Tag Archives: identity

When I See God Glowing

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“It would be a good sign of our spiritual well-being if, when asked to describe a moment we felt close to God, we said, ‘When I loved another.’”
– Philip Gulley, Unlearning God: How Unbelieving Helped Me Believe

“Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.”
– the King, speaking to the sheep, as told by Jesus in Matthew 25:40

Intimacy with human beings is intimacy with God. When I interact with the “least,” I connect with God. This is humbling. This is not light beaming from heaven, or a pipe organ in a cathedral, or gallant green trees, or even my favorite books. Yes, God is in those things. But He makes a point to tell me He is in the least.

Who are my “least”?

My bickering, balking, button-pushing children.

Friends I avoid because they are “too Christian.”

The folks I pay money to—cashiers, wait staff, contractors, plumbers, produce stand vendors.

People asking for money at the entrance to the Walmart parking lot or sleeping in shop doorways downtown.

I’m good at hiding—behind a smile, a book, “safe” sharing. When I tap my credit card, I don’t have to see the person behind the counter. When I’m on a phone call—to the bank, dentist, tax office—I hide behind the professional relationship. I scurry down the soup aisle at the grocery store to avoid greeting an acquaintance. My kids get the short end of the stick as I shield myself with anger and control at home. I give money to charities because it’s easier than being charitable.

Then again, I keep bags, packed with snacks, water, and toiletries, in my car, and hand them to folks on street corners. I give a stranger a ride home. I pray with the cashier at the grocery story. I forgive my children before they ask.

I don’t know if I’m a nice person. I lean in; I pull away. Does this mean sometimes I have time for Jesus and sometimes I don’t?

Are there tally marks in the Book of Life?

Does it matter?

Human tally marks are about control, about externals. If there are tally marks on the cosmic whiteboard, they’re a kind I’ve never seen before. If God is measuring, let Him measure. I wouldn’t know what to measure anyway.

How well am I loving Jesus in the flesh and bones before me, wearing leggings and sweat and weariness? I do not think God is worrying about this. He is busy inhabiting arrogant leaders and polarizing politicians; beggars and cheaters and liars and beaters; starving children and sex slaves; and that guy who drives too fast down my street at 10pm most evenings. God is holding hands with humble pastors and hardworking husbands, earthquake victims and suicidal teenagers, relief workers and therapists, and mothers worn so thin you can see the light through them.

I rest assured that I will find Jesus today—at lunch with girlfriends, at school pickup, in text messages and emails, at the dinner table, and while the kids brush their teeth before bed. Intimacy with God is built into my existence. Intimacy with God is the breath of life in my own warm body.

The world is pulsing with light—a heat map of warm bodies—in the layers of houses I can see from my front window, the drivers of cars, the shoppers and walkers, glowing. Everywhere, God is glowing.

Brain Be Quiet, Let The Heart Speak

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Brain Be Quiet, Let The Heart Speak

Reflections – week 7a

Welcome to week seven of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home, and The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness. I’ll be referencing material from Session Seven for two weeks (7a and 7b). And then Session Eight will conclude this series.
I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

Mostly I have believed that my head should rule my heart. Doesn’t information come to me via my head? Then what I know will inform my feelings and impulses, my way of being in the world. There’s just a tiny little problem. This trickle-down effect hasn’t happened. When I first noticed, I figured it must be a matter of management—I need to take a strong hand. My heart may or may not agree with what’s in my head, but my God-given will allows me to choose how I behave in the world, based on what I know to be true. Except this never worked either. So how the hell does my software work?

Karen McAdams, in this week’s Father’s House video, says, “If there’s a battle between your head and your heart, your heart is gonna win every time.”1 So I’ve had it backward the whole time?! This clears up a litany of questions I’ve had over the years: Why do I pray for patience and then try hard to be patient? What makes it so difficult to truly love another person, especially when I’m spread thin and they’re a hundred pounds of trouble? When will my beliefs about God start impacting the way I interact with Him and with people? Why am I always at war with myself, exhausted by listening to the arguing factions and trying to reach a conclusion?

Answer: “If there’s a battle between your head and your heart, your heart is gonna win every time.”

Karen McAdams suggests it’s critical that I give my heart permission to speak.2 So I opened my heart room and started picking things up and asking questions. I spent a long time learning how my heart pictures God. I refused the right answers, and listened for the felt answers. The honest truth is shocking, sometimes sacrilegious, always insightful.

God,
I don’t trust You. I want to be in charge of my own self, my day, my time, my family.
You don’t want me to be kind to myself because that would be selfish and sinful. I was made to think of others and do for others.
I’m angry at You for not changing me the way You said you would.
You’d rather be with me when I’m in a good mood.
You’d prefer I figure things out on my own; and also, get them right the first time.
You want me to be dependent so You can control me.
No matter what I do, You’re gonna be volatile, unpredictable. I never know if you’re gonna show up.
When I get lost in myself, You look the other way and wait for me to find myself again.
You like to watch me fail because it reminds me that I need You.
No matter how hard I try, I will fall short. The standards are always changing, just enough to keep me ashamed and aware of my sinfulness.
Your so-called perfection is made perfect in apathy. You are neither warm nor cold, loving nor angry, approachable nor distant, kind nor harsh. This middle ground protects You from criticism, and also from getting too close to me.
I’m furious at You for promising abundance and then giving me stale trail mix.
You’ve really fucked me up by promising You love me and then forgetting to hug me, ever.
The only reason I still believe in You is that my daft head tells me to, and keeps cramming stuff at me until I can’t breathe.
When things get hard, it’s my fault, so I ought not to expect a handout from You.
You’re actually an alcoholic because looking at me and the rest of this world is so damn overwhelming You need to numb it however You can.
You’re so sick and tired of my slow transformation that You can’t stand to look at me, and You’d rather not talk again until I get my act together.
I’m supposed to just let You do whatever the heck You feel like and be okay with it because You’re God.
I’m invisible to You unless I’m useful.

Lonely heart, I hear your pain.

My heart was at capacity, but I didn’t know it. It was full, full, full. Whatever my head sent to my heart, my heart sent right back, unopened. Return to sender. I foolishly thought my heart had unlimited capacity. It never occurred to me I might need to do a good old-fashioned purge and let a couple of boxes go to the second-hand store.

