Bragging Rights

Seemingly out of the blue, the story of the Israelites came to mind this week.  Remember, they were the Lord’s beloveds, His children, and though they had been in captivity for a great number of years, the Lord never turned His back on them, He remained with them as they endured trial after trial. He walked beside them even when they turned their back on Him, ultimately rescuing them by parting the Red Sea long enough for them to pass before enclosing it upon their enemies. Without a doubt, the Israelites were grateful. In their humble gratitude, they built a monument of great significance that would remind them of the work, the promise the Lord had fulfilled in their lives.

I imagine this monument was in the middle of town and would be passed regularly by the town’s people.  When their children would ask about the monument, their parents would stop, scoop their wee ones onto their laps and with tears in their eyes, begin to share in detail their testimony—the mighty work the Lord had done in their lives. The children’s eyes would widen and their mouths would drop with each turn of events--- enthralled by the story.  The children would beg to hear it each and every time they passed the monument. Can’t you hear it? “Momma, Momma, tell us about the time when…” The story never got old. Instead, it introduced them to their Heavenly father on a personal level and gave them a deep hunger to know Him personally. As they grew and had children of their own, they too, would share their story.

Testimony: the evidence we experience of Christ working in our lives as He works to reveal His glory as He tenderly transforms us into the likeness of His Son.  Our testimony does not begin and end with our story of discovering who God is and inviting Him to be the Lord of our lives (salvation), as often believed. Rather, our testimony, likened to transformation, is on-going, continuously being added to, never complete until we enter Heaven’s gates where we’ll find ourselves embraced, (engulfed, I like to imagine!) in the tender folds of our father’s wings.

Perhaps one of the best examples of transformation is that of a caterpillar to a butterfly.  Francis Chan, author of The Forgotten God, poses the question: “Ever wonder what goes through the caterpillar’s mind when it wakes up from its long nap to discover it can fly?” Seriously, how amazing is that? The caterpillar does not even resemble who it once was. He is a new creation.

We are a new creation in Christ Jesus. Think about that for a moment. We are in the midst of being transformed. Our minds have been renewed. The old has gone away and the new has come (2Cor. 5:17). I’ll admit that I take this for granted time and time again, that I forget that the same God who raised Jesus from the dead and parted the Red Sea dwells within me. I often brush past the countless times He has refined me—where He has allowed me to glimpse His glory. Perhaps, we all get distracted, lose our focus, get whisked away by the seemingly urgent or beautiful, sparkly things in this world, buying into outside experiences to furnish a personal sense of meaning. We forget that we are not what we do.  I have a feeling even if we were to build a monument like the Israelites did, even that would lose its splendor and eventually we would not even see it. 

So the question then, is how do we live intentionally for God, keeping Him in the forefront of every thought, every word we speak, and everything we do? We surrender daily to Him, submit to His leading daily, live like we have been transformed from a measly caterpillar to a new creation-- brilliant in color, pattern,  and can fly! As I reread these words, they sound so simple, they sound predicable even. We have heard them before, perhaps countless times, and yet we disregard such simplicity because we know it is anything but simple. It requires work on our part. It requires us to make a conscious choice daily, sometimes hourly, to live intentionally and fully surrendered to Christ. We are a generation of wanting our cake and eating it too… at no cost to us. We want intimacy with Christ and….

In writing these words, I am brought to tears and my heart is grieved that I take the work of the Lord (my testimony) for grated as times, brushing past who I once was, skimming over the mighty work the Lord has done in my life. I can fly for crying out loud. I can soar with eagles because my hope is in the Lord and it is Him who strengthens me (Is. 40:31).

Beloved, ponder these facts for a moment: we have been redeemed. We have been bought for a price that cost Jesus everything. We have been forgiven. We were created not because God needs us, but because He wants us. His thoughts are about us constantly and He desires to fill us with Himself. We are loved, treasured really.  Overwhelmed by His grace for us? Me too. And then when I reflect on the countless ways He has revealed Himself to me (revel in the specifics), transforming me more and more into the image of His Son, I am left speechless, my heart begins to beat wildly, and I am left in a place of utter worship. I cannot help but to fall to my knees in humble gratitude before the throne of my God.

Having an appropriate view of God dictates how we choose to respond to His magnitude and the work He has done in our lives. Honestly, when we live intentionally for Him, we cannot help but to boast of the work the Lord is doing in and around our lives. The choice is ours to make. Today, I will choose to live in a place of gratitude and relish in the work the Lord has and is doing in my life.  And Lord knows, I have incredible bragging rights because in my weakness, His power has been made perfect (2 Cor. 12:9). What about you?


“Gratitude awakens the soul to the sweetness of being tethered to God” (Margaret Ashmore).

Beloved?

“It takes a profound conversion to accept that God is relentlessly tender and compassionate toward us just as we are—not in spite of our sins and faults, but with them. Though God does not condone or sanction evil, He does not withhold His love because there is evil in us” (Brennan Manning).

