[UGLY] & BELOVED

I remember the first time.

I can’t recall what I was wearing but my flip-flops were a muddled blue in the weak, yellow light of the 4^th floor girls’ dorm bathroom—my feet firmly planted around the toilet seat of the corner stall. Sick from eating too much food, terrified of what it would do to my body, and exhausted from years of starving myself and over exercising, I reasoned it would be easier to just throw up. I did. That was the first time. It provided twisted relief and I thought I had discovered the solution to all my body problems.

I was eighteen and a college freshman. Now 25, I sit here a grown woman, still untangling myself from the consequences of a path I ignorantly started on seven years ago. It is a path of destruction and shame and lies and condemnation. Through my faith and belief in Jesus Christ, I can humbly say after years of growth I can now walk in victory most of the time. Still, I walked that destructive path so many times that even now I sometimes fall into the ruts, worn so deep, after years of habit.

Friday night was one of those nights. It started innocently with pizza and birthday cake, but in a momentary stumble in judgment, I found myself stuffed and headed into the bathroom.  I had done this, quite literally, over 1,000 times in seven years. It is mindless for me. But Friday was different.

In the midst of my self-inflicted misery, full of shame and food, I became aware of Christ’s immediate presence. I saw no vision, but he was there. I cringed inside as I prayed, “Jesus, I don’t want you to see me like this. I am sorry. I know I should be better. Just go away from me until I have cleaned up my mess.”

He didn’t leave. To my confusion I didn’t sense disgust from Him. He stayed and put his hand on my back to comfort me while I finished making myself sick. He didn’t shy away from my ugliness. He didn’t condemn me for my sin. I sensed him saying, “I love you. I always love you but I think you need to hear it right now, in this moment. I love you. Not after you have cleaned up. Not after you make up your mind to never do this again. But now—as you are—I love you.”

The weight of his words nearly stops my heart even now. I have been motivated to stop my sin by a great number of things—but none so much as the grace-filled love of Jesus.

But I am no exception. That is the heart of the Gospel:

“⁸ But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8.

And though I know that truth on an intellectual level, to experience His love and acceptance in my ugliest moment takes my breath away. Leaves me on my face. Makes it worth sharing my shame with you so I can share His mercy also.

I pray this week that God pins you down with His love. In the middle of your ugliest moment I hope he floors you with His grace.

Like Simon Peter we will fall to our knees and beg him, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” (Luke 5:8) but that is not His way. He stays and loves and beckons us into an acceptance that trumps the allure of sin every time if we let Him. Let Him!

"I can't fix anything. Or anyone."

If I have learned anything in these first 3 weeks, it’s that we people want people to save us. Sometimes we look in friendships; “Can you see me?” Sometimes in marriages; “Am I worth loving?” Sometimes even in parent-teacher conferences; “Are my kids talented enough to make me feel whole?” And lots of us look to pastors; “AM I FORGIVEN?”

It’s remarkable how many people our pastors at Embrace meet with each week.

The meetings are good and necessary and bring healing and new ideas—yet it is so evident that we all so often want other people to ‘fix’ us. I believe that God has put a wanting in our hearts, a desire to be whole and clean and free. Unburdened, unburned. Full of hope and purpose. I believe God offers us these things in Jesus Christ.

But so often we get confused because we can’t see God or His Son. We can’t feel his touch or hear his voice. So we settle for things we can touch hear and see: people. People who are, in the end, looking for people to fix them too.

We ask them to fix our problems.

Point us where to go.

Tell us what to do.

Tell us who we are.

I have done this so many times in my life. I still remind myself every morning when I walk into the church that my bosses, my pastors, can’t save me.  They can’t give me a purpose. Can’t make me feel good enough. It’s tempting to ask anyway.

And now that I am in full-time ministry the thought of someone ever looking to me to ‘fix’ him or her is terrifying…because I am so broken, too. Coming to me for healing would be like taking your malfunctioning car to a blind, thumb-less mechanic wearing a dress. No one does that.

I’ve seen pretty quickly that people come broken into the church. Myself included. We drag with us our broken relationships, habits, spirits, beliefs and bodies. I used to think that being in ministry was like being a doctor at a hospital. Stitching and setting and diagnosing and putting-right. Now I know that’s not the case at all.

Instead, I am a gawky intern in second-hand scrubs blindly running the broken on wheeled stretchers to the only Great Physician that can do anything about their problems. Maybe I whisper words of encouragement along the way...if I’m doing it right.

Running them to the only One who can make us whole, clean and free. Unburdened and unburned. Full of hope and purpose. 

Do you know that Doctor?

"Once, I thought God lived in a song."