Oh my heart, I’m sorry I have rendered you voiceless, and therefore powerless. But now that you have some room again, and we’re talking, what do you think about some new things? Not too heavy, not too many things. Pick a few. Leave space to breathe.

God,
You don’t mind that I curse at You more than anyone else.
I have Your undivided attention and unmetered affection.
You want to give to me more than you want to take from me.
You see how often I run on empty, and You notice my weary body.
You don’t expect me to change because You love me.
You are more interested in being present with me than You are in molding my character.
You favor me and bless me when I reject You.
You don’t expect me to figure things out on my own, but neither do You expect me to rely on Your advice.
You like to laugh and joke with me, read books together, write together, sit together and look out the window.
You feel the pain I feel, and You bless it.
I am important to You. When You’re dancing with me, You don’t let anyone cut in.
You like to hug me, and You’re always up for a celebration.
You are such a God that I cannot permanently mess even one thing up.
You are not politely neutral toward me. This is a love story, not an agreement to shake hands and keep the peace.
You come find me when I’m curled up in fear and self-loathing, holding a sign that says, “Fuck Off.” You are not fooled, and You’re not offended. You come close enough to feel the tension and see my eyes flashing, and You stay, gently.
You always see the real me, the truest me, the me You made in Your image, unshakably good. You are disinterested in my performance or mistakes and fully aware of who I am as Your daughter.

“Homegirl Inez says, ‘At Homeboy, we don’t check boxes, we check pulses.’ And if one of our trainees misses, we don’t ask, ‘Where you been at?’ but ‘How ya doin’?’”3 Imagine a God who doesn’t ask, “Where have you been?” but “How are you doing?” That’s the God we actually have. The too-good-to-be-true Father, who can witness everything in our hearts and still want to hold hands.

Homeboy Ricky said, “I’ve come to realize that I never need to drown in the shallow end of my own beliefs ever again. Been standin’ up ever since.”4 After living in the fetal position so long, standing up is like becoming a whole new person, unfurled, alive, looking around in wonder at all the beauty.

I will keep giving my heart a voice. I will engage with hope by letting God encourage me. Boyle writes, “… we are meant to both feel encouraged by God and be a source of endless, hopeful encouragement for the downhearted.”5 Dialoging with my own heart will teach me how to dialogue with other beautiful hearts. And I will keep the conversation open. I will be tender with myself when I find more pain in my heart, and I will pray:

Okay Father, I’m gonna talk directly to You. I have a hard time picturing a Father who delights in me, whose countenance toward me does not change based on my performance. But I know that being kind to myself is a way to remember Your kindness, and that remembering Your kindness is a way to be kind to myself. We are in this together. Your authority is my authority—not standing over me, but always backing me up. You like to have fun with me. You always have time for me. You do not hand me a to-do list in the morning and check it over in the evening. You invite me to be with You, creating or enjoying. Just by being You and being my Dad, You remind me who I am when I forget. I belong in Your house. I receive You as my Father, Jesus as my brother, and Spirit as my truest self, my center. Thank You for hearing my heart, and for giving me courage to hear it too.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, Session Seven video teaching
2Father’s House, Session Seven video teaching
3The Whole Language, page 103
4The Whole Language, page 118
5The Whole Language, page 116

Mess to Meadow

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Mess to Meadow

Reflections – week 6

Welcome to week six of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home, and The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness. This is week six of eight.
I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

“Messy.” This word resonated with me as a descriptor of my inner world for most of the past ten years. Also, “Complicated” and “Untrustworthy.” Being at home with a newborn baby introduced me to my inner world, and brought to light a toxic relationship with myself that had been flying under the radar most of my life. Twenty-one months after quitting work to stay at home, my second daughter was born, and in between cuddling warm, squishy babies and washing loads of laundry that left only pink lint in the dryer screen, I learned to hate myself.

Self-hate is like having the world’s worst roommate, and reading only bad news in the paper. On some level it feels normal, but there is always the hope that things will improve. I had no idea what would be involved in learning kindness to myself. Mercifully, it was not a journey I took alone, but in the company of my husband, favorite authors, music, and God.

I didn’t know it, but I needed to learn what parts of my inner world are truest. What parts can influence or control other parts? Why did I feel powerless so much of the time, and why did I increasingly try to control myself, my children, and my husband to combat those feelings of powerlessness?

One aspect of learning to be friends with myself was practicing acceptance of all the parts. This has been a vital key in finding peace. But I still want to know, when different parts are at war, what is the most real part? In a broader sense, who am I?

Gregory Boyle writes, “When the homies arrive, they have not been properly introduced to themselves.”1 I can relate. While caring for two little ones, I was introduced to myself, but it wasn’t a proper introduction. I got acquainted with what Father’s House calls my soul—made up of mind, will and emotions.2 These always seemed at war with one another. I thought my will was the control center, the part of me that could call the shots for everything else. But it didn’t work. My emotions jumped into control, my mind spent most of its time cowering in fear, and my will unceremoniously shoved me through the duties of each day. After a few years of getting to know myself, I was thoroughly done with being me, and I was madder than hell at whoever said my will was supposed to control my mind and emotions. I was also angry with myself. So angry, from trying to control my emotions with my will, and my will with my mind, and failing. Always failing. Defeated, lying on the ground, exhausted, dirty.

In the video teaching for Father’s House Session Six, Rachel Faulkner Brown introduces the idea of a spirit center.3 The soul (mind, will, emotions) is around the spirit center, and is informed by the spirit center. In other words, everything moves outward from my spirit center. This means I don’t rule myself with willpower. I cannot tell you what a relief this is. Willpower is an unfaithful partner, an accident waiting to happen. I either wield it to the detriment of the soft parts of myself and my children, or I don’t use it, also to the detriment of our most tender parts.

A spirit center changes everything. There is a whole and holy part of me, a quiet place, a finished place. After being properly introduced to myself, the haggling between my will, mind, and emotions took its proper place outside my spirit. The authors of Father’s House write, “In the Kingdom, who you are releases what you do. The enemy tries to convince you what you do determines who you are. That’s why Satan attacks what you believe about yourself the hardest.”4 I have been caught in a vortex of doing, not knowing that being comes first. Spirit is my center, and my center is Spirit. I don’t need to control my spirit.

So, the truest—by which I mean the most unwavering—part of me is my spirit center, around which all the other parts find their places, and the whole becomes a residence of freedom and meaning.