I believe that the distance we sometimes feel between God and ourselves is because we have projected our feelings about ourselves onto God—believing that He is judging us as harshly as we judge ourselves (or others) or that He holds too high of expectations for us that we cannot possibly meet. Perhaps we feel that we cannot possibly approach Him until we clean up our lives, or look more presentable. We know that we are unworthy. Perhaps we fear that because we are likened to filthy rags that Christ will not even look our way, that---He will reject us. We know the old adage: God is love, but we don’t believe that applies to us.  We don’t live this truth.

 I write a lot about my identity in Christ. Perhaps, I do so because I am still trying to grasp it myself, even though I have been a Christ follower for more than half my life. I find myself lamenting with Paul when he writes, “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate to do, I do” (Romans 7:15) and resonating with the song writer who penned the words: "Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love". Sin lives within us! We are human beings in the midst of a great battle, not a battle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers and authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms (Eph. 6:12). We forget this constantly.  Though we cannot see this battle, we certainly feel the effects. We often don’t realize these struggles, trials and strongholds are Satan’s poisonous darts as he works with all his might to stifle us-- and if he is really successful, his stifling leads to bondage. For the Christian, this looks like a prison cell in which the door is wide open. We fear stepping into the light. We fear being seen; our shame or guilt revealed. We fear rejection. We reason, perhaps unconsciously, that it is safer to live in bondage than to be seen, to be known, to be rejected. One of the basic human needs is the need to belong, to be accepted. And we fight for this at all costs.

We forget that the sacred voice of Christ calls us, “Beloved” and being the Beloved constitutes the existence of our being” (Brennan Manning). Think about that for a moment. What images does your mind conjure up when you think about the name Beloved? Do we conjure up images of an idealistic, perfect person whose morals are always on the up and up, who tirelessly serves others day and night, who smiles genuinely, lives authentically at all times, never grows tired, never stresses or worries and has great hair days every day? (Anyone else thinking of Mary Poppins?)This is not an accurate image of God’s Beloved.

God’s definition of Beloved defies our definition. Perhaps that’s why we struggle. We see ourselves more as a beggar in God’s kingdom than His son/daughter. We don’t see ourselves as Beloved and this distances us from the Lord. God’s Beloved has wounds, battle scares that sometimes still ache; still immobilizes us at times. Complete with struggles, sins, and unworthiness, God’s Beloved does not allow these to stifle us, but allows the light to shine on these wounds, these imperfections, so that in God’s love, graciousness, and mercy we can be healed and live fully in relationship with Christ: in freedom, in acceptance, in belonging. As a Christ follower with wounds of my own, I have learned that when I allow myself to feel inferior or inadequate because of these wounds, Satan has accomplished what he set out to do in my life: question my identity in God’s eyes. These negative, self-focused thoughts somehow replace the wonderful spiritual experiences I have encountered, defy the truths that I have memorized in God’s precious Word, and inevitably replaces my freedom for shackles.  God’s Beloved in shackles? I am sure nothing breaks the heart of our Father more.

Living as the Beloved, challenges us because it defies human nature. Everything in us begs us to conceal our wounds, hurts, pains, imperfections, struggles, and addictions out of fear, shame, and/or rejection.  When we do this our inner darkness cannot be illuminated with God’s healing power, “nor can it become light for others”. Our wounds allow others to see God’s merciful hand more clearly. It helps us to know that we, too, in our weakness, are loved tenderly, the receiver of boundless compassion, infinite patience, and excessive forgiveness. God’s love does not keep score of our wrongs.  I know this and yet I do not always live in this truth. God knows this about me. He knows this about you. It does not scare Him away. It does not disappoint Him. Instead, He continues to whisper our name through the wrestling of leaves, through the tenderness of a hug, through the ache of loss. He does not grow tired as He waits for us. 1 Corinthians 13:7-8 reminds us that, “Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails”. God is love.

“Our falling (our sin, our failings) does not hinder [Christ] from loving us” (Brennan Manning). Satan’s number one ploy: get us to believe that our sin keeps Christ from loving us. Nothing, Beloved, nothing could be further from the truth.  I read some time ago that our spiritual life, our relationship with Christ, begins when we can acknowledge our brokenness, our poverty, our utmost need for Him. Accepting our wounded self is to take the first step into the light.

 “Wounds of pain and sadness make us aware of our inner poverty and create an emptiness that becomes as free space into which Christ can pour His healing power”.  When we make the decision to live authentically, raw, vulnerable, we find ourselves standing in the Truth that sets us free and we have the privilege to “live out the Reality that makes us whole”.  

The decision, and it is a decision, is ours to make every day. Each morning, I encourage you to wake up and greet your Abba, Father and thank Him for loving you as His Beloved son/daughter. Embrace your identity in Christ and live it fully without reservation, without restriction. Live Christ boldly as the Beloved!

