Bed Rest

How do I incline myself toward selfless living? Toward sustainable, overflowing emotional capacities? How am I to forge a way through the temptation to slip away into apathy and the still, safe cocoon of indifference; to come out with the tenacity of a warrior and the tenderness of a dove? How might I find myself in a state of being that is more apt to seek the happiness of another than the satisfaction of self? How may I again become lost in the wonder of creativity and marvel anew at the depth of Glory? How can I possibly bridge the ever-widening gap between the woman I so desire to be and the woman I am? The more I reach for the selfless and the kind and the gentle and the loving, living, creating, thriving version of me, the farther I feel from her. And I realize that the hope I have to become her does not bring her to me, or I to her; all the desire I may muster could not possibly make something from nothing. She is but a mirage. And if she is a mirage, a non-existent hero, a pigment of my desperate imagination, from where have these hopes sprung? They don't merely scatter when I flip on the light of reality, like tiny, fearful mice. They remain. The desire burns within me. There must be some way to reach these beautiful things I long to be. They are good, beautiful things, after all.

There must be something I can do. Bolstered by pride and sheer will, I continue onward; running, climbing, reaching toward the mirage. I must be better than I am. I must find a way. I determine that I, surely, can become anything I desire. If only I run fast enough, and use all the wit and knowledge that I can find, and, perhaps, pray that my quest would be blessed. Surely, this is how it was intended to be. An exhaustive pursuit where my feet are put to the test. With all the strength I have, I reach. My fingers can touch kindness for a moment before they seem to push it farther away. I think that I arrive at the doorstep of selflessness, only to knock and find that I cannot open it. It seems that I have reached the top of the mountain when I see that there is still much farther to go. I feel myself growing weary, but I push away the feeling. I must do this. I must fight tirelessly to find life again.

Alas, I find that there is nothing. I simply cannot lay hold of what is beyond me. If I cannot incline myself towards these things, and if I, in fact, regress at the mere reach to them, how can I proceed? I begin to lose hope. Day in and day out, I go on. I point the finger inward and hurl insults and blames. You should have….You could have…Why didn’t you…Why aren’t you… Inward I go, sinking farther and farther into myself. I glance at the good and the beautiful from time to time, finding still the small hope left that I may have them. Wishing that I would be like them. Craving to beat myself into submission so that I, too, could become unbroken. Farther and farther, I sink into myself, until all I can see is me. Me. I find myself in the cocoon I had so desperately wanted to avoid. It is so quiet. So dead. How could I have let this happen? This was not what I wanted. This is everything I did not want. Tired and defeated, I lay down. Heavy from reaching, heavy from blaming, I concede. The cocoon has won.

In the stillness of my defeat, I lay. I lay down. I accept my helpless estate. And as I befriend the idea of failure, I feel something strange. I feel victorious. I feel hope. How could this be? I have failed, haven’t I? At the bottom of the deepest pit of agony and self-loathing and darkness, the place I was sure would offer nothing but the feeling of defeat has, in fact, offered me hope? It takes me by surprise. As I lay there, my realization of just how helpless I truly am growing rapidly, the hope remains. I expect that it was a fluke. It will surely leave, won’t it? How can something that requires light be growing where there is none?

I cannot deny it, this feeling of victory. It is like nothing I felt on my self-propelled journey. Not even in the moments when I thought I had reached something. It is as if the recognition of my inability, the utter weakness, the laying down has put me where I need to be. The place I thought was defined by failure may actually be the place defined by victory. I stay still. Peace. Darkness. Unsure. Hope. Inclined toward Help. This victory, it is an inclination toward Help. Not an inclination toward selflessness or kindness or internal strength, no matter how good and beautiful they may be. And in the darkness, in the stillness, in the quiet, in the defeat of self and the dependence on Help, that is where I finally found hope.

