Love

Forgetting towards Love

My daughter, don’t cry.

Help me to stop chasing You, Father.  Please help me not to feel like I need to chase You, that You are something for me to attain.

The things that are most dear are the things you want to swallow up, and these are the things of which you most need to let go.

Losing is a condition of the heart. Yes, it is an action, a response to My heart in you.  But to take this response and twist it and try to make it your own, love gets twisted and choked and loses its way.  Love’s only way is through Me.  You can’t do it.  Forgetting yourself, dear one, is freedom because that is where love enters.  And that is where love stays, in that place of forgetfulness, that focus on Me.  It is too much of a burden to think on oneself all the time.  That is for Me to do, to think on you, to love you.  How can you love you like I do? 

Your attempt at loving yourself is hating yourself because you do it from a darkness that is not of you, a lack of forgetfulness that is not of you.  I am in you, child.  My love for you overflows with goodness and mercy for your heart of selfishness and envy.  Selfishness robs hearts of all joy and gladness, of all appreciation and the freedom that it brings.

You stir me, Father, as I seek Your face.  Forgetting myself:  the idea of it doesn’t bring on fear now, when sometimes–often–fear comes in with even the thought of letting go; it grips me in fear.  And then I release.

Releasing, Father.  I am so thankful there is nothing I need to hold on to.  Freedom is in the releasing, the complete surrender, the complete lack of holding on.  Anything that brings me fear I need to surrender to You.

Open my hands, Father.  Let me let You in.

Forgetting towards Love

I step down again, Father. I had stepped into bondage in my focus on me and not You–on my will and my desires–and I am held captive, a prisoner stuck with the walls of my heart closing in.

Even to try to take on the burden of loving well is making myself an idol.  I can’t do it.  I cannot love unless I step aside and choose the freedom that comes from responding to love from You.  Your love for me produces love in me towards all around me.  And where it doesn’t, how am I not letting You in?

You do not fail in loving, Father.  Where I fail in loving is where I try to love myself instead of forgetting myself.  Help me to forget myself completely, Father, so nothing gets in the way of me being fully present to and used by You.

February 17, 2011 — Leave a comment
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Love Letter Holiness: Breath

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“Ascribe to the LORD the glory due his name; worship the LORD in the splendor of his holiness” (Psalm 29:2).

I am on holy ground. You breathe in me Your Spirit, and I have life. With each breath I breathe I breathe You, I say Your name. The sound of my breathing, the existence of my breathing, is me saying Your name.

Your breath in me makes me holy.  Your breath in each of us, even in Your children who don’t yet know You, has made them holy.

The truth is amazing, Father:  We are each holy. We are each on holy ground for You are in us. We breathe You and we live. We stop breathing when Your Spirit leaves our body. We cannot exist without You, You in us. We are Yours completely, Father.  We are nothing without You, only dust.

“Then the LORD God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being” (Genesis 2:7).

Father, point me to You, point me to truth, that You are in control, Father, that You are my Holy King, that all points to You.  You are holy.

My husband led me to a Rob Bell’s video called “Breathe”, which I watched this morning, and which reminds me again of who I am, who His children are, who the Father is.  Father of life, breathing into us. We come from the dirt, our life is fragile. We stand and live because of His breath in us, whether I acknowledge it–Him–or not. I breathe.

Father, let me remember today that I am on holy ground.   I am holy.  My husband is holy.  My children are holy.  You are in us:  we breathe, and we are holy. We each tread on holy ground, and I don’t want to forget that anymore, that You are here.  Let me be conscious of my breath, of my desperation for– my complete dependence on–You. Let me recognize Your holiness everywhere today, in everything and everyone, today. We are each holy, being in His image, alive because of His breathing Life into us.

“When they see among them their children, the work of my hands, they will keep my name holy; they will acknowledge the holiness of the Holy One of Jacob, and will stand in awe of the God of Israel” (Isaiah 29:23).

Let me see the work of Your hands, Father.  Penetrate my heart with the truth of You shaping everything I see.  Let me stand in awe of You, Father.   You are holy.  All is holy because of You.

Breathe 014 – Nooma – Rob Bell – Legendado from there. on Vimeo.

February 9, 2011 — Leave a comment
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Show Us Your Glory

Show Us Your Glory

Father, I long to hear Your voice in me.   Again, this morning, Father, I lay down the past, the darkness of the choice that I made in the orchard that You redeemed, my choices away from You yesterday, the darkness of the choices I make each time I step away and do things on my own.  Why does being alone, on my own, sound so much more appealing than leaning on You, for everything, Father?  It is my stumbling place–my pride.  Lift up that rock, Father.  I am tired of it.

You redeem all darkness.  In me, when You are near, Your light casts out all darkness in me.  “‘If I say, surely the darkness will overwhelm me, and the light around me will be night,’ Even the darkness is not dark to You, and the night is as bright as the day.  Darkness and light are alike to You” (Psalm 139: 11-12).  In what I recognize as the darkest places in my heart, the places where I often assume You would never want to be (how could You stand to be there, Father, when I make these choices away from You?) You show me that You are even more present then.  When I need You most, when I am stumbling, when the darkness I choose is blinding me, that is when You have been–are– the closest.  The darkness is darkness and not light to me only because that is when I have chosen to not see You at all.  That has been my choice, away from You.  But You have never left.

Please, Father, no more.  Awaken me more to choose You fully today.  Redeem me again, this moment.  Show me Your glory.  Give me Your eyes.

Jesus, when I share, now, about my past, like I finally did with my mom, after twenty-two years of hiding, last night, (it is still so tender there, Father)  the story I tell is different.  It is a story of darkness, yes, but also one of redemption, glory, and light.  It is a story of my heart that You redeemed, that You made new.  You take the worst of me, when I don’t want it anymore, and You make it beautiful.  What I did was not beautiful.  What I did was not of You, but of me.   But my choosing You now–each day again–and my choosing to be healed and to trust You and to let You show me how You were there all along, when I felt most alone.  . . that, there, is beautiful.  You are beautiful.  What is true, what is Light, is that despite everything I have done, everything I do–how I stumble over my pride again and again, doing things on my own–is the truth of how You see me:   Beautiful.  You see the light in my heart, not the darkness.  You see the new life that is beautiful when I choose You and You cast the old life aside.  Do it again, Father.  Make me new again, this morning.  Show me the light in me.  Show me where you always are.

“Make me know Your way, O Lord; teach me your paths.  Lead me in Your truth and teach me, for You are the God of my salvation; for You I wait all the day.  Remember, O Lord, Your compassion and Your lovingkindnesses, for they have been from of old.  Do not remember the sins of my youth or my transgressions; according to your lovingkindness remember me, for Your goodness’ sake, Oh Lord” (Psalm 25:4-7).

This past week I have been letting the words of the following song, sung by Kim Walker, of Jesus Culture, flow over me.  (A video, with lyrics and the song, is attached below.)  I pray you feel His closeness now, His light in you.  There is no darkness where He is, in your heart, only Light.

“God is Light, and in Him there is not darkness at all.  If we say that we have fellowship with Him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth; but if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin” (1 John 5-7).

Let us let You in, Father.  Let Your Light cover all darkness in us.  We choose You.   Show us Your glory.  Redeem us again.

 

February 3, 2011 — Leave a comment
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