 

Masquerade

There is a fear of being known; fear of rejection if we live out loud, if we say what we think or share how we feel, bring to light our struggles, or even expose the dark secrets of our past. Sometimes, this fear subsides as we age and grow in both maturity and in peace with who we are, who we were created to be, accepting our lot in life, knowing whether pleasant or painful that God can and will use it to bring glory to Himself, that nothing falls void in life, and that our purpose primarily is to worship Him more than to be self-focus, self-serving. However, to reach this place, this acknowledgement, we must be willing to remove the masks that we wear, allowing ourselves to be vulnerable. Without a doubt it is risky business.

 For many, it is easier to hide, stifled by fear, not living fully or to our full potential or purpose. I have lived in this place and still, occasionally, Satan reminds me of my unworthiness and sinful nature and I fall into the trap of grabbing a mask that covers my true identity. I AM the daughter of the Most High King and continuously fall short of His glory! The Lord is gracious to remind me who I am in Him, however, and the mask is eventually thrown to the wayside. However, as the mother of a daughter who has wrestled over her identity for the majority of her life and falls prey to the lies that Satan constantly bombards her with, my heart weeps for her constantly as I pray that someone, somewhere, somehow can speak truth to her in a meaningful way. I know that God’s plan is not to harm, but to give hope and a future in Him. I know that He will not let Meg stay here because He promises that He will finish the good He began in us, and what Satan intends for evil, God intends for good.

 Looking at the unfinished collage art project left strewn all over the kitchen table from the night before, I was taken aback by both the simplicity of the piece as well as the depth and growth it held for its creator, Meg, my 13 year old daughter. The project idea was taken from one of my art therapy books. The instructions were basic: list things that represent who you are, what you look like, how you feel, and/or who you want to be. Meg had asked to do this project and I readily complied (I never say no to art!). She made her list and I made mine. We then cut and tore magazines apart in silence as we scoured image after image looking for something recognizable, for representations of who we are and hope to be (I never use fashion type magazine for this project). Flipping through page after page, forced constant evaluation, causing us to asking of each image, “Is this me, is this who I want to be? Why? How? It allowed our mind to wander into Truth, to embrace who we are, even if it wasn’t pretty.

 Unfinished at the end of the night, Meg asked if she could leave everything out so she could resume working in the morning. Again, I never say no to art, so a substantial “mess” covered my entire table! I awoke early the next morning while the house was still quiet. Sipping my coffee, snuggled in my robe and fuzzy socks, I sat at the table. Meg’s collage and list before me, curiosity set in, and I could not help but to skim her list. Her list was lengthy and consisted of physical characteristics and her dreams for her future. I smiled as I read the list, but my smile quickly faded and a dull ache replaced the joy I had felt in my heart.  I could scarcely take my eyes off the last words written on her list, “I am broken”.

 I am broken” the words both haunted me and caused me to glorify the Lord as my daughter takes this first step in facing her fears. For years she has been wrestling with her identity as a product of rape as well as being half African American being raised in a predominately white home and culture. She has struggled with knowing where she fits and feeling accepted and/or worthy of any acceptance she does receive. She obsesses over her identity and every couple of years attempts to reinvent herself (pretty typical for teenagers), wearing a new mask which she hopes people will like better than the real her as well as one that makes it easier to look and accept herself. She lives in an invisible cage that she has made for herself. Held captive by what she believes she is supposed to be, but cannot live up to, no matter her efforts. She wears a mask, fearful to discover and embrace who she is.

Setting her list back on the table, I took a closer look at her art work. Flowers of every variety, color, size, and shape filled the upper half of her paper. Amongst the flowers were small words of all colors and thickness, posing the question, “Did you know that you are…” and then in large bold font, filling two thirds of the page, “WANTED”?”  I bit my lower lip as I felt the hot sting of tears slide down my cheek. This was the break we had been praying for. For years, literally years, we have been sharing with her, her value, purpose, and her identity in Christ in hopes that she could accept it, own it, and live it boldly. She has not been able to open this gift. Fear of embracing something so incredibly freeing and powerful, and going against all the messages the world bombards her (and us) is scary. Looking once again at title she had created for her art piece, I knew that she was processing this very message, that though she was still in that invisible cage, the door was now open. All she has to do is walk out.

Humility requires trust. Without trust, we cannot fully know love. Love is the first gift of grace, the ultimate gift that cost the Lord everything to give to us. Attached to this gift is a note that reads, “Take it, apply it, and trust me to make it real. I love you. Jesus” (TrueFaced). The Lord’s desire is to mature us into who He says we are (not the world) and release us into the dreams He designed for us before the world even began. It is a process to accept and trust God’s assessment of who He says we are. I cannot help but to put this into perspective by pointing out that we are able to love because He first loved us. We do not need to do anything to receive such love, such grace. It was given to us as we are, not who we could be or hope to be.

I said nothing to Meg about her art project.  I did not want to influence her creation in anyway. It sat unfinished the whole next day. She never did add more to it. Perhaps, when she went back to it, there was fear in moving forward or perhaps she was content with it as it stood. At any rate, we put the supplies away and I relished in complete and utter gratitude for the journey she is on and where I see she is heading. My hope, though not waning, was strengthened in that single moment.

