Project 52: From Where I Stand

I stand as messenger!

I’ll never forget those dark eyes, never. If I close my eyes now, 17 years later, I can still see them. I can still see the spacing of his lashes and prominent pupils due to the shadowy-dim light. His girth suffocated me as my face was pushed into the all-weather carpet, burning its roughness onto the left side of my face. Without a thought of possible repercussion, I mustered all I had within me and let out a blood-curdling scream for help, except my body betrayed me and no sound came from my lips. I felt my vocal cords constrict, and my mouth open, but no sound escaped. I tried again, telling myself that it was my fear choking me and that if I could just relax, then my voice would work. It didn’t. The silence was deafening; literally piercing my ears. Silence from him. Silence from me. And still, sometimes, the quiet can become too much for me. I remember thinking that this six-foot-four, 275-pound African-American man would give up after trying for what seemed an eternity to destroy me, but he didn’t. My thoughts quickly changed to wishing he would just hurry. I have no comprehension to this day how long the physical attack lasted. I only know I allowed the emotional portion to affect me a good share of the years since.

I felt like a rag doll; limp, lifeless and hopeless when I was finally left all alone in the dark. I didn’t cry---not right away. I picked myself up, cleaned up the best I could, and then I cried. And cried. And still to this day, I cry.

I cry for me. I cry for him. What has to happen in a person’s life to bring them to such a place to commit such violence without regard for another human being?

Weaving in and out of various parts of the story in an attempt to focus on where I am standing now, this week’s theme, I skip ahead nine months to share that with my husband of now 23 years by my side, I gave birth to a beautiful reminder of God’s Sovereignty, a bi-racial baby girl that resulted from that traumatic night; and a few years later found myself part of Pacific Northwest’s Speakers Bureau for Crisis Pregnancy Centers, focusing on both educating the public and fundraising. (I am incredibly, incredibly passionate about the issue of pro-life! Incredibly!).

At one such speaking engagement at Beasley Coliseum at WSU, I was teamed up with an African-American man. We had never met before and to be honest, I do not remember what he even spoke about. However, after the event was over, he approached me, pulling me aside, and with tears streaming down his cheeks, he said, “I want to ask you for forgiveness for my “brother”. Will you forgive him?” I was completely caught off guard and the strength that I had been mustering up all day betrayed me and I fell at his knees and sobbed like the little girl I so desperately had been trying to hide for a very long time.

I don’t remember my co-speaker’s name, but I have never, never forgotten his words. I have pondered them in every possible way; I’ve turned them over, upside down and back again. I’ve mulled them over, looked for a hidden agenda, trying to believe there was something there I wasn’t seeing. Friends, there wasn’t. His words, however, were not his own.  He was merely the messenger because they were the words of Christ, “Forgive them” (Luke 23:34).  

17 years later, I, too, stand too as a messenger. Over and over again, I find myself standing in the expanding space between injustice and forgiveness, loving the unlovable, forgiving those who have wronged; those who have crudely dismissed the beauty and value of one’s life and forever altering others in seemingly unforgivable ways. Standing in this place of Hope happened to me. I wish I could say I have this amazingly loving heart and I sought out ways to show love to the unlovable, but I didn’t.

Somehow in the midst of my seething hatred, wishing ill-will of my attacker so much so that I have literally made myself physically sick and praying for vengeance, God filled me with compassion, broke my heart for what breaks His and allowed me to surrender all those warranted thoughts to Him and rely on His strength and leading in my life. I trust---I absolutely have to—that God will deal with each injustice in a far better way than I ever could. Injustice is something I cannot comprehend no matter how hard I stretch my imagination or try to put myself in an offender’s shoes. It’s ugly and it robs us of our security, dignity, and innocence while often jostling our faith in both humanity and God. Turning a blind eye to injustice is an injustice in itself!

I refuse to turn a blind eye to it---I run toward it now. I write to prisoners, through the Prisoners for Christ organization, study the Bible alongside them, write notes of encouragement, direction and prayers over them. When I mail my letters, it is only the beginning because I vow to continue to pray over each prisoner. I have no idea if the words I write are meaningful to them or are life-changing, but I do know I am showing them Jesus the best way I know how. I stand with my arms outstretched toward heaven in humble thanksgiving for the forgiveness that I have been graced with and desire with all my heart to share that freedom with those held captive (physically and emotionally) by their own unforgiveness and sin. I stand as messenger.

