My 2019 Manifesto

I am a reader. I will read books and stories that resonate in my heart those things which are good, true, and redemptive. I will better myself through knowledge and wisdom and through pure enjoyment in the use of language and the imagination.

I am a traveler. I will explore places, experience cultures, savor foods, enjoy music, meet people, and take in the scenery of places old and new. I will seek adventure with joy and intention.

I am a homemaker. I will live fully in the space God gives me, to make it into a place of love, joy, and peace, overflowing with art, beauty, good food, friends, deep cries, and belly laughs. My home will be clean and inviting. My home will be a refuge, a sanctuary, a retreat, and a place where deep growth happens.

I am an artist. I will dance, I will sing, I will write, I will create, I will practice. I will be mindful that all my work is creative work, and I will be effective in that endeavor.

I am a lover. I will lean in with compassion, I will listen to what others have to say, I will ask and do my best to understand, I will stand in solidarity and respect differences. I will mourn with those who mourn, rejoice with those who rejoice, bring comfort to those who need comforting, and share the love of Christ with those who need His tender love.

I am a peace pursuer. I will look for peace in the midst of chaos and uncertainty. In paying special attention to my body, mind, and heart, I will be still, listen, and trust. I will remember that to be whole is to be at peace, and so, I will continue in my commitment to wholeheartedness; I will remove the landmines, I will dig wells for living water, and I will invite the Holy Spirit to fill up all the empty places. I will work to resolve conflict in healthy ways; I will ask to be forgiven, and I will forgive.

I am a teacher. I will share the knowledge, truths, gifts, lessons, and experiences given to me, knowing that these are things not meant for me to hold onto for my own, but are meant to be given. I will be generous, but discerning, in what I have to say. I will problem solve and teach others to do the same, whether through word or example. I will not believe that I have it all figured out, and instead, I will keep learning and growing and passing on what I do know thus far.

I am a daughter of God. I believe in the truth that the Father loves me more than I can even fathom and that He has great plans for me. I will not undermine my worth by making unhealthy choices, but rather, I will see myself as He sees me— Christ has deemed me worthy of His eternal, extravagant love, and I will make choices that honor both Him and myself as His treasured possession.

If you were to write a manifesto for yourself, what would you include?

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Excavating Landmines: Forgiveness and Infilling

Forgiveness is a pathway with a thousand bolted doors.

-Sandra McCracken

The bullet gray clouds of winter urged me to stay inside one quiet Saturday morning just over a year ago, and with the earnest desire for warmth on a cold day it pleased me to accept, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Sitting in the wingback reading chair in my living room, I’d been working through some theological reflections in a book by Rose Marie Miller, titled From Fear to Freedom: Living as Sons and Daughters of God. I realized while reading this book that I still had layers of unforgiveness that I thought I’d worked through, but clearly hadn’t. I’d unlock one bolted door, as Sandra McCracken calls it, only to come to another, and another, thinking to my frustrated self, “I thought I worked through this already!” Each time the pain or the fear to which the unforgiveness had attached itself would rear its loveless head. I recognized how it affected my relationships by preventing me from trusting, and also how it short-changed the complete work of grace in me. Having received grace upon grace, I needed to extend forgiveness upon forgiveness. The realization struck me, surely and deliberately, though at the same time innocuously, like a good-willed six-year-old wearing over-sized boxing gloves, whose hit was kind, but clear spiritual therapy. 

Miller quotes her friend James, saying, “Do you forgive with your heart, your memory, your body?” She adds, “Forgiveness of others has to be a total thing.” It was then I decided I had to do something—tangibly—to deal with the wounds that were still there ticking away, even quietly most days. I had forgiven considerably in my heart, but my mind kept going back to what was said and done. I had to release the memories, and I had to do it not just in my mind, but also with my hands.