Rachel Faulkner Brown suggests that I ask God, “What do You call me?”5 This is Papa’s response: “Meadow. You are now a place of beauty, stillness, rest, wonder, creative activity. Seasons may change the blooms or the flow of water, but you will always be these things.”

Mess to Meadow.

Wrestling to resting.

Despicable to divine.

The coming hours of this day are not a treacherous trudge over land mines, but an adventurous afternoon in a meadow.

Endnotes:
1The Whole Language, page 94
2Father’s House, page 100
3Father’s House, Session Six video teaching
4Father’s House, page 99
5Father’s House, Session Six video teaching

Righteous Rest

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Righteous Rest

Reflections – week 4

Welcome to the fourth week of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House, and The Whole Language. Gregory Boyle, author of The Whole Language, founded Homeboy Industries, the largest gang intervention and rehab program in the world. The Whole Language is his third book, and my favorite. Boyle frequently refers to “mysticism,” and if—like me—you’re not sure what that is, I invite you to just roll with it. Thank you for journeying with me.

Dead

I have a tenuous relationship with metaphors around the cross of Jesus—bridge, sacrifice, torn veil. I’m also unsure why we’re excited about a symbol of brutal, torturous death. We don’t wear miniature gold guillotines or electric chairs on delicate chains around our necks. But even if I can get past crucifixion pedantry, I still have questions. Did Jesus die as me or for me? Did He take punishment, or natural consequences, or did He simply enter into human suffering? Did He free all humanity, or only those who confess His name? Do I reap the reward of what He accomplished today, or only in the afterlife?

The authors of Father’s House believe that Jesus died as me, and while I don’t share their certainty, I love where they go from there: “The old you, the you that is still trying to measure up, died.”1 Now that is good news. Performing me is dead. Striving me is dead. Ashamed me is dead. The apostle Paul believed we were crucified with Christ, and exclaimed, “Could it be any clearer that our former identity is now and forever deprived of its power!”2 Having spent the last decade imprisoned by my own self, the possibility of leaving that behind is tremendously appealing.

The New Testament talks about the “old” and the “new” person. I like to think of them as a fake self and a real self. I was a facade. Now I am genuine. This moving into righteousness is not a move from bad to good, but a move from fragmented to whole, death to life. Behavior is always and only a side note. Good behavior centers me on shaky ground; bad behavior centers me on shaky ground. When I mess up, and when I have it all together, I need to be reminded that it’s not about behavior. “Righteous” is not a tally sheet, it’s a birth certificate.

Righteousness is Mysticism is Connectedness

Week #4 in Father’s House is all about righteousness, and the belief that “I am as righteous as Jesus Christ.”3 I want to short-circuit the voice in my heart and head that believes it’s all about behavior. I want to confuse, divert, or undermine my pesky inner parole officer. I have been imprisoned by my humanness, convinced I can only get out on good behavior, so each reminder in the Lesson Four video teaching is hope:

– Righteousness is not a verb, it’s a noun

– Righteousness is simply received, not achieved

– Righteousness is not dependent on my obedience

– Righteousness is about who I trust, not what I do

– Righteousness is received by faith, not by feeling

Righteousness ushers in a whole new way of seeing. Gregory Boyle writes, “The world will focus on outcomes or behavior or success. Mysticism glances just above what the world has in its sights. It puts judgment on check. It develops a warmth for everything that comes its way and rests in the center of it. When we are whole, that’s what we see in others.”4 Then we all warm up around the radiant heat of connectedness.

Boyle continues, “This culture of mystical tenderness holds every soul in high regard. …high performance is not the goal, but rather, a surrender to healing is. Then everyone finds this gentle road and practices, with each other, the pathway home.”5

Papa God is relentless in His passionate devotion to my wholeness and healing. When I soak in this—in the crazy truth that I am righteous—transformation is loosed, I live from a seat of rest, and I begin tapping into my heart’s desires instead of listening to my inner parole officer. I become confident in God’s presence to do the impossible with and through me, to invite everyone home.6

Righteous Conviction

In John 16:8, Jesus says the Spirit “will convict the world of sin, of righteousness, and of judgment” (NKJV). Day Two reading in Father’s House shocks me: “This [John 16:8] is the only time in the entire New Testament that there is mention of the Holy Spirit convicting of sin… and it is in response to those who do not believe in Him! As a believer, this says He wants to convict you of something completely different: your righteousness. Holy Spirit knows that reminding you of who you are, the righteousness of God in Christ, empowers you…”7

So the voice inside of me that points out how much I fall short is NOT the Holy Spirit, or any part of God? Why am I listening to it? Instead, I may hear a voice that convicts me of righteousness, a voice that notices all the beautiful things in me and says that is who I truly am. This voice looks for goodness and finds it. This voice spends its time bringing to light righteousness (not sin).

Embodied Healing

Another analogy I’m not fond of is the “robe of righteousness.” Robes are not attractive, they don’t keep my feet warm, and they are not all-day wear (except when it’s cold in the house and I wear my robe over my clothes). It’s quite possible royal robes were more common than bath robes in Jesus’ day, but having no experience with royal robes I’m not sure how to relate. Also, a robe can be taken on and off, and I’m not keen on transient righteousness. But, because I’m just a wee bit compelled to follow directions, I explored my thoughts about a robe of righteousness, as instructed in Father’s House. To my surprise, I found a thought that fits me.Skin is the largest organ of the human body. Clothing is intimate. It makes sense that God would draw near to me in a way that touches my skin. Touch keeps me present. It draws me out of my head and into my body, and God knows I need all the help I can get to stay present in my body.

Our bodies carry pain, and sometimes we divorce ourselves to get away from the pain. We do a thousand things to survive, many of which we don’t even realize we’re doing. It takes time to sort this out and let love into the picture. The folks Gregory Boyle connects with carry unimaginable amounts of pain and trauma. Extravagant tenderness creates space for that pain to be seen. “When you enter the program,” a homie said, “you need to bring your pain with you.”8 Connection and healing happen when we allow our wound to be seen, and then to be touched. Boyle suggests that “Healing takes a lifetime but surrender to this moment can carry you.”9 Love creates the space to surrender to this moment, to stay present to ourselves. “To be nurtured is to be reverent for what is happening to you.”10 Grace is reverence for pain.