Several days later, she went to camp for the first time. We have encouraged camp for years, always receiving a negative, fearful response. This year, however she approached us, asking if she could go to camp. I didn’t even look to see how much it cost, where it was, etc. It did not matter! My daughter was taking a step of great courage in asking to go to camp where she would not know anyone. I signed her up immediately, cautioning her that once I pressed the submit button, she had to go. She said, “Then hit the button already!”

In the preceding weeks leading to camp, I expected her to change her mind, to become fearful of the unknown, to attempt to get out of going. She did not. Instead, her excitement grew. It helped that her older sister, Abigail was also going as a camp counselor. Although the two would not be together, there was a comfort in knowing if she needed something, her sister, whom she had great respect and admiration for could be found quickly.

The camp theme was Masquerade, though I did not know that when she left. Abigail checked in each morning via text just saying, “Hi” and that she was having a blast. On Sunday morning, the phone rang. It was Abigail. My heart skipped a beat and immediately, I thought, “Oh no, she shouldn’t be calling me. Something must have happened”. I answered quickly to hear her cheerful greeting. I sighed a sigh of relief and told her how much I missed her and loved her. She interrupted my gushing to tell me about the happenings of the night before. Their lesson had been about wearing masks, what masks look like, why people wear them, etc. Abigail shared that the girls in her group, once back in their tent, started opening up, sharing deep, painful stories. Abigail, just 18, said, “Mom there is so much pain. The only thing I can do for these girls is to pray for them”.  I sought out to encourage her, telling her that though it felt overwhelming to hear such pain and not knowing what to do, what to say, or necessarily how to pray, that God had equipped her to be there in that moment and that in her weakness, His power is made perfect. She interrupted me again to say, “Yeah, but mom, that’s not why I am calling”.

“I’m calling because Meg’s group leader whisked me away from breakfast this morning to tell me Meg had shared her whole story with the girls in her group last night. Mom, did you hear me…the whole story”. I could not speak, I could not hardly utter more than an “uh huh”. The lump in my throat threatened to choke me as I attempted to breathe deeply through my nose at the complete understanding of what this meant.

Meg took another step in the healing process, taking off her mask. Such courage she had to have to share her story, a story she has not shared---ever. She must have felt safe. She must have trusted the girls she was with to be so transparent and so quickly---only two days into camp. I immediately prayed for the leaders, for the girls, for Meg that camp would be a place of grace. Meg is still at camp, returning tomorrow. I will let her unfold the story in her own timing, but I cannot tell you how eager I am to hear how the Lord worked in her life this week and what tools and truths were given to her for the journey ahead!

Once we remove these mask, seeing ourselves as God sees us, the son/daughter of the Most High, highly favored, loved beyond measure, not only completely and unfathomly accepted, but wanted, we can begin to see our Heavenly Father through eyes of gratitude, worship and live for Him with every fiber of our being, rather than striving to meet the world’s or even our own unrealistic expectations.

Today, I choose gratitude. I choose to see God’s sovereignty. I choose to dwell on the Truth!

 

Acorn

The warm sunbeams danced relentlessly amongst the oak tree’s leaves overhead, fading the dark green leaves to chartreuse with the slightest of breeze as they caught the sun’s brilliant light. Wrestling leaves whispered overhead while a rainbow of colored art supplies sprinkled the table below, and whinnies of horses in the nearby pastures and the stable just off to my right sang harmony as I knelt on my knees at the art table facing an 11 year old boy whom I just met.

He looked like an average 11 year old boy, lanky with dark hair and eyes and a crooked smile that immediately endeared me to him. He wore a t-shirt and shorts, revealing the brace on his leg. I never learned exactly what his disability was, something to do with his muscles, but honestly, it doesn’t matter.  He had come to Raven Rock Ranch this day expecting to work; but instead was asked to do art with me. He was readily compliant and walked to the table and then just stood. His arms hung heavy at his sides as his eyes took in the array of colors. He didn’t say a word at first, but his lips would purse and then pull taught and his eyebrows furrowed and lifted as if he were in deep thought for several moments. And then suddenly, a sigh escaped and he picked up a green oil pastel.

I had come with a specific art project in mind for the kids, but upon seeing his anxiousness about art in general, I decided to skip it, follow his lead, and work more intentionally on building a relationship with him.  I picked up an orange oil pastel and started to draw. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to draw. I really don’t know how to do any art.”, he said in a single breath. I laughed, trying to break the tension, and said, “What a relief! Neither do I! Maybe together we can make something pretty cool”. We decided to make an alien, taking turns drawing each body part and article of clothing. It was a messy colorful creature that had one eye, a tongue sticking out the side of his head; one long arm and one short arm. He was also nearly circle in shape with two short legs. It was quite the sight, I assure you!  We talked as we drew and I learned that Samuel loved sports. I mean really loved sports. Soccer is his all time favorite. He could ramble off players, teams, trades, scores and the like. We decided to make our alien a soccer player.