I grabbed a notebook and pen and started writing down each thing as it came to me. Each word, each action, each sinking feeling that surfaced. My thoughts flowed through fingers, ink, and script. I filled up three pages. I knelt, I wept, and I prayed out loud over each line: “I forgive ____ for ____.” And then I placed those pages in the fireplace. Striking a match with the flip of a wrist, I reached forward with the light. The paper caught, and I felt the warmth of the fire briefly strengthen upon my chest. I witnessed with my eyes the quick shriveling up and turning to light-as-air ash. To my surprise, I found I was capable of forgiving with my heart, my memory, and yes, even my body. It made this forgiveness a total thing. It’s amazing to me that today, a year later, I have no recollection of the actual words or specific wounds I wrote on those papers!

My pastors say that in order to have healthy relationships, we have to dig up our landmines so that they don’t explode on other people. In other words, we have to deal with our stuff. The last thing you want is collateral damage. So, you do the work. You carefully, with precision, locate and excavate the landmines. 

Kneeling before God on my living room floor that morning, I found a way to dig up my landmines. But instead of future craters, I now had cavities left behind—holes in the ground where the wounds once dwelled. I knew something more had to happen. Because true healing is restorative, I asked God to fill up all the empty places. No craters, no cavities—only God’s infilling. This is the better holy ground: where God meets me—where I am transformed and the land is restored to wholeness, peace, that promised shalom.

“Arriving at a place of healing and forgiveness, whether it be toward others or ourselves or both, brings this weepless peace. When I no longer feel the familiar pang of a past hurt, or when I search my heart but find that the spark of long-smoldering anger has been truly extinguished, I feel the drying of my eyes as though by some divine hand: a personal brush of my cheek that sweeps all the way to my soul. I breathe more deeply; the band around my heart has been loosed. And this small but mighty restoration, I wonder, must be a foretaste of life in the resurrected spiritual body. Like hearing my name called intimately by a nearby gardener who transforms before my very eyes into the living God, and who then sweeps me up as well in the transformation.”

— Carolyn Weber, Holy is the Day: Living in  the Gift of the Present

Oh, my restoring heart.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been poring through the Old Testament book of 2nd Kings. In chapter 3, the kings of Israel, Judah, and Edom went out into the desert to fight against Moab, and they inquired of the prophet Elisha about what the Lord would have them to do. Elisha declared, “This is what the Lord says: Make this valley full of ditches. For this is what the Lord says: You will see neither wind nor rain, yet this valley will be filled with water, and you, your cattle, and your other animals will drink. This is an easy thing in the eyes of the Lord; he will also hand Moab over to you.”

I love it when the original language in the Bible uses the same word repetitively. Though I don’t know all of the Hebrew and Greek grammar rules, the nuance of the text in these moments seems to whisper to me, “Pay attention here.” For instance, Isaiah 26:3 uses the phrase shalom shalom, translated “perfect peace.” God calls himself hayah asher hayah, “I Am that I Am” in Exodus 3:14. So here, in 2 Kings 3:16, God tells them to make gebim gebim. After they dug these “ditches and ditches” in the desert, the Bible tells us they saw water flowing from the direction of Edom, and the ditches they dug were filled! As promised, the men and animals were refreshed and the Lord gave them victory in battle.

Seeking restoration may feel like thirsting in a desert. Forgiveness may feel impossible. It may look like kneeling, weeping, and burning away the past, or like back-breaking, getting-your-hands-dirty, in-the-trenches work. But in doing so, we get to partner with God in the work He’s begun in us. “Forgive as the Lord forgave you,” He tells me. And when I do, He reminds me that from Him is fullness, abundance, and overflowing; rivers flow from His throne to give life on every side, to bring healing not just to me, but to the world. For health, and healing, and victory, and freedom are given in Christ, “who fills everything in every way” (Eph. 1:23), that is, panta en pasin pléroumenou: “all in all filling.”

Pay attention here— 

Ditches and ditches, all in all filled by I Am that I Am, perfect peace. I feel it now.

There’s an infilling happening as love satisfies the empty places left behind and wells begin to spring up in this bright, new land.

Photo by Igor Kasalovic on Unsplash

Moving Forward Into Freedom

I told myself I would sit down and write. I've had an influx of thoughts lately on various topics, but haven't been able to piece them together. Sometimes, freewriting is the best I can do.

Well.

*sigh*

I told myself I'd better go for a walk, clear my head that way, since freewriting was clearly not getting me anywhere. It's great therapy, and isn't autumn one of the most perfect times to go for a walk?