Rest and Love

Striving to be “good” takes a boatload of energy. I remember when my oldest daughter began full-time schooling in first grade. She came home from school each day totally spent, and often spiraled into tantrums, tears, and yelling matches with me (I’m a superb yeller). She spent every ounce of her energy to behave well, learn well, and get along with others at school, and when she came home there was nothing left. I, too, have “melted down” over and over because I empty myself in my attempts to perform well, and to be “good.”

Papa God, Jesus, and Spirit are a whole new paradigm—a home where behavior is beside the point, a distraction from the real deal. Trying to become whole is a tiring pursuit. Knowing I’m already whole is energizing. Resting in righteousness creates a foundation for love. “The mystic’s quest is to be on the lookout for the hidden wholeness in everyone,”11 including me.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 65
2Romans 6:6 TPT
3Father’s House, page 66
4The Whole Language, page 51
5The Whole Language, page 53
6Father’s House, Session Four video teaching and activation, pages 66-68
7Father’s House, page 71
8The Whole Language, page 54
9Father’s House, page 53
10Father’s House, page 50
11The Whole Language, page 55

Tell My Body I’m Innocent

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Tell My Body I’m Innocent

Reflections – week 3

Welcome to the third week of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home, and The Whole Language. This is week three of eight. I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

Forgiven Future

“I am fully forgiven forever.”1 This is key #3 in Father’s House.

The exercises in the workbook are designed to walk me through past grievances, but I find myself feeling more guilt and shame for my potential to mess up, than for past behaviors. I feel like a walking liability, a mistake waiting to happen, impatience and selfishness and bitterness piled up on an over-filled plate, waiting to get bumped and spill everywhere.

I believe that forgiveness from God is complete. It doesn’t happen when or because I ask for it. It’s done for all people for all time, and my invitation is simply to accept awareness of it. But I realize I have not allowed this to permeate my present and my future. I see everything in front of me through the filter of my imperfection. And I believe my capacity to act without love means I deserve a diminished life. Father’s House declares, “In Papa’s House your past doesn’t stand a chance.”2 Could I believe that in Papa’s house my future doesn’t stand a chance?

The ability to walk forward is not only dependent on being untied from the past, but also on a clear way ahead. Papa doesn’t expect me to walk embarrassed, afraid, tentative—advancing slowly to improve the chance of catching myself when I trip. I have believed I must hold back because getting things right is more important than anything else. But if my future is forgiven and I am “innocent and pure forever,”3 I can’t possibly make things any more “right” than they already are.

I can walk with confidence, run with abandon, knowing that tripping is expected. God isn’t surprised when I make mistakes or protect my ego or forget to love. All of this is understood and received into His expansiveness. He is not keeping track. He is not expecting perfection. He is not asking me to go back to the starting line and try again. He is not putting his hand up and requiring me to kneel and beg forgiveness before I go on.

I have tried to avoid forgiveness by getting things right. I have believed that if I need to think about forgiveness, something has gone wrong. But Jesus didn’t shy away from forgiveness. He gave it out left and right, and not because people were asking for it. He never suggested we should be trying to not need to be forgiven. Perfection—“rightness”—is a distraction, a black hole, handcuffs.

Tension

A few months ago I began to notice tension in my body. The tension wasn’t new, but my notice was. I first became aware of it when I was lying in bed. I noticed I could allow my scalp and forehead and cheeks and shoulders and arms and back and legs and feet to relax. Five minutes later, I would become aware of the tension again, and again I could relax. After a day or two, I realized the tension was always there, but when I took notice of it I could release it. I don’t know what prompted this awareness, but it became an ongoing invitation to rest. Perhaps it was a result of internalizing freedom in Father’s House, knowing “It is finished”—what Jesus completed is my starting point and my resting place. I belong in Papa’s house. I’m exactly where I need to be. I sit in Papa’s house calm and light, because I’m no longer juggling while climbing stairs and holding my breath.

Holding

Children who have been abused often speak of a moment in their healing when they realize that the abuse was not their fault, not their destiny, not normal, not what they deserved. It becomes something that happened to them, but it is no longer their secret identity, the truth of who they are, or the predictor of who they will be.

Gregory Boyle tells the story of a kid named Sharky, whose father continued to find and terrorize the family, despite restraining orders. One day Sharky came home to find his father hiding there, waiting to interrogate him. When he couldn’t take any more, he ran to a neighbor’s house and called his mom, who arranged a meeting place. When they both arrive, “She just holds him there, in the gym bleachers, as he sobs all the more and her only message is this: ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that.’” Many years later, Sharky is alone in a prison cell, and “comes a message from God… a singular expression of tenderness. God holding a sobbing Sharky and saying only this: ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that.’ Sharky tells me later that this has become the notion of God that holds him still. It fills him enough to say finally to his own father, ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.’ The Tender One… is sorry that we go through what we do.”4 He is holding us in the bleachers. He is speaking the truth that neither “abuser” nor “abused” is our identity, releasing us to healing and wholeness.

Innocent

“Father God doesn’t just consider you forgiven,” write the authors of Father’s House, “but He sees you as completely innocent—as though you had never sinned.”5 I don’t know what this means. It can’t mean I’m perfect. It can’t mean I’m not human. It can’t mean I don’t need to heal. Surely God sees my wounds, because He touches them and restores health. Ultimately, I think innocence is about intimacy. Innocence is, “There is nothing between you and Father God, for He sees you as holy, flawless, and restored,”6—forever. Innocence is an invitation to uncouple from shame. “Shame and intimacy will never share a seat at the same table. You have to let go of one to have the other.”7

Gregory Boyle writes, “Unshakeable goodness is our royal nature.” When we see this, he says, “We then undertake the search for innocence in the other. We cease to find the guilty party. We no longer divide into camps: Heroes and Villains. We end up only seeing heroes. We look for the unchangeable goodness that’s always there in the other… In this, we find the unbearable beauty of our own life.”8

Intimacy seems fragile to me, a rare treasure—not something that can be promised forever. But God Of The Impossible is promising infinite intimacy, and He is suggesting that innocence and intimacy are inextricably connected. Nothing between us.