Becoming a Beggar

          One of my biggest fears is to be a burden. A bother. Needy. Helpless. I am almost incapable of asking for help. I have been this way for a very long time. As long as I can remember, really. After my dad's surgery went awry almost 20 years ago and he became partially paralyzed, I was so worried about his pain that I would almost cry if I overthrew the softball while practicing with him in the front yard. I saw the pain when he tried to bend down. So if I overthrew, I would run as fast as I could to try to get to it before he would grit his teeth as he bent down slowly to pick it up, doing his best to hide the pain from his little girl. He would tell me, "It's okay, sweetie. I've got it." I didn't believe him. I saw the pain. I remember being afraid to ask my busy mother-of-six for a friend to come over. Not because I was afraid of her. No, not at all. I was afraid of seeing that war within her. The war of being (understandably) overwhelmed and exhausted from taking care of six kids all day under some extremely extrenuating circumstances and not knowing how to take on anything else, but still wanting me to be able to enjoy time with a friend. And I didn't want to be the one to give her another thing to think about. After all, she had more than enough on her plate already. I was aware early on that our family was most certainly not wealthy, so I did my best to not ask for too much. When I felt like us kids were asking too much, I would cry secretly and worry that we were making life too hard for our parents. And then I was a teenager struggling through a chemical depression. The sole spark of light in my life was music, but I would play the piano and sing almost at a literal yell (because, my God, how good it felt to have something come out of my mouth that was raw and unfiltered when I had no idea how to communicate when I simply spoke) and would annoy people around me. "I can't hear the TV, Bethany." "It's way too loud." "Can you maybe just sing a bit more quietly?" No one was trying to be hurtful or tell me that I was a problem, but when we are young and impressionable, we make sense of the world in the best way we can. I began building a belief system early on: I was in the way. I made too much noise. I was a burden and a bother. 

          Life gave me more than enough opportunities to fortify this belief. I had already learned how to internalize comments and situations. I had learned how to do my absolute best not to be in the way. I didn't really ask for help. I tried not to put people out. And when all-too-familiar comments were made or all-too-familiar situations came my way, the all-too-familiar thoughts were my only answer to interpret what was happening. "Don't be a bother." If I had a dollar for every time I heard that from myself...

          So what is a girl like me to do when she is brought into a very extended season where she constantly finds herself to be completely and utterly helpless? I could tell story after story, beginning just hours after D and I said "I do" of how the Lord has allowed me to be so far out of control. The story of car trouble on our honeymoon in an unfamiliar place. The story of how Moses almost died and how we scrounged up all the money we had to take him to the doctor, praying that God would spare him. How God did spare him after our many helpless nights of begging. The story of the third degree burn on my hand and how we only had enough money for the CareNow visit, but none for the pain medication or ointment. How that night we went to our new Home Group and paid for our portion of the community dinner with our laundry quarters (praying out of embarrassment that no one saw that it was me who put them in the jar) because we were so broke waiting for me to get my first paycheck and living on one income with a seminary budget. And how our new friends somehow pulled it out of us that we didn't have the money for the medicine, and joyfully shoved money into my good hand before we could leave. The story of rushing home from work to find David on the front steps, just hanging up with the officer and having to find a way to mutter the words to me, "My mom is dead." How it was one in 3 times I've ever seen him cry in all my years of knowing him. How we had no money for a flight and no car to get to Nebraska to bury her. The pain behind being so far away from his one and only mama and not knowing how to get to her. How we had only known Chris and Kelli for a few months and they freely gave us his business miles to fly us there and back at absolutely no charge to us. How our Home Group selflessly put together enough money for us to get a rental car and buy groceries while we were there. How we cried when it was all given to us. How neither of us even knew how to stretch out a hand to accept it. They just laid it on the coffee table as we sat in shock. The story of helping your husband plan his mother's memorial service, clean out her office, her home, her car. Knowing that 26 is far too young to say goodbye. Watching him be heartbroken. The story of losing our precious little one to a miscarriage. How I didn't know how to grieve. How we didn't know how to grieve. How friends and family rallied around us when I wanted to shut down. Knowing that I would never have the baby back and that I couldn't change it. The story of burying our Apple kitty after finding her dead in the street at one year old. The story of realizing that you need help in your marriage at less than a year in. How I came to the end of myself and saw that I'm really not good at this whole "wife" thing. How I looked at my husband and saw the hurt in his eyes. From life, loss and love. How I was tired of needing help.