Project 52: Motion (Grace in Forte)

Watching my daughter practice piano day after day, I can only describe what I see as nothing short of graceful. I could bask in this sunbeam of her for hours upon hours, if she would allow me. Mesmerized by her heart and mind extending out through her fingertips and fill the air not just with a collection of captivating notes, but with something it lacked before; something like insurmountable joy and hope, I find that her music breathes life into our home in a way other things cannot. Unfathomable joy ushers in completeness; rivaling other elations I cherish, like uncontrollable giggles of children or the slipping away of the sun’s brilliant radiance at the end of a long summer day. Her music steadies and comforts my soul. It’s not about the songs she plays, but the passion, intention, and purpose all filtered through her sieve, or soul, of tenderness. Her character is meek and her gentleness can be felt even in the forte of whatever song she chooses to play.

Grace is motion; it is movement. It is not without purpose, determination, or strength. And as I think about the different things I have assigned grace to, things like pirouetting ballerinas, the sweeping motion of an eagles’ wings, the glide of ice skaters, Meg’s piano playing… I have realized how much I have misunderstood a colossal part of grace. Grace is not light of touch or wispy like stratus clouds or soft like velvety bunnies, and yet somewhere along the line we have always assigned grace as such—an elegant tenderness; but this is what grace resembles once reflected off the One who placed it within us to begin with. When I sit back and think about the intentional placement of the pianist’s fingers, the dedication needed to master a melody, the strength, determination, energy both necessary and required to share a piece of themselves in this way, it baffles my mind. Grace is intentional. Grace is a practiced, quiet strength. It is led by determination to go beyond the expected. Grace is the active expression of Christ’s love through us (Col. 3:4, paraphrased).

In His book, The Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning pens the profound, yet simple words that reside deep within my own heart: “My deepest awareness of myself is that I am deeply loved by Jesus Christ and I have done nothing to earn it or deserve it”. When we experience the goodness of Christ in our lives, that is grace. That is His immeasurable strength, determination, intention, and unconditional love and acceptance for us-- and through us. I am completely humbled day in and day out at how much I desperately need Christ’s grace and I am completely grateful (and baffled) for the fact that His grace is not just enough for me, but more than enough so that I, in turn, have excess grace to share with others. Grace requires strength that surpasses ours, enduring practice, and deliberate intention. Often, we are called to exhibit grace to those who have hurt us, sinned against us, or the unlikable. On our own, we will feel uncomfortable and unqualified. Out of the overflow of what has already been given to us, and a reliance on Christ’s strength, not ours, we intentionally practice grace over and over again. And in the crazy, hectic-ness of life where life is so loud, grace abounds. Grace in Forte!

I love that I have the honor and privilege to watch Christ express Himself through Meg in her music. She is a beautiful expression of the love of Christ.

Project 52: Blue (Really, it's about Baptism)

Project 52's Topic this week: Blue.
When I was a little girl, I colored pictures of water blue. I suppose that's why I chose to take my picture of water for this challenge. Ironically, it does not capture a bit of blue. I'm going with it.

When I was 9 years old, I was a buck toothed lanky girl who stood at least a full head and shoulders taller than my peers, and although I felt incredibly awkward in my own skin and didn’t really have an understanding of who I was, I knew my Jesus and boy, did I loved Him. Sunday after Sunday, I sat in one of the 30 fabric covered pews flanked by floor-to-ceiling multi-colored stain glass windows with my mom and dad sitting strategically intertwined between my two siblings and I. I could predict church as well as Johnny Carson could predict the answers to clues in sealed envelopes. Church was not mysterious. It was predictable. I knew church. I knew the pastor’s sing-song rhythm so well, that I could practically count down the seconds and number of syllables until his inflection and seemingly calculated rise in tone began before he would slam his fist onto the pulpit. Echoing in the rafters and reverberating in our ears long after, that thud sent an urgency through our bones, guilting us to action, “less you be damned to hell”. It was a place that scared the bejeezus outta me (is that a bit sacrilegious here?) and at the same time felt entirely sacred. The only explanation I have to explain this seemingly oxymoron experience is to say that I felt the Lord’s presence in the face of legalism.