Looking at this finished creation, I said, “If this is a soccer player, he needs someone to play against. We should make another alien”. Feeling more relaxed about the process of creating, he agreed. We took turns drawing each element of our creature again and talked more about sports and his dream to become a soccer player. My heart sank as I listened to his grand plans, knowing his disability would not allow him to play the way he dreamed.  Nearly complete with our drawing, I handed him the oil pastel to draw the legs. He drew one long leg and one short leg. It seemed to suit our crazy creature, but I couldn’t help but to see the personal connection he was making to this creature. In the end, this alien had a football shaped head, one eye, the neck of a giraffe, muscular arms with two uneven legs.

We named our players crazy made up names and laughed about how silly they looked. Samuel kept talking about sports and without thought, picked up an oil pastel and drew a goal and a soccer ball off to the side. I asked, “If the two were really playing, who do you think would win?” He pointed to the first, nearly circular alien. I looked at him, questioning his choice, while pointing to the other alien telling him I bet this one would win. Samuel quickly refuted my vote by pointing to his uneven legs and said in an almost in urgent tone, “He would not be a good player. He would probably lose the game for the whole team”. I pointed out his long neck and gigantic eye and told him that he would be able to see everything and be able to tell his teammates where to go, what to do, and such. “He would be the most valuable player for sure”! Samuel still disagreed, but then was silent. He set his pastel down, hung his arms to his sides and fixed his eyes on the player with uneven legs.  I could see that he was not going to leave that conversation under the oak tree that day, but take it with him, perhaps pondering his own value.

Although the Lord was unwrapping something so profound for him to see, to accept about himself, I knew it hurt. Wanting to encourage him, I shared with him that my husband, Mr. Dennis, was once the star pitcher for his baseball team and had played for 13 years, never missing a game. He had such talent that he was awarded a scholarship to play in college. Though playing was Mr. Dennis’ first love, as he got older, he could not play like he used to, like he wanted to. Years later he helped coach a team for our church and as it turned out, Mr. Dennis made a terrific coach. His love for the sport equipped him to see all positions, read the body language of the opposing team and make wise calls. Coaching was just as important as play and incredibly fulfilling. Samuel looked solemn, nodded his head and said, “Yeah, if I can’t play, coaching or being an announcer might be kind of fun”.  I sat back on my knees, awestruck by the work the Lord was doing in that very moment in this boy’s life.  It is my hope that he sees his value and learns his true identity.  He is loved, He is accepted. He is valued. He is wanted. He is treasured. And it has nothing to do with his ability or disability.

Later that day, while driving home, my heart was burdened for Samuel and several other children I had the opportunity to do art with that day. I witnessed their hurt, their lack of self worth, their insecurity, anxiousness, and fears. My heart has always wept for these children, but today some of these children now have faces and names. My heart bids me to pray on their behalf constantly and that lump in my throat seems to be ever present. Driving home, my mind wrestled with the hurt and in my human mind, I searched for more ways to help when I heard (not audibly) “Just pray. Just keep praying”. God has a perfect plan for each of these children.  Jeremiah 29:11 tells us that it is not to harm them, but to prosper them and to give them a hope and a future. I love the verses that follow: “Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with your whole heart. I will be found by you, declares the Lord, and bring you back from captivity…”

It has only been a few days, but I can still see the brilliance of those oak leaves glimmering in the sun. And as I sit here, in front of my large picture window that looks out to a forest of trees, I am reminded that each of these majestic trees started out as a small seed. I cannot help but to see the children at RRR as little acorns. They are in the deep dark soil feeling as if they will always be there, perhaps feeling frightened, alone, not able to trust, perhaps paralyzed either by past experiences or the unknown future. But God’s plan is that they will one day grow into a great oak, strong, vibrant, and full of life; praising Him for giving them hope through Raven Rock Ranch and a future in Him.

Beauty from Ashes

Holding the two vividly detailed hand-drawn self portraits in my hands, I shook my head while biting my lower lip in both amazement and anguish as I slowly studied one and then the other.  The little girl looked up at me with those dark chocolate brown eyes and cautiously asked me if she had done the assignment wrong. Forgetting that my body language was communicating what I felt in my heart rather than what I desired for her to hear and understand, I quickly tried to cover my actions, by replying, “Oh, honey, the detail you put into each of your portraits is simply beautiful. They have stolen my breath away!” She innocently laughed and bounced away to pick up a book that she had been begging to read.

The assignment had been to make two portraits. One portrait depicting what she felt like on the inside, the part that no one sees; the part that she believes no one would understand, the part that is hard for her to express with words. I asked her to think about what colors represented her feelings as I opened the tray of oil pastels and took out the box of charcoal and colored pencils. I asked her if she was big or small, loud or quiet, seen or invisible, etc… The other portrait was to represent what she wanted to feel like on the inside and how she wanted other people to see her. I asked her the same questions (what colors do you see, are you big or small, loud or quiet, seen or invisible, etc...). I then sat at the far end of the table and worked on my own project.