Rest

My innocence, and the innocence of every human being, is an invitation to rest. Boyle writes, “It will always be less exhausting to love than to find fault. When we see fault, we immediately believe that something has to be done about it. But love knows that nothing is ever needed.”9 I no longer need to find fault. Instead, I find goodness. There is nothing left to fix, and my muscles relax in gratitude. I am not a tripping hazard. I am forgiven, innocent, whole. I breathe this in and release “fixing” so I can see love. Everywhere, and in everyone, love.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 46
2Father’s House, activation #3
3Ibid
4The Whole Language, pages 23, 24
5Father’s House, page 46
6Colossians 1:22 TPT, emphasis mine
7Father’s House, page 50
8The Whole Language, pages 40, 41
9The Whole Language, page 41

Just A Daughter

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I write assuming a familiarity with the story of the “Prodigal Son.” If you are not familiar with this story, or would like to refresh your memory, it is found in the Bible, Luke 15:11-31. All quotes below are from the New Living Translation.

My sense of identity has wreaked havoc over much of my life. For my first thirty years I had an identity much like the older brother in the story of the “Prodigal Son”:

All these years I’ve slaved for you and never once refused to do a single thing you told me to. And in all that time you never gave me even one young goat for a feast with my friends. Yet when this son of yours comes back after squandering your money on prostitutes, you celebrate by killing the fattened calf!

I was good at being good. I excelled in work and school, often receiving certificates, awards, and promotions. I was valedictorian of my class in high school. In college I received the Washington State Student Employee of the Year Award, and graduated summa cum laude. I always went to bed on time and ate lots of vegetables. I was honest, hard-working, and kind. I married the first man I dated. We read the whole Bible together as well as several dating/marriage books within the first few years of our relationship. I volunteered in dozens of capacities at church and led a women’s small group for ten years. I suppose I was a poster child for “good Christian daughter.”

I don’t recall being angry—as the older brother in the story—but I did feel like the rebellious-turned-religious people always had the better testimonies. They seemed to be alive, to experience God in a way that I didn’t. I was jealous of their stories. For me, the fatted calf was the vibrant life of the converted person. I wanted to be filled with the Holy Spirit, bountiful in His fruit, and though I begged God for this I saw no changes.

The year I turned 30, two things happened: my daughters turned one and three years old, and our family decided to join another family in starting a house church. The combination of navigating the emotional minefield of parenting toddlers, while beginning a ministry that called on me to simply love the people in front of me, called my “goodness” into question. It quickly became apparent that I was short-tempered, controlling, emotionally fragile, and judgmental. As I watched myself fail every day, I quickly took on the identity of the younger brother:

Father, I have sinned against both heaven and you, and I am no longer worthy of being called your son.

I spent nearly six years with this as my constant narrative. I didn’t use those words exactly, but every day I felt worthless and ugly-hearted. Whenever I took a moment to feel my inner world, I invariably cried. All I could see was failure, after failure, after failure. Though I was still the older brother, staying home and working hard, I didn’t hear the voice of the Father:

You are always with me, and all that I have is yours.

Instead I rehearsed the speech of the younger brother: “I am no longer worthy.” This is the identity I received for myself. It is an identity rooted in lies from a foreign land where I am not a citizen. I felt bankrupt, lonely, and no longer good at being good.

There is no joy living in the mansion if in my head I am still reciting the speech of repentance. The younger son in this story was not literally dead or lost. He was breathing and he knew the way home. He was dead and lost because he didn’t know who he was. And while I lived in the Father’s house but didn’t know who I was, I, too, was dead and lost.

It is excruciating to have the identity of the prodigal while living in the Father’s house. I was dead, knowing I “should” be alive; lost, knowing I “should” be found. I felt like a zombie, walking dead in the land of the living. So although I never left home, I needed to look my Father in the face, admit my belief that I was unworthy and had squandered His inheritance, and hear His response (gender changed):

Bring the finest robe in the house and put it on her. Get a ring for her finger and sandals for her feet. And kill the calf we have been fattening. We must celebrate with a feast, for this daughter of mine was dead and has now returned to life. She was lost, but now she is found.

My identity here in my Father’s house is this: a daughter who is alive, found, celebrated, and given authority. I do not slowly earn these things. They are mine yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Dead daughters say, “Thanks for the nice room, dad. I know I don’t deserve it. I’m still really sorry I wasted your money and disappointed you. I’m gonna work hard to become better today.” What a slap in the Father’s face! When He completely ignored my “I’m not worthy” speech and started a riotous party, that was my clue He’s not expecting recovery before relationship. If I’m still working hard and apologizing a lot, it’s because I didn’t hear what the Father said to me.

Maybe it’s time to realize that between me and God, nothing is lost by my bad behavior. There is nothing to be “made up” to God. When I am with Him, my identity is always that of an unblemished daughter.

I have been the older brother (self-righteous), the younger brother (self-loathing); now it’s time to be just a daughter.

Hope: Past or Future?

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I lost a dear friend six years ago. Not to death, but to misunderstanding. I agreed with someone on a group text, not knowing that person was at odds with another friend on the same group text. It’s amazing how fast something that seems strong can dissolve. My friend’s perception was that I had taken sides against her, and her response was immediate and caustic. I went into an emotional tailspin.

What to do? I wanted to acknowledge the pain my friend was feeling, but I didn’t know how. I bought a potted flower, wrote “I love you” in a card, and bravely went to her front door. Her husband received the gift, and I cried all the way home. Choosing vulnerability has a way of opening the floodgates sometimes.

I had told her once that I deeply valued our friendship and would fight for it should the need arise. I meant it, yet I didn’t know what it meant. What does it look like to stand beside someone when they hurt you? How do you disentangle a misunderstanding when both parties are licking their wounds and yelping if anyone gets close?

My friend didn’t respond to the flowers and card, and I felt lost. I was hurting from her bitter text message and mostly I just lurched along with my emotions. One day I was angry and self-righteous. The next I was practicing gratitude for the years of friendship we did have. Sometimes I made excuses for her hurtful words and ensuing silence. Other times I rehearsed spiteful responses. I thought I wanted reconciliation, but I suppose what I really wanted was for her to apologize, magically leave the pain in the past, and move on. Instead I was left in the discomfort of unresolved conflict, and silence.

A year or two after the one-text-detonates-a-friendship-bomb scenario, I decided that with my therapist’s support I would seek to repair the friendship. I emailed my friend and asked if we could talk about something that was weighing on me. She suggested I see a counselor for anything I needed to work through, and said she would be available in four months if I wanted to talk about only light-hearted things. I had to hand it to her for having crystal clear boundaries!