There were unspoken expectations and it seemed everyone played along. It was Sunday- Funday! I probably shouldn’t say that because wearing itchy wool skirts and pretending I liked being there wasn’t fun. If I can take an inch of liberty here, I would say, I bet it is actually Sunday-Funday for Satan. He loves when we put on those masks and act as if we’re OK. He loves when we compare our wool skirt to the pretty petite girl’s across the aisle. He loves when we sing songs about “oh how we love Jesus” and yet have just cursed Him the night before. I bet that sly little smile pulls at the corner of his mouth and a gleeful giggle escapes. We may be fooling the other wool skirt wearing chicks, but we’re not foolin’ anyone else, especially ourselves. That phrase, “fake it until you make it”, does not, absolutely does not apply here. I faked it. I faked it for the first 20 years of my life. And when I was 9, I started to realize that there were expectations of me that expanded beyond my outward appearance. And so I was baptized.

I remember checking the box on the envelope that I usually disassembled each week in order to have more space for drawing. I put it in the offering plate and that was that. A few weeks later I was baptized in front of the church with several other kids my age. My pastor asked me two questions prior: “Do you know Jesus as your Savior?” And “Would you be willing to sit on your knees once inside the baptismal so I can reach you?” (See, even at 9 I was taller than our pastor). My answer to both was “Yes”. I remember entering the baptismal and feeling absolutely elated. I swear they trucked in salt water because never have I buoyed that much. I tried to kneel, but I kept floating. The pastor managed and I was immersed “by the powers vested in [him] in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost”. Baptism done. That’s all it was. And I thought nothing more of it for many years.

I have attended church my entire life so I have had the honor of witnessing hundreds of people profess their faith publically in baptism. The idea of baptism always stirred at my heart and when my own daughter asked to be baptized when she, too, was 9, I felt the weighty, albeit, honorable task of making sure she understood what it symbolized. When I was in her same position I believed two things about baptism and honestly, I do not know where these ideas came from. First, that it was something you had to do if you genuinely believed in the Lord, and secondly, that it was a washing of the spirit, performed to obtain a clean slate. What I did before the age of 9 that I felt needed a clean slate is beyond me!

As my faith continued to be cultivated, the more I learned to love, love my Jesus and the more I felt compelled to understand His beautiful Truths for myself. I leaned that those two ideas I had at 9 were not so far off the mark, but there was so much more to it and it had nothing to do with me. Romans 6:3-10 became pivotal verses for me as I dissected each with a ferocious hunger. Though I could easily write in more depth about my discovery, I will simply say that baptism is ALL about Jesus, not about us. It is an emblem of Christ’s burial; signifying death to sin’s rule over our lives, to our unbelief, rebellion, idolatry, etc. and His resurrection; signifying a new life of faith, submission, and unfathomable, gracious, and sacrificial love. It’s a sign of belonging, of union with Christ in His suffering, but also in His glory. This is what we are declaring when we are baptized! Doesn’t this just give you gooseies?!!!  Don’t misunderstand me here, I am not saying that baptism unites us with Christ---FAITH units us with Christ! Broken down so eloquently by author, John Piper, we understand that: “…we show this faith, we say this faith, and signify this faith, and symbolize this faith with the act of baptism.” If we believe, we publically proclaim it through baptism. He died and rose so that we might have life---and life to the full (John 10:10). When we rise from the water, it is symbolic of the covenant we have made with Christ. (It is not the covenant itself, just as a wedding ring does not make us married. It’s a symbol).