Unlike me, she needed no time to begin her portrait. I watched from the corner of my eye as her hand searched for her color of choice, finally resting on a new piece of rectangular charcoal. I set my eyes back on my own pad of paper, but could hear the sharp sounds of the charcoal being etched onto the textured paper. The sound of the charcoal told me her story before I even saw her picture. I heard every stroke. I heard every frustration. I heard her feverishly race to put the image on paper. There was certainty in what she was creating. There was bitterness and anger. With the slightest pause in the air, I looked up to see her start shading the image with her fingertips, again intensity filled the air. I said nothing and returned to my work.

When I looked at this finished portrait, darkness hovered over the young girl wearing tattered clothing. Her dark eyes were smudged and a single tear was at the corner of one eye. Angry, bold words were written all over the page. Words like: stupid, loser, fatty, ugly, just kill yourself already… My heart ached as I could identify with some of these emotions, for I had spent a good share of my own adolescence believing many of these lies. If I am being honest, I was not surprised that her portrait revealed such hurt. I was taken aback however, by the intensity! That is something that art can reveal that words often cannot, especially when the child struggles to communicate effectively with words to begin with. I asked the girl later if she could describe herself in just one word what would it be and she said, “A tomb”. My heart sank and I smiled weakly as I pulled her into a hug.

Her second portrait was also in charcoal but she had used crisp thin lines to draw her image of a young girl wearing a flowered top and a crown on her head. Her smiled filled her entire face, which in turn made me smile! Words again filled the space around her image. Words like: beautiful, accepted, loved, important, etc. At the sight of this portrait my heart seemed to stop beating and my breath truly was stolen away. Again, I could identity with this 13 year old girl. Though I am far older, I believe all girls, young and old, desire to be beautiful, to be valued, and appreciated.   When I asked her to describe herself in one word in this picture, she said, “Filled-up”. If you know me, even a little, you know I couldn’t hold back the tears at her words.

My breath wasn’t stolen away for the realization that I am not all that different from a 13 year old girl, but because just that morning I had read Isaiah 61:1-4:

The Spirit of the sovereign Lord is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach the good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor and the day of vengeance of our God to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor. They will rebuild the ancient ruins and restore the places long devastated, they will renew the ruined cities that have been devastated for generations.

In those days it was common practice for those who were in mourning to pour ashes on their heads, tear their clothes, and wail loudly as they roamed the city streets. This was an outward expression of the anguish residing in their hearts.  Though this is not common practice in our culture today, our grief can become a foothold for Satan to keep us from living a full, Spirit-filled life. The Spirit of the Lord longs desperately to come alongside us in our grief, in our pain, and walk with us, replacing our torn rags with garments of praise, restoring our hearts to gladness, and bringing us more into the likeness of His Son, Jesus, as He places His crown of beauty upon our heads.

Strong’s Dictionary reveals that the original meaning of the “crown of beauty” was an ornamental head dress like a crown or a wedding veil. The term is derived from the Hebrew word, “pa’ar”, which means “to gleam, to explain oneself, to beautify” (Strong’s). In those days, the kind of head dress a woman wore explained who she was. Isaiah 61:3 beautifully portrays God “blowing away the ashes of mourning and replacing them with a crown---not just any crown, His crown”! We are the bride of Christ, of the Prince of Peace. Can we accept that? Can we let go of the lies we have allowed Satan to fill our empty spaces with and confidently walk in the Truth. We ARE His bride.

Obviously, there was no way for this little girl to know what I had read hours before our art lesson. However, the Lord gave me such a tender moment with her as He had most certainly primed my heart for this time. Forever, this young girl will be in my thoughts and prayers as I hope with all my heart that her and all women, young and old (me included) will embrace the identity Christ desperately longs for us to accept.

Satan wants to destroy our dreams, God wants to surpass them. He gives us dreams so we will long for His reality” (Beth Moore).

Can we learn to see ourselves as beautiful to Christ? Can we wear His crown confidently? I dare you to sketch yourself as He sees you and then pray that He give you His eyes to see yourself like that too!

Fishing For Peace

Meg and her oyster shell

My Dad loved to fish. No, I mean, He really looooved to fish. It was more than a hobby for him, it was a time of respite as he would often sit, contemplate, and pray over events both big and small, while waiting for a “nibble”; as well as the thrill of the catch. He rarely kept the fish he caught, as it was truly a sport for him. Therefore, we really had no proof of the fish stories he would tell. He fished year round, many times after he would get off work. And on weekends, he’d get up before the sun even had a chance to crest the horizon. Steelhead season, I have to believe was his favorite. And my worst, as winter’s breath inevitably chilled my bones and threatened to stay!