I wasn’t interested in talking only about rainbows and unicorns—as one of my friends put it—so that was the end of that. I told her I appreciated her honesty and moved on… sort of. I continued to feel uneasy whenever I thought about us. She would text me occasionally about something innocuous, like a local event or the weather. I felt anxious every time she contacted me, and uncomfortable developing what felt like a completely fake “friendly” relationship.

Over the years I have continued “trying” to forgive, and have continued feeling hurt. When someone says they “forgave,” sounding utterly confident in forgiveness as a past event, I am puzzled. What have they figured out that I haven’t? Why is this failed relationship still hanging over my head? Every now and then I pray about it and journal some new angle to the whole mess. But I still feel captive to it. Until I read these words in Anne Lamott’s book Traveling Mercies: “…forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a different past.”

These words begin to reframe how I think about the loss of safety in friendship. Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a different past. I can stop rehearsing what I could have done differently, said better, or not said at all. I can stop grieving mismanaged words and allow them to be what they were. Emotional pain is an acceptable human experience. Being misunderstood is an acceptable human experience.

Here’s the thing: forgiveness is not giving up all hope of having a different future. I can sit here, between the past that simply is, and the future that simply will be, and fret about neither. I can release hope for a different past, giving myself and my friend permission to have an unresolved misunderstanding; and I can maintain hope for the future—not because I can force healing, but because when I open my hands to receive the past for what it was, I simultaneously give myself permission to receive the future for whatever it will be.

Is forgiveness in this relationship done and in the past? No. It could be one day, but at this moment it’s still a work in progress. Perfectionism begs to take center stage and rehearse the un-done “right” past and the unlikely “right” future. And I fight back, learning to forgive myself and others, and live openhanded. I begin to think about this new definition of forgiveness—giving up all hope of having had a different past—as it relates to parenting. When the kids hit and scream, ignore me, make messes, dawdle: in those moments could I release the hope of a different past few minutes? Could I forgive them and myself this way? Could I embrace both friendship and parenting as the freedom to love in this moment, giving up all hope of the last moment being different?

I realize that I have invested much in hoping for a different past, grieving my behavior and the behavior of others. But I am not my behavior. This could change the way I look at the last six years and the last six minutes. I am not what people say or think about me, and I am not what my behavior says about me. I don’t have to revisit the choices I already made today—like when to get up, how many shows the kids can watch, looking at my phone before prayer time—and wonder if they are “right.” Or wonder what they say about who I am. I can release those moments and face forward. My hope is not in a different past, but in living this moment open-handed, loved by a wild and lavish God. Living now is lighter.

Codependectomy In Progress

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Before we explore my codependent tendencies, let me say this: I am not a codependent, and neither are you. We are human beings, made in the image of God, with tendencies to forget who we are.

Often I have believed the lie that I must perform for others because they would never choose to be with me if I wasn’t doing something for them. This belief sits on top of another lie: I am not worthy of friendship, or to be loved and cared for by another human being.

I have spent most of my life feeling like a liability to the people around me, or combating that feeling by behaving well to ensure I’m not a liability. This is a tense and fearful space in which to exist. If I assume I’m a liability when I’m not performing well, I also believe other people are a liability if they are not performing well. Which of course leads to judgement and resentment and all sorts of fun. This is a mess indeed. So Jesus has been helping me disentangle from the space in which I believe I must be thought well of by others to be ok.

My safest relationship—with my husband—is the first to undergo a codependectomy. I write in my journal:

I can’t keep Michael happy, and Michael can’t keep me happy. I am ok without him, and he is ok without me. My identity is not in Michael, and Michael’s identity is not in me. Michael will be annoyed with me, frustrated by me, and hurt by me. Michael will be distracted, impatient, codependent and clingy; and he will keep score, be disappointed in me, and sometimes resent the discomfort I cause in his life.

I feel like the world is not right when Michael is not happy with me. I feel like a liability. I fear that loss of intimacy will leave me free-falling until he catches me again. But when I believe these things, I have given Michael power over me in a way that is damaging to both of us. As long as I think I am responsible for Michael’s happiness, I will feel anxious, worthless, and not-enough whenever he or I struggle.

The truth is, I couldn’t be better. God never expects me to keep another person happy. My identity is wholeness, and “liability” has no place in that. I am not free falling. I am standing on solid ground. My reality does not change when Michael moves away from me. Jesus is always in His room in my heart, and I am always in my room in His heart. This centers me. I always belong. I am always desired.

Michael being pleased with me is not welcome relief from being a failure, nor is it my due as his wife. It’s more like him agreeing with God about me: like they’re hanging out together and they’re both saying how much they like me. I get to just stand there and feel the wonder of it… whether it’s both of them, or just Jesus.

Not being responsible for Michael’s happiness doesn’t look like a cold shoulder; it looks like compassion—for myself, and for him. One morning as I grapple with this, I hear the Spirit say, “you don’t need to do anything to be ‘good enough’ today.” And I think, “what do I do with my family while I’m not doing anything?” They need me, continually, relentlessly, deeply. I am set free in Jesus, but often I don’t know what “free” looks like. (Culture tells me it’s getting what I want and doing what I feel like, and I know that’s not true. It has to be better than that.) What does freedom in the midst of needy people look like? I think Jesus knows, considering His three or so years of being followed around by hundreds of needy, clingy, freaked out and insecure people.

Jesus said to the woman at the well, “Those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fountain within them, giving them eternal life.” (John 4:14) And maybe He says this to me: “I know Michael and the girls feel like leeches sometimes, but the life I’m giving you they can’t suck out of you.”

I have been trying to do a lot of things for myself that Jesus is already doing for me. He said, “I will ask the Father, and He will give you another Helper to be with you forever,” and the Amplified Bible adds these words parenthetically after Helper: Comforter, Advocate, Intercessor, Counselor, Strengthener, Standby. (see John 14:16, AMP)

So, throughout my long day of being needed…
God is my Comforter, who eases my grief or distress.
God is my Advocate, who publicly supports and recommends me.
God is my Intercessor, who intervenes on my behalf.
God is my Counselor, who gives guidance for my problems.
God is my Strengthener, who provides additional strength.
God is my Stand-by, who is ready to be deployed as back-up in an emergency.