I came across a certain mark in the pavement. An arrow. Moving forward, it tells me. This whole year has been a process of moving forward.

The other day, a friend said to me, "You move forward and adjust, move forward and adjust, move forward and adjust." And that's the reality of moving forward. We're just not going to get it right every time, but every time, we hopefully get it right a little more.

Moving forward is not the same as moving on; it means pressing in, and it requires much more of you—more seeking, more trusting, more readjusting. It means you've got a spot on the horizon that you're moving towards. It can't be hurried. It's a process, but you've got to be intentional about doing the work.

Fair warning about this work:
Moving forward might mean fits and starts, and even fits of ugly. And I think that's okay. You learn that way, gaining strength in the struggle, and, with your knees knocking, you stand back up and keep going. Eventually you learn to uncurl your fists and you learn that your heart of stone can return to a heart of flesh. That is a day of great victory.

I think there are spaces between seasons. I wrote of my season of rest earlier this year, but even my season of rest has taken slight twists as the natural seasons turn around my little cottage in Tennessee. I wonder if I'll remember this year more as a liminal phase, carrying me from one place into another. Months ago, November looked quite different in my head than how November is shaping up. And I'm thankful for that, because November is looking more and more like moving forward into freedom. Freedom, after all, is the sole work—and soul work—of the Cross.

Even after all that I've done to be intentional about healing and wholeheartedness, there are still those bits that could not be redeemed if not for Christ. Every bit of me that crumbled one year ago has faced and found deliverance through every obstacle, every hindrance, every misunderstanding, and every false accusation, each with their own voice trying to silence mine. HE builds my armor. Every broken bit of me that remains finds loving reception in arms that absolutely treasure me. HE turns heartache into hope.
               
I am His workmanship. I am HIS.

And this is the best part: The reality of being His is that as I move forward trusting in His strength and not my own, He is faithful to make the rough places smooth. Even my fits. This is grace.

And this is freedom: that wherever I go, the One who loves me is there. For "...wherever the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom" (2 Corinthians 3:17 NIV).

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
Psalm 139:8-10 NIV

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.
Galatians 5:1 NIV

I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean... I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you...

Ezekiel 36:25-27 NIV

To Grieve or To Grace

Sundays are my self-care days. They're my grocery days, or my movie days, or my sit-outside-and-talk-to-my-neighbors days, or my eat-chocolate-cake-for-no-reason days. Whatever it may be, as an introvert, I devote Sundays to recharge, and that often involves not spending time with lots of people.

Yesterday evening, I chose to take myself out to eat. It's one of my favorite things. This is not unusual for me, nor should it be considered unusual at all for a single woman to be eating alone. However, as I sat there on the outside patio of a local restaurant, two men walked by and thought it necessary to comment.

"He was wrong for leaving you there."

"He could do better."

My initial reaction was disbelief, and even mortification to some degree. Certainly not humor, if that's what they were going for. Part of me felt- but only for a moment- the lies in their messages: You are unwanted. You are not good enough.

People can be so quick to judge.

I had to fight my initial reaction, and I had to think fast. I had to think in terms of grace, mostly for myself. These men didn't know me. They didn't know my story. I may have been sitting alone, but that doesn't mean I wasn't sitting with something. A heart can hold a lot within its walls.

I recently had to rumble with another lie someone perceived about me as well; another someone who didn't know me, didn't know my story, and didn't know at the time what was weighing me down. I believe there is nothing that someone who doesn't love you or have your best interest in mind can tell you honestly about who you are. The people who don't only see what they see without any kind of compassionate perspective, and compassion is necessary for understanding. I realize that I am just as guilty of this. There have been countless times that I've assumed the worst about people and then discovered something of their story to change my point of view. Nothing is more humbling.

My point is that every time you interact with another human, you have the choice to either grieve that person or offer grace to that person. Perhaps what grace looks like is choosing to see people as doing the best that they can. (Thank you, Brene Brown, for this insight.) Consider that your perceptions may be wrong before you speak. And if you are spoken to in a hurtful way, have the grace to see the both of you in your immeasurable worth, and forgive.