          Season after season, I am simultaneously humbled and empowered by the truth that the only beauty I have is found in God the Father reigning over me, Jesus the Son interceding for me, and the Holy Spirit dwelling within me. All else is rags. I am but a beggar. My whole life I have tried to run from asking for help. I have wanted to stay as far away from being a bother or burden or saying that I need help as I possibly could. But God. He is ripping away from me any notion I had that I ever possessed even a fragment of the ability to be self-sufficient. He is removing the safety nets I thought I had. He is showing me just how needy I really am. And as I come face to face with my inability to stand on my own two feet, I am being forced to learn that my weakness is exactly what the Word says it is: it is a means by which He is glorified. His purposes and His plans and His power are magnified when I am painfully aware of just how helpless I am. At a young age I couldn't rationalize and take into account the times my mom had joyfully and lovingly invited loads of my friends over for Bible Club parties or sleepovers and graciously allowed us to make a mess and never complained about how loud we were at ungodly hours. I couldn't rationalize and take into account the times my dad had happily gone out of his way to offer help with my physics project at midnight the night before it was due. I couldn't rationalize and take into account the countless times my family had spoken life into my music, or the countless times other avenues of entertainment came secondary to hearing me sing. My vision was flawed. And I have remained partially blind as I have developed my ability to see how I truly interact with the world. I was never intended to take any identity other than the one given to me when my Father called me His. I am not a bother or burden, and asking for help is one of the most human things I can do. 

          So let me boast in my weakness here that He may be exalted. That His beauty in our stories would be the prize I seek. I know I'm not surprising anyone when I say that David and I don't have it all together. We never have. In fact, we've mostly always been the opposite. And I have struggled with feeling a lot of shame in our hardships and sin. Feeling embarrassed for not having it all together and for needing help. Worrying that my sin would be too great. Afraid to bother those whom I have wanted and needed to ask to walk with me as I learn how in the world to be more like Jesus. But thank God that His divine hand on us is that of a Father: guiding us into true life and Godliness. I am weak, He is strong enough to carry both of us. I am poor, He provides in the most wise way. I am grieving, He is the sweetest Friend. I am fearful, He teaches me to trust. I am sinful and ugly in my rebellion, He is slow to anger and so quick to forgive. I realize that I cannot hold on any longer with just the will of my slipping fingers, and He bids me to let go and find that floor He taught me about so long ago. He knows the cost to follow. He knows the journey. He knows I cannot do it on my own. It was only ever me who struggled to accept that.

          My friend, if you feel like you are walking a road and cannot possibly let anyone know how badly you are hurting or struggling or doubting or rebelling; if you feel like you don't have the privilege or the right to ask for help; if you feel like a burden, please talk to me. Let's learn to walk this road together. After all, I need you and you need me. 

He's got the little bitty babies in His hands

I started my first draft of this post talking about Adam and how he was the first to receive the gift of life through breath and how he didn't earn it and yada yada yada. It was fairly eloquent and put together. But I just want to talk to y'all as friends. And this won't be terribly put together. I hope that's okay with you. And because I am semi-non-committal myself, I want you know what you're getting yourself into before you get too far. I'm gonna share with you a peek into our journey after we found out about the life growing inside of me. It's a bit lengthy, but I couldn't do our little one the injustice of shortening their story.

On January 24th, I took a pregnancy test. I had taken a few of these in the months before, each time with a growing hope for a positive, but had always been disappointed with a negative result. This time, for the first time ever, there was a faint sign of a positive. I had extreme reservation against getting carried away with excitement, because you just never know with a home pregnancy test. So I waited. January 29th, I took another test. I looked down and in a single second realized that I was a mom. It was a definite positive. I ran into our bedroom to tell David and we were ecstatic. Picture the classic Home Alone face but put a giddy, overly excited and yet nervous expression on it instead. That was us. Excited and really nervous. No idea what to expect. We immediately started calling close friends and David's family in Nebraska, California and Arizona. We really just couldn't hold it in. Two days later, we got together with my family and surprised them with the news. My sisters cried and my brother reacted like a normal 19 year old boy and my dad and husband spent time by the fire pit outside praying over our family and the baby and my mom was as helpful as ever. Our home group was thrilled for us and everyone shared in our joy. Our immense joy.