“All that I have is yours… come in and celebrate,” Jesus says to His children (see Luke 15:28-32). I am rich. I am full. I am righteous. I am daughter. I don’t need to prove who I am, protect myself, or provide for myself. Jesus was tempted by Satan (and others) to prove Himself, protect Himself, and provide for Himself,1 but He knew who He was, and He has gifted me that unshakeable identity.

As Gregory Boyle said, “What saves us in the present moment is being anchored in love and tethered to a sustaining God who keeps reminding us of our unshakeable goodness and the goodness of others.”2

I have to wonder, if I’m not worried about proving, protecting, or providing, then what am I going to do today? I have lived in not-enough so long that I’m hardly aware other spaces exist, and I don’t know what they look like. Maybe this?—Love. Create. Belong. Enjoy. Celebrate.

I don’t need to be doing something to be worth something.
I don’t need to be “put together” to be worth something.
I don’t need to understand myself to be worth something.
I don’t need to be in control to be worth something.
I am full by default. I am worth something when I am wrong, tired, uninteresting, lost (literally or metaphorically), or without reason.

Some days, living in this truth looks like a journal entry:

I don’t need my kids to have affection for me or obey me. I don’t need my writing group to affirm what I write. I don’t need my parents to approve of my choices or opinions. I don’t need my friends to respond to everything I say, or to think well of me. I don’t need my husband to agree with me, or always be kind to me, or do what I think he should do. I don’t need my extended family to think well of me. It’s ok for people to disagree with me, and to misunderstand me. I could lose in any or all of these relationships and I would still be who I am: God’s favorite, the one He is delighted in and to whom He has given His whole self.

Every Friday night our family has a special meal. The food is in actual serving dishes, the table is decorated, and we always have a beverage and dessert. This tradition came out of a conversation with my husband about how to incorporate the Beloved Creed into our family routine. It was his idea to speak it aloud together as part of a special meal. And so we speak:

I’m not what I do.
I’m not what I have.
I’m not what people [think or] say about me.
I am the beloved of God.
It’s who I am.
No one can take it from me.
I don’t have to worry.
I don’t have to hurry.
I can trust my friend Jesus and share His love with the world.

If—like me—you struggle with insecurity, let’s dare to believe we are a good idea, we belong, and we are beloved.

Endnotes:
1Paul Coneff with Lindsey Gendke, The Hidden Half of the Gospel: How His Suffering Can Heal Yours (Maitland: Two Harbors Press, 2014, 2016), 15.
2Gregory Boyle, The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness (New York: Avid Reader Press, 2021), 34.

God, Who Is Asking Nothing

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I have always thought I wasn’t supposed to like myself, and certainly not love myself. I thought loving myself would take me far from God. But one night when I was ruminating at 4am, I realized that God likes me and loves me; so liking and loving myself puts me in alignment and agreement with God, and therefore closer to Him. I can like myself and love myself. I can be kind to myself. I can marvel at what I am capable of as a human being, made in the image of God Himself.

As I mentioned in my March 2nd post, reading The Whole Language, by Gregory Boyle, has been transformational for me. One day I came across these words, spoken by the homie Raul: “I take myself to court every day…and every day…I find myself guilty.”1 And I cried. I sobbed. I could have written those words. I taste the pain they carry.

But what about this exchange? Victor, another homie who is discovering he is loved, says to Boyle (whom the homies call “G”), “Damn, G.—I’m in love and it feels proper.”

“Who ya in love with?” Boyle asks.

“Myself,” says Victor.2

And I wondered, could that be my experience? Dare I move from being on trial to being loved? I wrote in my journal:

I am not on trial. There is no standard I am being held to.

Previously, at times, I have felt some relief by adjusting the standard, but always it has been there, mocking me—jeering, prodding, torturing. I think it’s very much like being a prisoner of war, with perfectionism as my captor. No matter how I behaved, my captor tripped me and then laughed at me sprawled on the muddy ground; yet all the while telling me that if I just behaved better, things would be better for me. There was very little living as a POW.

But outside of camp I am not always afraid. I am treated with tenderness regardless of what I am experiencing. I am not watched, but I am seen. I am not becoming better, but I am healing.

God has been patient with me over the years as I have held Him at arms length with reasons He really didn’t love me—either because of me, or because of Him. I think, surely acceptance is tied to performance (haven’t my fellow human beings made this clear?). Surely God is not a masochist, eager to hang out with someone who is short-tempered and vindictive. I have been a wounded child, over-performing, because being loved is too good to be true.

But if I don’t love myself, God’s love stays “out there.” Every criticism I have of myself is a criticism I have of someone else. So when I learn to love myself, be playful with myself about my shortcomings, wink at my missteps, embrace myself when I have caused pain… can you imagine? Then I will do unto others as I have done unto myself.

My human experience tells me this: people don’t care about me unless I am performing well or operating on their agenda. And poor God, I slathered this mindset all over Him. I figured that since I was not performing well and was way off what I thought God’s agenda was, that He just didn’t care, didn’t have time or interest for me. I would have never put those words to it, but that’s the spiritual space I was living out of, whether I knew it or not. This had nothing to do with God, but with lies I believed about Him. The truth is, my performance was never on His radar, except for that afternoon on the cross when He took it from me and that resurrection morning when He replaced it with His life of perfection. It is His delight to remind me who I really am, to provide everything for me, and then to sit back and watch me enjoy being alive.

I’m reading a Bible study about parenting with the Holy Spirit, and I came across this: “The One who remains with us doesn’t need anything from us.”3 Wait, what? Wow. As a mother of young children, I find this exhilarating. I am needed, all day, every day, by everyone in my home. But God who dwells in me doesn’t need anything from me.

Jesus said it is better to give than to receive, yet we are confused that He is giving to us and not asking anything from us. Boyle writes, “God is only interested in lavishing us with extravagant tenderness, and yet we are convinced that God is thinking we all could just do a better job.”4

“Enter by the narrow gate,” Jesus said, “because wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to death and there are many who go in by it. Because narrow is the gate and confined is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it.” (Matthew 7:13, 14). This is true not because God is not abundantly present, nor because it is hard to be good, but because it is hard to be loved. Love seems too good to be true, so we don’t believe it. We have settled for trying to be better, instead of being loved. But what riches, what broken-open extravagance, await those who receive frightening, crazy, juicy love, and who throw their arms wide open and love themselves.