You see, when I was 9, I made baptism about me, not Jesus. I didn’t know better. And a couple years ago, that weighed so heavily on my heart that I desired  to be re-baptized with all the understanding and genuine love I have for Christ now. So, in a horse trough at a very special ranch (Raven Rock Ranch), where I had felt increasingly close to the Lord and witnessed His glory more times than I can count, I was baptized. I desired to be baptized with the imagery of Christ’s brutal suffering and His un-surpassing desire to give me (and you) life. Kneeling in the trough filled with water warmed by the afternoon’s sun, I closed my eyes and felt my heart pierced with a pain I’ve never experienced before; and as I was about to be lowered, my eyes filled with tears for Him, for God’s Son. I cannot fully comprehend that sacrifice. I cannot understand that level of love. I had the honor of my husband and our good friend, Tim to stand by myside and together slowly lower my body until it was fully covered by the refreshing, life-giving water of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirt-- Whom I know witnessed this act of outward expression of my faith for them. A second or two passed before I broke the surface of the water and felt the warmth of the sun shine upon my face. I raised my hands toward the Son, giving thanks for the life He gave on my behalf and the life I now have because of Him. I am a new creation (2 Cor. 5:17). My daughters stood just outside the trough and witnessed what can only be described as one of the most meaningful events of my life.

My Baptism August 13, 2013
Yep, that's a horse trough. I'm classy like that!

Water. I love water. Everything about it, but especially it’s nourishing and life-giving, thirst-quenching attributes. I can’t help but to think of Rev. 21:6, which says, “He said to me, “It is done. I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. To him who is thirsty I will give drink without cost from the spring of the water of life”. Without a doubt, Christ is the merciful Living Water that brings the dead to life through His amazing grace!

Project 52: Guilty Pleasure

Note: Project 52 is a one year photography challenge. I love photography, adventures, and challenges, so naturally, I fell in love with this idea! As I looked over the list of topics for the year, I felt inspired to write a bit as well on each of the topics. It's been awhile since I've put much on paper, but I assure you my desire to write authentically and live boldly for Christ are just as much a part of me as always. Week three's topic: Guilty Pleasures. Although I have many, spanning from shoes to delicacies, I chose the one I hold the most dear to my heart---and honestly, could not live without: Books!

I love books. I really do. I love everything about them from the feel of their nearly smooth, weightless pages that beckon for my fingers to purposefully glide across them; to the rustling coo they make with each turn.  I read intentionally and yet, ever so slowly, lingering maybe longer than necessary at intersections of words because I long to relish in the feeling of connectedness as long as possible. And if I am writing to a fellow book lover, you know the tantalizing smell of books…some describe it as "musty" or "old", but I believe it’s the smell of wisdom, dreams, and love all bound together with string with the hope of sharing one’s soul with another. The smell wafts just beneath my nose and comforts me much the way a warm blanket just taken from the dryer might.

I’ll admit that some books plead for me to read them over and over again, while others sit content, collecting evidence of time, among my shelves watching over me as if to say, “I did my job well the first time around, but I’ll serve as a reminder of the time she discovered such and such or learned about this and that”. A few of my affectionately battered books stack seemingly haphazardly on my bedside table, while others rest, for now, on specially reserved shelves. Margins scrawled with thoughts, questions, names of loved ones, or prayers for understanding, guidance, or strength; phrases underlined, specific words circled... *sigh*, the mere picture brings peace to my heart. These books are my companions, delivering balm to my sometimes weary soul, offering encouragement when the storms of life seem to close in, teaching me lessons yet to be learned or, let’s be honest, to be relearned. Books are very much a part of who I am. Upon finishing each book, I hold it near my heart and feel as if I have gained a better sense of who I am. They nourish my soul in ways most other things cannot.


I love bookstores. Colorful spines, compelling titles, varying degrees of height, thickness, and depth, and genres galore greet me at the door and I feel as if I am home. If I thought it appropriate---heck, if no one would look my way, I would spin gloriously throughout the store with my arms outstretched, like Julie Andrews’ character, Maria in the Sound of Music. My mother taught me better however, so I’ll save those types of shenanigans for my real home! It is a rarity that I visit a bookstore and not walk out with an armful of books. I have absolutely every intention of diving into each and every one---and I am optimistic that I will! The guilty pleasure piece comes in when I admit that I have a plethora of unread books at home just waiting for their chance to breathe truth into this marrow of mine. I really have no business purchasing more books.