About 5 weeks along, I started bleeding. It was a Thursday night like any other night. I came home from work, made dinner, D and I ate together and then watched Sherlock, our new favorite show. We did some laundry in between and just enjoyed a night at home together. I have always known that I have a high risk for miscarriage. We were never even sure I could conceive. But I had. And now I was bleeding. I screamed for David, automatically knowing what this blood implied. We called a dear friend, an experienced EMT who is also studying to be a doctor, and asked what we should do. Her words were wise and sweet. She remained calm. She gathered information and assessed. We headed out for the ER, praying the whole time that I wasn't having a miscarriage. Praying that baby J was okay. We checked in. After 5 different tests and sonograms, we played the waiting game. 3 hours later, the nurse practitioner came in to give us the results. She looked me in the eyes and told me I had lost the baby. She said it with finality and I wept. David held me. We felt it deep. Losing the child we never met. About 15 minutes later, the nurse who had been doing my blood work came back in. She told us that there was still a small measure of hope. There was still a chance that it was just a threatened miscarriage. We took that hope and held on. We were instructed to come back no sooner than 48 hours for further testing to get a final confirmation. So we waited. And God granted faith. Faith not in an outcome. Faith in His ever-present, unchanging goodness. The same goodness that gave us a little seed of life and the same goodness that could take it away. We waited. We prayed and we hoped harder than we've ever hoped. Friends and family rallied, petitioning God to spare our little green bean. Sunday came and we drove to the hospital. We were honestly only prepared for good news. It wasn't even a forced optimism. It was like a quiet peace. A strange peace in the face of possible heartbreak. So I gave more blood for more tests. And again, we waited. It was finally time to go back and hear the news. I was expecting a nurse to sit me down and have a conversation with me, telling me if my baby was still there. Instead, I was again asked to prepare for another sonogram. At that point I asked why we didn't know yet. Why in the world don't we know yet. The nurse explained that my HcG level should have doubled from just a few days before when they had tested. It had barely increased. Their concern? Ectopic pregnancy. A tubal pregnancy which could be life threatening to both me and the baby. All I could do was look at D, both of our faces flushed red. Afraid, I'll admit. I agreed to the sonogram, understanding that they may still have no answers for us afterwards. They began. "Yep, there it is." She said it just moments after beginning the search. I had no idea what "there it is" referred to. "There's the fetal sac right there." I sat up quickly. David leaned in to see. We were both desperate to make sure we understood. "Wait so the baby is okay?" "The baby is okay." And again, momma wept. Daddy's eyes sparkled with baby tears for his sweet little one. We stared into the monitor. I muttered praises between breaths. And we saw a flicker. The most beautiful flicker I've ever seen. The tiniest heart beating that you could imagine. We left knowing that we had witnessed a miracle.

In the weeks to come, the bleeding never stopped. It would ease up for a bit and then start again, more extreme than the time before. We went in for sonograms a few different times. One time we even got to hear the heartbeat! David can still repeat for you with scary accuracy the rhythm of baby J's heart. We'll never forget it. After some time on bed rest, and taking different vitamins and nutrients and supplements to try to address the cause of the bleeding, there was still no relief. On Monday, we met with our sweet midwife, who we got connected with through some of our best friends who are also expecting their first. She did some blood work and testing, and showed us around the birthing center where we planned to deliver the baby in less than 7 months. She advised that we meet with a medically certified nursing midwife to get further testing and have something prescribed that would help with the complications. Wednesday afternoon, I left work early to go to our appointment. David and I were so excited to see our little green bean again. It had been what felt like forever! We explained to the nursing midwife all that had been happening. We prepared for the sonogram. The sonogram began. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. Where was that sweet little flicker? Baby J, are you okay? Mommy can't see your heart beating...what's going on? David held my hand as I shook, praying in the name of Jesus as we waited out the next 10 minutes for a final verdict. The verdict came. We saw the flat line. Our sweet baby didn't make it. I wept. I wept loudly. I wanted to scream. I cry as I type and relive that moment. "Are you sure?" I asked with still the smallest glimmer of hope. "I'm sure, honey. You've had a miscarriage."

You can't describe the pain of losing a loved one. Whether you've met them physically or not. We'll never meet our green bean. We'll never get to kiss their face or hold them. We'll never know if it was a little boy or a little girl. We'll never know what their favorite song was, if they liked my chicken kabobs, if they wanted to be an archaeologist like mommy and daddy did, if they had my eyes and his height, if they loved Jesus. We'll never know. Only God knows. So we grieve.

God is good, of this we are sure. And we cling to His promises in this time. Not of providence or outcome. But that He is always good and loving. That His sovereignty reigns over us in the way of a loving Father, not a distant and removed tyrant. Though I know we may wrestle for years to come with questions that may not be answered on this side of eternity, we have a steady ground to walk upon. Jesus holds us together in this time with faith. He granted us the gift of faith through this whole process; faith not in an outcome or result. Faith in something unshakable. And to be completely honest, I like to think that He is holding our little bitty baby in His hands, even though I'm not quite sure how it fits into my theology.