This morning has been a morning flooded with memories. Memories of a person I used to be, a person I’ve grown out of. Today—windows down and radio up—I made my way home from work/church (what should I call it now?) the song “Better is One Day” came on the radio. I smirked as I remembered the history I have with that song. Maybe you have history with a song, too.

Stories should start at the beginning. To set the stage, in summer 2008 at the age of 20, I volunteered and was chosen to be a short-term building missionary with Casas por Cristo. After 2 weeks of on-the-site/on-the-sand-dunes training, my first team arrived in El Paso, Texas at 6 AM to meet their intern (me) and cross the border into Juarez, Mexico to build a house in 6 days for a family in poverty. After about 10 minutes of small talk and introductions, a teenage boy in the group raised his hand and said,

“So when are we gonna meet our building intern?”

Slightly deflated [but faking unaffected], I answered, “You just did!”

Puzzled but honest, he replied, “No, I mean the guy who’s going to lead us on our build this week.”

”…Yep, that’s me.” [insert deflating balloon sound here]

The poor kid didn’t know that my confidence was already hanging on by a thread. I had tried to harness the energy of my terror into excitement that morning. I had avoided sharing that fact that they were, in fact, my first solo build. I was pretending I wasn’t 30 years younger than most the adult chaperones in the group. I had made sure I looked the part in my tool belt and work boots. [Full disclosure: I had taken sandpaper to them the night before so I didn’t look like I had escaped the pages of a Home Depot ad]. I had traced the route we would take into the unmarked streets of Mexico and recounted the turns and roundabouts over and over in my mind. I had checked my radio’s battery at least 20 times.

That kid’s comment still took me from confident to incompetent in 2 seconds flat.

When it was time to leave I debriefed the drivers of the two, 16-passenger vans on border crossing, we were on our way. As I walked ahead to my truck, climbed up into the leather bench seat and slammed the rusting door closed, the tears came instantaneously. As I pulled the shifter down to ‘Drive’ I could barely see. I was terrified. I was convinced I was going to get lost, forget the fiber in the concrete mixture, not be able to translate correctly, forget how to wire the ceiling fan, and eventually die somewhere in the dunes of Juarez with all of my unsuspecting team members.

As I turned out of the lot my hand groped its way to the radio knob and I turned it on to drown the noise of my sobs. As I adjusted the volume the song “Better is One Day” began playing and I immediately felt a peace and outpouring of the Holy Spirit on my physical body. My crying stopped. And in that moment I was convinced that God somehow lived in that song. [side note: I wired the fan perfectly and no one died in Juarez that week]

For years afterward (and many times that same summer) whenever I heard that song I was convinced God was present with me. If that song was playing, then He was watching and listening. Guaranteed.

That was 4 years ago and I haven’t thought of that song in a long time. In those four years I’ve grown leaps and bounds in my faith and I can’t identify with my former self anymore; that girl absolutely convinced God lived in a song. In that song.

When I heard it this afternoon, I smirked and had a thought conversation with the ever-present, omniscient Lord….

Him: “Remember when you thought I was ONLY with you when this song was playing?”

Me: nervous laughter, “Yeah. That seems pretty superstitious looking back.”

Him: “Well, I am quite pleased we get to hang out more often, now.”

Me: “Me too."

"I'm afraid. Most of the time."

After a bike ride around Sioux Falls yesterday, I can tell you from experience that stretching is important. Exercise is to my muscles what a dryer on ‘high’ is to a 100% cotton shirt (if you don’t do laundry, or haven’t seen a word puzzle like that since the ACT, it means it causes them to shrink). Most of my stretching time is spent trying to restore my hamstrings back from 1/3^rd their regular length. And it hurts. The ‘this-will-eventually-feel-good-but-right-now-it-blows,’ kind of hurt.

Today my heart hurts worse than my hamstrings (which is saying something). I am getting stretched. Today is my last day at Paulsen and tomorrow is my first day at my new job at Embrace. I also move this weekend into a new place and will be bringing my dog with as well (hip hip hooray!). As welcome and exciting as this new change is, I can only sigh knowing all the new things I have to learn. New schedule, new coworkers, new responsibilities, new expectations. It feels like I just wrapped my head around all of things at my current position. I have established my favorite spots to spend lazy days at my current place. Sometimes it just feels good to know what you’re doing. To be comfortable.

If there is one thing I’ve learned in the past two years, it’s that God’s first priority is never my comfort. That’s not to say I haven’t experienced comfort in the past 24 months—His peace has been ever present—but my life has been in constant upheaval. If we grow in those situations, I must have some serious spiritual stretch marks. Worse than my mom’s. And she had 7 kids.

**Mom, if you read this, I love you and your stretch marks. And I apologize for my participation in their existence. :) Please forgive me?