Several years ago, my silly husband asked me if I had ever noticed the big brick building on the left as I am driving into town. Brow furrowed, I questioned, “You mean, the library?”. You see, his sweet self was trying to feed my love for books while attempting to be a better steward of our finances. Of course, I know where the Library is and I frequent it often. However, I love, love marking in my books, which is funny for this type A girl, who likes things neat and orderly. This Type A girl would never think to destroy public property, hence the need to buy books. Asked why I mark in books, I can only say that it’s because I crave that connectedness, that mingling of thoughts with the author’s, and the necessity to digest in a tangible way (that is why I write).

I treasure the Word of God more than any other book simply because the connectedness, the level of belonging, of feeling held and loved and led-- as I am--- no matter what season of life I am in, surpasses any other book I’ve ever read. It is often referred to as the Living Word because it breathes life into me day in and day out. I see something new no matter how many times I’ve read it. Without a doubt, it is my life, my love, my joy, my teacher, my inspiration, my encouragement, my identity… my everything. I read a quote just today that explains my great, great love for the Word of God better than I could: “God’s Word. A love letter to my heart. A tool box for my hands. A shield for my mind. And a sword to use against the devil. What a gift”
Lysa Terkeurst.

Project 52: Morning

Quick Note: Project 52 is a one year photography challenge. I love photography, adventures, and challenges, so naturally, I fell in love with this idea! As I looked over the list of topics for the year, I felt inspired to write a bit as well on each of the topics. It's been awhile since I've put much on paper, but I assure you my desire to write authentically and live boldly for Christ are just as much a part of me as always. Week two's topic: Morning

"Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His mercies never
fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness". Lam. 3:22-23

I love lazy clouds lingering at the tops of bare trees and sunbeams fighting to display their radiance in the dim morning light. I love the reassurance of life as I feel my lungs fill with cool, sharp air and my skin prickle with goose bumps while exhaling prayers of thanksgiving for yet another day, which on their own, resemble hazy rain clouds drifting heavenward in the early winter mornings.  I love clear, dark mornings when stars still dot the sky, reminding me my God is so much bigger than I, so much more in control that I, so much more powerful and all-knowing than I. It’s exciting to embark on day where promises will be fulfilled, hopes will be dreamed, and new mercies will be gifted.

I’ve always associated mornings with mercy. I’m pretty sure it’s because when I was a wee girl growing up in a small Baptist church, we sung a hymn inspired by Lamentations 3:22-23, which speaks about God’s mercies being new every morning. We sung this hymn so often, seemingly every. single. Sunday, that I can still hear the slow, and I do mean s-l-o-w, organ’s vibrato in the back of my mind to this day. It wasn’t a song I particularly liked (can you tell?), however, the words acted as a key ingredient in the foundation on which I’ve built my now 43 years upon. I am not a glass-half-full kind of girl by chance. I am a glass-half-full kind of girl because mercy was planted and nurtured throughout my entire life.

Mercy is often misunderstood. When it isn’t overlooked, it’s taken for granted or confused with something it is not. And what I mean by that is that we often believe we deserve more or better or something other than what we have received. And although that maybe true, when we look for what we DON’T have, we miss what we DO have. And that’s exactly my point. Remember the story of the Israelites and how even though the Lord daily provided manna (bread) for them, they still cried out for meat? Remember how God eventually gave into their pleas and in the end they realized that they really had no desire for it after all? (Exodus 15-16) I think we’re a little like that too. We want all that Christ offers in addition to the perks of the world. Thinking about this, I wonder just how much we miss of God’s glory when we are searching for something we have assigned more significance to?