To all the mothers who have lost a baby: my heart breaks with you. It breaks anew at the thought of you walking this road. I had no idea what you went through until now. My God, it hurts. Whether it is recent or a little farther in the past, I hear that the pain never fully goes away. And I recognize you. For all the days that you grieve silently while the world goes on as if nothing happened, I recognize you. Thank you for your bravery.

To every person who has cried with us on the phone: I love you. Mom, Dad, Rachel, Lydia, Bekah, Anna, Kelli, Chris, Randy, Mike...thank you.

To all of you who have tried to call, text, message us: we love you. We are so grateful for you. We know there are many of you who have shed tears on our behalf that we may never see. Thank you.

We want you to know that we are okay. Our hearts are broken and we are grieving, but we are okay. Your questions don't make us uncomfortable. They show the depth of your care. Please don't pressure yourself to find the right words. There are none. Just be yourself.

October 8th will always be a day of promise: God is who He says He is, and this loss will not shake that.

The Floor

     Tonight is just one of those moments where I have to write. Maybe it’s the over-saturation of the Holy Spirit, and it feels like my spirit is jumping out of my skin. Maybe it’s that I’m running on two and a half hours of sleep after a late-night rush to the ER and I’m feeling delusional. Maybe it’s the sweet sounds of my freshly wounded sister celebrating the first moments of her 16th year of life in just the other room, and it feels like fresh joy. Maybe it’s because my other sister and roommate isn't home yet, and things feel incomplete. Maybe it’s because there are discombobulated potential outfits scattered across my bedroom carpet and it feels messy. Maybe deep down, there’s something inside of me that relates to that bedroom carpet. The place where mismatched socks find new homes until rediscovered under the bed a month later. The place where beautiful instruments sit untouched until life allows time for music to be made. The place to which empty water bottles are tossed aside after the thirst has been quenched. The place where bare toes tread. The place that catches the collapse of an overwhelmed body. It’s messy. It’s where life happens. It’s hitting me tonight that the most essential places are often and consequentially the messiest. A floor is a necessity. As long as God’s great law of gravity continues demanding balance as we know it, a floor will be necessary. Gravity requires that there be something under my feet to hold me, to hold the weight of my body, to carry me from one step to the next. And when I drop my backpack, heavy from books and Bibles and journals and wallets and gum and the green stopper from my Starbucks drink yesterday and chap-stick and random receipts from who-knows-when, gravity requires that it fall until it finds a place strong enough for it to rest upon. A place strong enough to cause it to stop. To cease movement. To just be. To lay there doing absolutely nothing. I feel like there’s a new revelation of Grace coming to me asI put my fingers to this keyboard and hammer it out. This strange thought that a floor could be such a simple metaphor for the foundation of my treasure, my beloved salvation. It’s Jesus, isn’t it? He is the floor, isn’t He? He is the resting place, isn’t He? He is the “strong enough,” isn’t He?

     Growing up, I loved softball. I played on the same team for my entire softball career (and I obviously use the word “career” incredibly loosely). We were the Marlins. We sported that teal jersey with the swordfish on the front like it was nobody’s business; that is, until we upgraded to fancier blue and white jerseys when we went club. My dad was one of the assistant coaches. Along with a few of the other dad’s, they cheered us on with tough love and cold water bottles. The mom’s would sit on the sidelines, my mom playing the role of shepherd with my 5 other siblings, and cheer us on with less-tough love and Capri Suns whether we won or lost. In all of my years playing, we lost quite a few games. Some we deserved to lose, some we fought to win with all we had. But I can’t pull out even a single memory of leaving with a disappointed dad. Sure, there was correction if he saw a way I could improve. He would even call me out if I hadn’t given it my all. He always taught me to “leave it all on the field.” To fight so hard that I could look back, no matter the outcome, with no regrets. But in all the calling out and the correcting, it was never because he was disappointed in me. He was always proud of me. Not because I won or I lost. But because of who I am. Because I’m his daughter. I’m his. I’m Mark Munden’s daughter. Sure, my name is Bethany. But I am the love-product of Mark and Laurie Munden. And somehow, it has created a forever-bond and given me a spot of favor in my daddy’s heart. To him, it’s as real and strong as the law of gravity.