What is God’s agenda? To love me. I have made this extremely difficult for Him. It is entirely my fault that there have been some necessary precursors to living loved: first, to take my eyes off my performance; and second, to rivet my gaze to His abundance. God who gives: His mind (1 Corinthians 2:16), His Spirit (John 14:16, 17), His resurrection power (Ephesians 1:19, 20), His faith (Revelation 14:12), His grace (Ephesians 4:7, NKJV), His love (1 John 4:19, NIV). He has given us every spiritual blessing, redemption, forgiveness, abundant grace, knowledge of the mystery of His will, an inheritance (see Ephesians 1:3-12), and so much more.

A God whose only agenda is to love me, and who has already redeemed me, does seem too good to be true. And here is where I sit with my back to God. I have come to Him, but I have not dared to look at Him. I have responded to His call, but I have come into His presence with my head down, holding in my hand a wrinkled picture of Him that Satan drew in the garden millennia ago. I know all too well that as long as I picture God holding a ruler instead of a rose—with an expression of disappointment instead of desire—I remain unchanged. But when I dare to let my guard down and look God in the face, for the first time I know who He is, and simultaneously who I am: His daughter. The devil’s drawing in my hand turns to dust as I look at God’s face and see compassion, welcome, belonging, tenderness, and joy.

Just as someone anxious for news looks into the face of their loved one, and without any words knows it is good news, and cries tears of relief; so I have looked into the face of God, known who I am, and cried tears of relief. The news is good. Death has ended in resurrection. Lies have been exposed and turned to dust. Slavery is over. Jesus is alive, and He has brought me with Him.

As I sit with God I can’t help but wonder, why now? Why didn’t I know I was loved when I read the Bible through at eight years old, or when I got baptized—also at eight years old, or when I prayer-journaled daily for 15 years, or when I was in ministry, or when I got married, or when I had babies? How could I spend all that time as a “Christian,” knowing that God doesn’t love as people love, but never truly knowing. This grieves me. I have interacted with myself and others from an identity of not-enough, which looks a lot like fear and anger. So I ask God, why this confused and bumbling journey? And He says, this journey has not been what you thought it would be, but you are what I wanted all along. I have always enjoyed being with you. That you are alive in the world delights me. I don’t need anything else.

It is in receiving the truth that I am loved, and that God doesn’t need anything from me, that I am finally able to give Him anything at all; that I sit down in His lap and know I belong.

Endnotes:
1Gregory Boyle, The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness (New York: Avid Reader Press, 2021), 32.
2Ibid., 28.
3 Jeannie Cunnion, Never Alone: Parenting in the Power of the Holy Spirit (Nashville: Lifeway Press, 2021), 28.
4Boyle, 9.

Cohabiting With God

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I have spent much time at the frazzled edges of my life, floundering in feelings, confused, overwhelmed. Only recently have I become aware that I have a center: a place to come back to, where I always belong, and where my value is not hanging in the balance.

One day last November I settled in my prayer chair with a handful of stressful dreams still on my mind. I felt overwhelmed and tired, but I didn’t want to dwell on that and get bogged down. I sang quietly. Somehow I expressed a desire for companionship: I didn’t need to be happy, but to know I was not alone. And a very clear impression came to me of a simple bedroom in my heart, with Jesus in it. It was a small room, and Jesus sat on a single bed with a white bedspread. This verse came to mind: “Then Christ will make His home in your hearts as you trust in Him” (Ephesians 3:17a, NLT). And I just sat there and enjoyed His companionship for a while—I don’t know how long, maybe half an hour. We didn’t say much. Having typically felt the need to be talking —either in my head or out loud—when I sit with Jesus, this long stretch of quiet companionship was a new experience. It was lovely and life-giving, like sitting with your head on the shoulder of a loved one and just breathing in the quiet acceptance of that space.

This awareness of Jesus in me has captivated me with peaceful excitement. After that first impression I returned to the image of Jesus seated on His bed in my heart over and over. I realized there was a second bed on the wall facing Jesus’ bed, and that it was for me to rest in, or a place to sit and talk with Jesus. “Christ in me, the hope of glory” (Colossians 1:27).

Somehow in this brief moment—this mental image—Jesus went from being “out there” to being “in here.” This reminds me of an experience I had last fall when I was getting quiet in the mornings: I would take a moment to pay attention to what was in my very center, and find great peace there—as if God was in me and I simply needed to pay attention. This knowing that I am centered in the love and presence of Jesus is exhilarating. It has power (He has power) over the frantic and fearful state that has often been my identity.

It’s kind of like the eye of a storm, except that the calm center trumps the destruction around it. It is the Truth, and it has the final say. This is Jesus’ bedroom in my heart: a Presence that embodies tenderness; an open door; an extra bed for me to flop down on. Chaos and lies stop at the door, because Jesus emptied Himself (Philippians 2:7, ESV) to purchase this holy space for me. And even Chaos and Evil know that this Love is the greatest power in the universe. They respect Love’s jurisdiction. (James 2:19)

I am holy (Colossians 3:12, NIRV). This holy center, like the smooth innards of a chocolate truffle, is as pleasurable as it is satisfying. Every moment, I am gifted this opportunity to “taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8a); to know God as provider (Philippians 4:19), identity (1 Corinthians 2:16), and refuge (Psalm 46:1).

God who is Ever-Present, Emmanuel: this is miracle of miracles. From heaven, to earth, to the hearts of humans, this Love moves always toward us, desiring intimacy, inviting little us into the holy enormity of oneness (John 17:21). And so I come to know that I am not on the fringes, not on the outside waiting to be let in, but already inside. Holy. Whole. Free from the clutches of confusion and shame. Alive.

God’s life has literally taken up residence inside me (1 John 4:15, 16). Big God living in little me (Romans 8:11). I am His home address. And He is my riches (Ephesians 3:8), my fullness (Ephesians 3:19), my friend (John 15:15), sibling (Romans 8:29, NIV), and parent (2 Corinthians 6:18)—relating to me in every way possible because I am His prize (James 1:18, NLT), His pride and joy (Hebrews 12:2).

God’s life has literally taken up residence inside you. Big God living in little you. You are His home address. And He is your riches, your fullness, your friend, sibling, and parent—relating to you in every way possible because you are His prize, His pride and joy.

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