As a young girl, nothing could be worse than getting out of bed when it was still dark, dress in layer after layer and go sit in wet, smelly sand for hours upon hours, while Dad fished.  Though my siblings and I would always find mischief along the sandbar or create massive sand murals with pieces of driftwood, and end each trip swinging our legs off the tailgate of Dad’s ‘66 Ford, while eating warm bologna sandwiches, I still resolved that nothing could be more boring than to sit and watch a pole for hours on end in hopes to get a bite. I believed that until I was 26 years old. (Therefore this is an old story!)

Though I had not gone fishing with my dad for many years, I had decided that when I traveled home with my then 9 month old daughter, I would go with him. I don’t know why I thought it would be any different or why I was now subjecting my baby to this torrid event, but something drew me.  I suppose I wanted what my dad had found there all those years, whatever it was.

Sipping strong coffee from the lid of Dad’s green dented thermos, I sat with Meg on the slight incline of the sandbar, watching my dad. I loved everything about him in that moment, especially his crooked smile or the way he would bite his lower lip while he putting fresh bait on his hook. He waded out into the river a little further and cast his line again. I watched how the river glided swiftly past him, over fallen trees, and boulders;  continuing downstream, narrowing in places, skimming the sandy bar, and eventually spilling into another body of water. I loved watching his line plunk into the river, creating a series of expanding rings, until they disappeared. I was enthralled by the entwinement of regal simplicity and splendid authority.

I had sat on the banks of this river more times than I could count, but not until this day, did I pay any attention to its fluid movement and how it formed itself to the shape of whatever object stood in its path. The river was never without motion. I had seen it bursting with energy as its upstream source aggressively pushed its mass into this stream. I had seen it flooded as well as low enough to count the speckled rocks lining its floor. I have seen it nearly still, just ripples carelessly riding on the surface. Still, always in motion.  

I turned my face to the morning sun, letting its warmth seep into my soul.  The thought-provoking words of Horatio G. Spafford (1873) came to mind in that moment, a precious hymn I sang as child, growing up in a small Baptist church: “When peace like a river attendeth my way…” I hummed the song repeatedly as the melody soothed my wounded soul and the words caused me to contemplate what peace really means. “Peace like a river”, I whispered to myself as I sought out the characteristics of the river only 15 feet in front of me.

“Peace like a river”. The book of Isaiah uses this analogy twice, though the Bible addresses peace 251 times. It is the thing that we seek, bend over backward to meet. However, peace is not only as Webster defines: “A state of tranquility or quiet”, but experiencing this while meeting many bumps and unexpected twists and turns on life’s journey. Peace is not something that we can attain on our own merit, despite our best effort. If you are like me, you may have attempted to eliminate activities in hopes of finding peace. We reason that we are too busy to really have peace in our lives. However, we are not meant to live life in the stillness of a…a pond!  Rather, we must be connected to the Holy Spirit! He is the upstream tributary or source that feeds into the river. Rivers are constantly being renewed by active, ongoing motion. It is not filled once and left to fend for itself. Christ encourages we who are thirsty, we who are in need, to come to the fountain (Is. 55:1) Here, He fills us with His life-giving water.  But we must keep going back to the source. A relationship with Christ is the key component to peace. This filling enables us, like the river, to spill out into another body of water, overflowing into the lives of those around us.

I let out a sigh of gratitude, smiling a toothless smile as I hung my head, saying a prayer of thanksgiving for this visual lesson. Holding my sweet Meg in my arms, kissing her plump cheeks, and breathing in her sweet fragrance; I released my preconceived notions that life should be easier, without so much pain, and heartache. Storms of adversity will wash over us, attempting to steal our attention from the One who gives us peace. Beloved, don’t let them. Christ grieves desperately for those who whose hearts and souls are in unnecessary turmoil (Luke 19:41-42).

I am reminded of the parable of the disciples out at sea while a terrible storm raged, violently tossing their boat about. They were terrified. I imagine some stood wide-eyed, watching the sea swell and the vengeance of the wind whip their boat perilously, while others closed their eyes tightly in an attempt to sooth their fears. However, I certain they all watched with wide eyes and dropped jaws when they saw Jesus walking on the water!  I am positive they believed that Jesus would save them by calming the storm. Their thoughts were interrupted as Jesus called out to them, “Take Courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid”. It is here that you would expect Jesus to calm the storm. He did not. Not until he climbed into the boat did He calm the storm. I believe we have been sucked into this mentality as well: believing that peace is equated with rescuing—from calming the storms of life. “The point is not that we don’t have anything to fear, but that [Christ’s] presence is the basis for our courage” (Beth Moore). With the “winds still raging, He said, ‘Take Courage. It is I. Don’t be afraid’”. We can have peace when we authentically surrender to the trustworthy, sovereign authority of Jesus and keep going back to the “well”.

I set Meg down in the sand and encouraged her to play, when I came across an oyster shell. It had been brutally weathered and grayed with grains of sand lining the broken, ruffled layers on its back, revealing a life of being carelessly tossed about in the continual motion of the waters. I flipped it over, rubbing my thumb up and down its smooth, iridescent inner shell, thinking that perhaps an irritation the size of a grain of sand had made its way into its life, forming a peal, a treasure of great value.