     It is Jesus. He is the floor. He is the resting place. He is the “strong enough.” He is the proud Daddy that says “Just come sit in my lap and suck your thumb, little one.” He is the carpet that softens the friction of rushed feet. He accepts the accidentally dropped, the purposefully thrown, the wearily collapsed, the deliberately standing, the desperately kneeling, the hopefully rising, the joyfully dancing. To Him, it’s never too messy to accept. It’s come-as-you-are. It’s overwhelming grace. To Him, it is as natural and as demandingly necessary as gravity. We fall, and He catches. He is the floor. It’s scandalous. Scandalous to preach a message of “come as you are” and “don’t wear a mask” and “all you have to do is rest in those Heavenly muscles.” What if it’s abused? What if we mess up? What if it doesn’t look pretty with a bow wrapped around it just right? What if it’s too chaotic to fit into a Sunday service? What if we don’t tip-toe on the glass shards of religious protocol? What if it gets messy? What if we let go of the railings of the law and we fall?

     After a long, and very scientific study, I have come to the conclusion that no matter how many times I drop something on the floor, the floor never leaves; and no matter what I drop, the floor accepts it. The floor has never once gotten up in a huff and said, “forget this!” It has never seen my heavy backpack coming and rejected it. It lays there. Silent. Accepting. Strangely inviting. It’s an open resting place, no matter what the object. Jesus lays there for us. He laid His life down on the cross for us. He laid for 3 days in silent death, separated from His Father so that He could be my bedroom-carpet-revelation. His grace lays there and accepts all that I have done. No matter how many times I drop or I fail or I fall or I stumble as if I have baby deer legs. It’s inviting, His grace. It beckons. There’s a pull to it that I simply cannot deny. It seems to say, “Come lay here with Me. Come rest. Come snuggle for a while. Just lay here. Just be.” It’s like gravity. It’s necessary. It gets messy sometimes. But it’s never going anywhere. After all, isn’t it silly for us to think that we could ever walk without the floor in the first place?

Bethany Munden
4/6/13

     I work at a home daycare where I help raise 9 precious children. Simultaneously exhausting and refreshing, it is such a blessing in my life. Watching children grow is one of the purest, simplest forms of beauty these eyes have seen. To see an infant's smile, a child's first steps, first words, a giving heart, a hug to their friend in need, trying lemons for the first time, finally peeing in the toilet instead of their pants; it's all beautiful. God knew what He was doing when He formed these beauties in their mommy's wombs. I don't know if y'all know this, but God is hilarious. If you don't believe me, just come spend a day at our daycare. You wouldn't believe the kinds of things I have to say in an average day:

     "Don't wipe your nose on my hair again."

     "Get your hand out of your friend's mouth."
     "Please don't chew on my phone anymore."
     "Is that water or urine?”

     The amount of joy that comes with loving and being loved by a child is almost overwhelming. Now, don’t get me wrong; kids are quite the handful. A disobedient spirit has proved to be like a contagious virus. When one child has it, everyone seems to catch it. I guess it’s a part of the constant testing of their boundaries. They like to know who’s in charge and they find a strange sense of security in knowing. Their obedience, many times, is dependent on their understanding that we want the absolute best for them.

     The Lord has used my job on so many occasions to turn seemingly insignificant happenings into deep, meaningful parallels and life-lessons. I was recently reflecting on obedience and was struck with such a fresh view of how it should operate within us. Many times, when a new child is enrolled in our daycare, they have not yet been taught about not running away from the adult in charge when we are out in public. They quickly learn. We teach them how dangerous it could be if we are in a parking lot, a crowded place, or by a street. They begin to understand that it is for their safety that they should obey. They eventually get to a place where they don’t even ask “why?” when told to stay by our side. They know. It’s the same with the rules about hitting, speaking in an ugly tone, or throwing things in the house. Every rule has a purpose, and once they understand the purpose for the rule, they no longer question. They also understand that the beloved time-out chair awaits them if they choose to have a disobedient heart.

     I think God’s rules for us are for the exact same reasons. Each one is protecting us from something, protecting others from something, or is a means of helping us to wait for greater things that He has for us that we would have otherwise forfeited. God is Love. His heart for us is good. He is by no means a dictator trying to hold His power over us and withhold things from us. His discipline is to help us grow in obedience and to learn from our mistakes, not to condemn us. If I let one of my kids (yeah, yeah, they aren’t really mine but I love them as if they were!) continue to hit her friends, I would be both a bad protector of her friends and I would be doing her the disfavor of allowing her to grow up imprisoned to habitual anger manifesting itself in violence. God’s goal is to free us from all the destructive patterns of sin, thus opening us up to be able to participate in all of His life-giving plans.