"I doubted things were going to work out."

I cannot comprehend God’s goodness. Sometimes I get so absolutely overwhelmed by it that breathing takes effort. Last week was one of those times.

That said—last Monday was rough. I had been sitting in the throes of a job opportunity for about two months. Not your average ‘run-of-the-mill’ job but, like, an ‘if-i-could-do-anything-right-now-i-would-do-this’, kind of job. That kind makes me nervous to apply for because, if I don’t get it, it will feel like telling a boy I love him and having him stare blankly back at me in response…

*blink, blink*

As of Monday I was also in housing limbo—a 17-day window of time closing quickly before I needed to have a new place to live. Completely exhausted, I mumbled something about a “housing apocalypse” to my small group Monday night as a prayer request and tried to just pry the burden out of my own clenched, sweaty fists.

At the end of group, a woman approached me. Well, God approached me via this young lady. She had randomly joined us (for the first and probably only time) for small group and had an idea for me in light of my prayer request. The next afternoon, after talking with her husband, she called to ask me if I would like to live in her fully furnished condo, with my dog, without a formal lease, for a beautiful price. Her husband was also concerned they let me know right away so I didn’t worry, and also concerned that rent should not “strap me for cash.”

…I cannot make this stuff up.

Two hours later, if my heart wasn’t already in danger of bursting, I got a call offering my dream job.

*He said, “I love you” back! *

….

The position is full-time Small Groups Coordinator at Embrace Church here in Sioux Falls. I will be entrusted with growing group attendance, adding structure and organization to the process of new/existing groups, amassing curriculum and resources, and eventually implementing leadership training for members of the church. I thought 2 years ago, fresh out of college, that I deserved my dream job. Now I sit and tremble at the thought that God allows me to represent His Kingdom at all. It makes me shake. And cry.

My last week followed these stages:

1) Dance around in joy and excitement

2) Wake up at 3 AM bursting with ideas and usually some tears

3) Realize I cannot possibly, ever, do this on my own

4) Fall on my face telling God I can’t do this by myself

5) Feel His presence and promise to go before and ahead of me, and allow Him to help me get back on my feet

6) Fall on my face again in gratitude that He picked me up in the first place

     Return to 1) and REPEAT

Metaphorically speaking, that is.

I bruise like fruit.

"I am a whiner."

I make a big fuss about waiting. Waiting on God. I whine and moan and complain. Pretend like I’m dying. I’m such a mellow dramatic martyr.

It’s mostly for show.

Because at the end of the day I know that in that time of waiting God blesses me in ways I could never understand if I got everything I wanted right when I wanted it.

He uses the waiting time to sift through my motives. Check my heart. Test my foundation. To wriggle my utmost desires out of my tight, clenched fist. Sometimes He takes them, shines them up, and places them back in my (reluctantly opened) palm. Sometimes He takes them away and doesn’t give them back.

He’s good to me like that.

"I am a beggar."

I had lunch with a friend earlier this week. She’s a Godsend type of friend…wise and unassuming and quirky and perpetually comforting…the kind you literally thank God for every day. The conversation eventually transitioned from weekend plans to wedding dates and soon found ourselves chuckling at the awkwardness of mixed signals and shaky expectations.

At the end of our chat, I couldn’t help but think that no relationship should ever leave me feeling lacking or disappointed. Of course I don’t live this out. I do in little glimpses—just long enough to show me there’s something missing most of the time. But IDEALLY…I should be whole and content all the time. Right?

I picture myself on a corner begging for change, most days—looking for someone to fill up my ‘love cup.’ Looking in all the wrong places. Collecting the wrong kind of currency. I am such a beggar.

If you ever read Scripture you are aware of the vast number of promises God gives us in Christ. He is our Salvation, our Rock, Redeemer, Refuge and Healer.

When I focus on the promises of God, I am never left lacking or disappointed. With a foundation that secure, all I feel is freedom.

Freedom.

Freedom to care for others, to love, to show up to the party where you know no one, to be yourself, to share your feelings, to be vunerable, to ask hard questions, to forgive others when they fall short. To feel peace and contentment when your friend forgets your birthday, when your dad’s temper is short, when those feelings aren’t returned, or when you get passed over for that job or promotion.

It doesn’t happen instantly. It’s not a result of knowledge. It’s not just positive self-talk. It’s intentionally fighting for faith in the promises of God. Believing that He alone will satisfy my soul.

And when I’m already fully satisfied, everything extra is bonus. Bonus bonus bonus. Bonus joy. Bonus acceptance. Bonus love. 

Love from other people is a beautiful gift when I don’t need it. I can't help but think that's how we're meant to live.