I had been wounded to my very core 18 months earlier when I had been raped, conceiving a child, my Meg, as a result. My heart had been hemorrhaging all these months as I attempted to understand where God was in all of this. I went from blaming Him for the situation because He allowed it to happen, angrily accusing Him of not loving me; to a place where I fully embraced Genesis 50:20, “What Satan intended for evil, God intended for good”. In this moment, holding Meg, my precious pearl, a seeming reminder of incredible pain, she was/is infinitely more of reminder of the peace that God grants us when we surrender to His authority.

My nose began to run as I could not help but to think God had orchestrated this life lesson specifically for me, this day. I bit my quivering lip and ran out to my Dad, with Meg in tow. “Hey Dad, look what I just found”, showing him the oyster shell. I was a kid again, still learning, still constantly amazed.

Meg’s name means “pearl”. She was named Meg for that meaning.  She was brought into this life through a horrific situation, but without a doubt, is my pearl of great value. So great in fact that a Merchant I know so very personally sold everything He had for her…and for you. “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away; sold everything he had, and bought it”. (Matthew 13:45) Our identity is not in the bumps and bruises that we accrue, rather our identity is the One who freely gives us peace in the trials of life. He sees you as His pearl, nothing less!

The oyster shell, 12 years later, still sits on Meg’s dresser and serves as reminder that pearls often come through the storms of life and peace can and will accompany us when we surrender to our sovereign Lord’s authority. I went fishing with my dad that day and caught a whole lot of peace!

Trust Follows

Bitter frost glimmered brilliantly underfoot as it caught the early afternoon’s sunlight, crunching raucously as we sauntered toward my truck, while escaping my lungs through hazy vapors lingering at my lips. My winter kissed nose began to run and so did the tears, for my heart had been etched with the most precious of memories.

I had spent the last hour watching Rusty, our angel in horsehair (!), follow Meg around the round pen without a lead, without a single touch. I watched Rusty lower his head to her waist, turn circles, back up and stop simply by the sound of her voice. If I had not seen it myself, I would not have believed it. I honestly do not know of anything more life-giving than to watch a girl who struggles with her value and a once neglected horse bond. He was free to do what he pleased and he chose to follow her.

I recall our first day at Raven Rock Ranch. It was a warm fall day and Rusty had been keeping himself cool in the shade of a cluster of trees at the far end of the pasture. When Meg approached the fence, it was if he had always known her. He trotted to the fence, bent his head low and breathed in her scent. Her smile had been held captive for countless years and in that moment Rusty had unlocked not just her smile, but her precious giggle as she leaned forward to nuzzle noses with him. Sandy, owner and operator of the ranch, revealed that he never does that. He chose her that first day. And she chose him.

Every week for a few months now Meg has looked forward to our time at RRR. She cleans stalls, grooms Rusty, and has been learning to tack and ride. Her small voice, awkward gestures, and lack of confidence confine her in most areas of her life, isolating herself, floundering in self doubt, and engaging in self-destructive behavior. However, Rusty sees beyond that. He simply sees his girl. She shows up and his quiet day becomes a vivid wonderment as they work together to meet each other where they are. They do not need to pretend with one another. Their hearts have been gravely bruised and yet they have chosen each other to journey toward healing, learning to trust one another along the way.

Today, Sandy unhooked the lead from Rusty’s halter and asked Meg to slowly walk away from him, believing that he would follow her. After several steps it looked as if Rusty was not going to follow. He just stood there. His ears twitched as he listened to the slightest crackle of frost laden footsteps and the whinnies of horses in bordering pastures. He lowered his head, smelling the air as if searching for anything to give him direction. Meg stood still, her back to him, just waiting. I am certain she would have waited for him all day for I have never seen devotion like hers to Rusty.

Rusty had never been given a choice before. Never. Now, he had freedom to do what he wanted and it clearly confused him. Several minutes passed and finally he took a step---walking parallel to where Meg was, not to her. Admittedly, I chuckled. It was as if he was saying, "I want to be near you, but I will not do it exactly like you want". Typical 10 year old behavior!  Sandy reentered the round pen and instinctively, yet unconventionally asked Meg to breathe into Rusty’s nose. Horses greet each other by breathing into one another's noses, so it seemed likely that he would identify with Meg, recognize her on a different level if she were to do the same. With both hands planted on her knees, she stoop to Rusty’s lowered head and breathed into his soft muzzle. Frosted air escaped her petal pink lips, rising heavenward. Then, without a word, Sandy left the pen. Meg began to walk and Rusty followed. Meg stopped and Rusty stopped. She walked in circles and so did he. He was smitten with a girl he was learning to trust!

Trust sees what physical eyes cannot. It is a deepening, a ripening, a willingness to wait for God in the unplanned place of obedience, and to walk with God at the unplanned pace of obedience---“to wait in His place, and to go at His pace”, knowing with certainty that He will carry us through all our afflictions. Trust requires faith. It feels risky until we know; really know the One we’re walking with.