     To be perfectly candid, sometimes, I genuinely don’t feel like changing a poopy diaper for the 10^th time that day. Sometimes, I genuinely don’t feel like walking nine kids to the park in the scorching hot Texas summer. Sometimes, I genuinely don’t feel like cleaning up the spit up, setting out the nap mats again, only to put them up a few hours later, helping to clean up the ocean of toys covering the entire playroom floor, getting up early to go take care of them, telling them the same thing for the millionth time. So what drives me to do it? Plain and simple. I love them. My love for them drives me to do all those things without anyone telling me to. Many times, there is no benefit for me, but the simple fact that I love them and that I know it will benefit them drives me to willingly do it. Once we enter a place where our love for God drives our obedience, it won’t seem so difficult, inconvenient or intrusive anymore. Knowing that it pleases Him will be reason enough to do it and reason enough to push past the fact that we genuinely don’t “feel” like doing it. If we are only following a list of rules with complete detachment relationally from God, we are robbing ourselves of the opportunity to fall in love with Him.

     As I increase the time I spend with Christ, my understanding of Him grows. As my understanding grows, my love for Him grows. And as my love for Him grows, my desire to obey grows. And as my desire to obey grows, the amount of time I spend with Him grows, and I have entered the wonderfully, excitingly, perfectly incredible cycle of walking with Christ.

You'll Carry Me

"When the furnace is burning, I know rescue is coming.
Your promise never fails.

In the darkness Your light shines, breaking over the horizon.

And I lift my eyes to see that heaven's fighting for me.

Carry me on Your back through this storm, Lord."

"You get glory in the midst of this, so You're walking with me.

And You say that I am blessed because of this, so I'll choose to believe

That as I carry this cross You'll carry me.
Help me believe it."

"All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. For the more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with His comfort through Christ...We were crushed and overwhelmed beyond our ability to endure, and we thought we would never live through it. In fact, we expected to die. But as a result, we stopped relying on ourselves and learned to rely on God, who raises the dead. And He did rescue us from mortal danger, and He will rescue us again. We have placed our confidence in Him, and He will continue to rescue us."

-2 Corinthians 1:3-5,8b-10

I am blessed to endure suffering.

I can confidently wait for rescue.

I can fully expect comfort.

I am not alone.

He will carry me.

He will receive glory. 

 I am not God. My life is not my own. My Father loves me.

Father, You are God. My life is Yours. You love me.

I trust You.

I Need You, Jesus

"I need You, Jesus, to come to my rescue.
Where else can I go?
There's no other name by which I am saved.

Capture me with grace, I will follow You.
This world has nothing for me.
I will follow You."

Those words taste so sweet as they roll off my tongue. "I need You, Jesus." My cry of desperation to the Lord is not met with fireworks in the background; it's not met with a victorious soundtrack; it's not met with balloons and streamers; it's not met with a "pass go and collect $200." Indeed, none of this is the response that meets my soul's declaration of dependence on the Lord. Instead, I am met with a still, small voice in my soul that proclaims peace upon my weary and troubled heart. In a season of pain, waiting, anticipating, healing, restoration, I am greeted by the God of the Universe. I am led by the Lord of Lords. I am comforted by the Creator. I am healed by the Holy Father. I am loved by the Lover. These burdens that I have been carrying, He says, “Give them to Me, child.” He cries, “I died so you wouldn’t have to carry that.” He comes to me, “Here, let me hold you.” The tears flow from my eyes as I see the reality of His jealousy for me. He doesn’t want me to hold on to the things this world has offered me. Why do I carry these loads that will only destroy me? Why do I devote myself to the things that will turn their back on me? Why do I so often turn my back on the One who offers life, peace, joy, satisfaction even in the midst of tribulation? The Lord is patient with me as He sifts through my soul and begins to pull out all the weeds in my character. Sometimes it hurts. I need You, Jesus. Sometimes I don't want Him to continue. I need You, Jesus. Sometimes I am afraid. I need You, Jesus. Sometimes I am ready. I need You, Jesus. He is always here.