Robert Gelinas points out in his book, “The Mercy Prayer”, that mercy is “compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, steadfast love, unfailing love, goodness, generous love, and loving kindness”. You may read that list and quickly make the connection that those are attributes of Christ; and you would be correct! Mercy is at the core of Who Christ is! (Psalm 103). I feel it important to note here that mercy is for everyone; the loveable and unlovable alike. We are all sinners and fall ridiculously short of God’s glory (Romans 3:23); and if we consider that the wages of sin is death (Romans 6:23), we know we have been gifted an abundance of mercy when we receive His gracious, sacrificial gift of salvation. Mercy assumes we’re going to sin and He loves us anyway; He supplies our needs anyway. Mercy doesn’t alleviate our pain or suffering, but does act like an ointment to our wounds. It’s not based on anything we do or don’t do. On that note, I think it’s equally important to understand that God doesn’t dole out mercy with reluctance, or weighing the pros and cons of doing so, or even anticipating some form of repayment (not that we could!). He has no ulterior motive. He simply loves to love and He does that by gifting us His mercy each and every day, starting first thing in the morning. Micah 7:18 tells us that “God delights to show mercy”. Delights! Can you picture His face? Do you get a sense of His heart?

Perhaps the best definition I’ve heard is “Mercy is God’s grace in action”.

Going back to the story of the Israelites for a minute, it’s important to remember that God didn’t just place His provisions in their laps. They actually had to go out and gather the manna. When they saw the abundance of manna, they were so excited; so excited that they gathered far more than they needed in hopes to save some for the next day. Do you remember what happened? It rotted. God provides what we need for this day and only for this day. I love how Beth Moore, in her Bible Study: A Woman’s Heart, God’s Dwelling Place” points out that “our ratio of mercy matches our present need. When the time arises and the need escalates, so does the grace required for us to make it. God is always sufficient in perfect proportion to our need”.  We always have what we need. Nothing more, nothing less for today. We cannot store up or use up God’s mercies. It’s impossible. And every day, we will learn to rely on Him to meet our needs.

This morning I thank the Lord for another day, another opportunity to see Him and to reflect His love to the world. I challenge you to do the same. I am pretty sure that if we can practice having a thankful heart for what we already have, we will be transformed from the inside out. This happens when we trade our agenda for His; when we trade our shame, regrets, fears, etc. for His mercy. What a way to begin each morning!

Project 52: Who Are You?

A note before diving in: Project 52 is a photography challenge that I have accepted for 2016, but because I love exploring and learning more about both photography and writing, I am combining the two with each week's theme here.

Week One: Who Are You?

I cannot sum who I am up in just a few words or merely a few sentences. I am complex, yet simple. I might resemble the made famous quote by actor Tom Hanks in his role as Forrest Gump, I’m “…like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get”. I don’t mean to imply I’m mysterious, on the contrary; I’m an open book.  I like who I am though. I’ve worked hard to become the woman I am today. Everything you see of me on the outside has a story of hard work, fight, determination, and ultimately of love for myself because I have always known to some degree I am worth fighting for. I am better than the circumstances that have surrounded me or have threatened to take me captive, trying mightily to rob me of joy. I am not what happens to me. I am not my environment. I chose joy a long time ago. It resides deeply in my soul and escapes through my smile. I think I might even smile in my sleep most nights---not because my life is easy. Lord, knows it is anything but. I think I smile because I am secure in my faith. I am a glass half-full kind of girl.

I’ve been broken. Some of that brokenness has been done to me, while a good deal more I have done to myself. I am not broken now. Chipped and fractured in some places and certainly scarred in others. And I treasure each of those chinks in my armor because I have learned more about who I am and who I was always made to be. I am whole. I am complete. My identity is not in my scars, but more so in the One who bore them for me so that I might have life to the full---if I would choose it. And I did.

I am:

Loved
Treasured
Delighted in
Fought for
Protected
Cherished
Forgiven
Called
Comforted
Held
Led
Whole
Transformed
Redeemed
Free from condemnation
Sanctified
Saved
God’s workmanship
Anointed
Free
Blessed
Graced
Empowered
Equipped
Promised


As I sit here typing out these characteristics, it dawns on me that these point more to Christ and all that He is able to do in a surrendered heart who desires to learn and love. I guess that’s who I am then. A heart surrendered.

I have several life verses; verses I hold close to my heart; that I pray repeatedly as I ask the Lord to continue to refine me—at any cost---to mold me into His likeness. One of my favorites: Colossians 3:4 “I am an expression of the life of Christ because He is my life”. It is my prayer that when people see me, they first see Christ. He is my life, my love, my everything. It’s who I am!