It’s not (technically) spring yet, but the first warm days arrived this weekend, and northerners weary with winter woke up.
We trimmed shrubs and pulled weeds, started lawn mowers and plunged trowels into the warming earth. We went to parks all over town with our kids and dogs and blankets and guitars, and we sang and walked and let the sun massage vitamin D and peace into our faces. We picked daffodils, chose outdoor seating at coffee shops, and skipped church. Even the odd ones who don’t care for sunshine came stiffly out, and antique cars shook off dust for the first drive of the year.
Love is in the air—turkeys strutting, people kissing, dogs sniffing, squirrels flirting. The earth is pulsing alive and we feel the anticipation— joy radiates from crocus blossoms and forsythia. Hope again surprises us with its quiet turn from black-and-white to color— paintbrush poised to anoint fields and forests and gardens with life.
As we bask in today we take a collective deep breath; we’re okay. The sun and soil are alive; all will be well.
I invented a new drink today—cofftea. I steeped a bag of decaf chai, added about a half inch of bottled Starbucks caramel macchiato coffee, and a splash of low-sugar, sweet-cream-flavored creamer. It was perfect. Tea, as Ted Lasso said, tastes like hot brown water. Coffee is too strong and too caffeinated. Cofftea is just right.
I’m writing in the living room recliner, cofftea beside me, snow outside, listening to the heater combat the 19-degree weather while frozen rain pelts the house’s metal siding. Michael comes downstairs for home-office pleasantries, and our cat Phiona follows. She tangles herself in a long piece of tinsel-like gold streamer. She chews it while twisting about on the floor, then gets up and saunters slowly to a different part of the room. The tinsel is wrapped around her tail and trails after her, setting off a round of wild contortions. She leaps to the couch, paws churning on the leather, propels herself across the side table and under a chair, where she pauses before rushing to the middle of the room for another tussle with the tinsel. Michael takes the gold-tinsel streamer and he and Phiona pad back upstairs where she will likely settle down on her pillow at the window beside his desk.
When I was a kid, we had a no-pets-in-the-house rule, observed without exception for dogs, and occasionally broken for a supervised half-can of cat food or bowl of warm milk on the kitchen floor for kitty. There was also an exception for summertime jars filled with tadpoles in mud-puddle water, and the hamster who occupied a small aquarium in my bedroom. Ladybug was her name, and I’m sorry to say I grew tired of her biting and pooping and messing up her aquarium, and felt relieved when she died.
As an adult, I’ve dabbled in fish and rodents, decided I don’t have patience for a dog (or children, but it’s too late to return them), and have settled on cats as my pet of choice. Last spring we lost our 18-year-old cat, Phred, to a traffic accident, leaving us with geriatric Phrank, who hasn’t yet used up his nine lives. A few months later, in midsummer, we adopted a kitten—a birthday gift for our daughter Kyli, who named her Phiona. She is unceasingly gentle and relationally devoted (as much as possible for a cat). She keeps her claws retracted during play, and if she bites, she gives an apologetic lick. She is very chatty and will often respond with trills and meows when spoken to. Our family of four is under the spell of her charming face, maniacal antics, and friendly conversations.
I don’t mean to be judgy, but I think people who choose not to have pets still think happiness is a clean house and no vet bills. Yesterday Phiona chewed the cord for Kyli’s headphones in three pieces—two large and a small. A couple weeks ago one of Phiona’s eyes clouded over and we took her to Animal Clinic of Walla Walla to get it checked out. (Nothing was wrong.) The bigger she gets the more she eats and the more she potties, which means increasing cat food and litter costs. She scratches the couch and the mattresses, makes herself at home on the dining table, and wakes me every night between midnight and 1am for no apparent reason.
The petless people aren’t fools. I just think they have grinch-hearts that need to grow a few sizes (apologies to my petless parents and friends). I can only assume my own capacity to handle the inconvenience—and receive the love—of pets has room to grow, since I am not yet ready for the exuberance, mess, and affection of a dog. Maybe my heart is only mid-sized.
It’s no secret that introducing any living thing—plant or animal—into life carries a legal-pad list of complications. Plants need water and sun and god-knows-what-else, and they grow oddly out of proportion, drop leaves, forget to bloom, and either die under ideal conditions or thrive under heinous neglect. Yes, there are books on plant care, but there are also books on parenting, and we know how well that turns out. Oh, and my parents don’t go for indoor plants either—at least not living ones. I mean, who wants dirt in the house. Silk plants are a no-fuss, wash-in-the-bathtub-every-five-years type of happiness. Good luck finding any living foliage with that kind of low-maintenance guarantee.
Recently, I drove downtown via my usual route. Power poles and power lines compete with trees along the road. Why, I wondered, do we bring in a specialized truck to dig a hole and place a dead piece of wood in the ground to hold the lines, when strong, living trees are plentiful and perfectly located? Well, because trees are alive, and life is inconvenient. Trees grow taller and wider, swallow up wires, and attract wildlife. They’re unpredictable. And for power lines we need predictable.
Where am I on the continuum of power pole to dog-lover? How much life can I tolerate? I’d say a plant is less trouble than a cat, and a cat is less trouble than a spouse, and a spouse is (usually) less trouble than a child. Rules and stonewalling, tone of voice and expectations help corral my people into something I can perceive as manageable, but how much management is too much? How do I know when I’m opting for the less-alive version because it takes less maintenance, less money, less emotional involvement? As a wife, mother, and friend, do I optimize for dead traits, or living ones?
In 2023 I settled for a mid-size heart. Will 2024 be the year to grow another size? Don’t get any wild ideas—I’m not adopting a dog. But maybe I won’t assign chores when my kids get loud, and I’ll stop counting out the pieces of fruit each family member gets at breakfast. Maybe I’ll take bedtime noise and moldy lunchboxes in stride, and smile more when I get woken at night. I’m not going for superhuman here. Just a little more life, and a slightly bigger heart to pump blood so my extremities don’t go numb.
I’m on the couch, 6:30 a.m., hungry for the re-membering presence of the Spirit. I feel anxious and sad and heavy. I also feel grateful and loved and okay. The kids were in my office so I came downstairs to journal. Phrank, our cat, is on the couch with me, his foot on mine. He meowed a very loud request to come inside, and I actually stood up and went to let him in.
I am not a high-energy person. In scientific terms, I have inertia. Once I sit down it’s hard to get back up. Once I get going on a project, it’s hard to stop. Everything is a project.
Sedentary pastimes are my go-to: crochet, reading, scrapbooking. I know how to do gardening and canning, but I don’t want to. Long days in the yard and kitchen sound overwhelming. These days my commitments are at a bare minimum. Other than taking my kids to school and participating in several small groups, my time is flexible. I am utterly spoiled, living in the extravagance of an unburdened schedule.
This state of unhurried flow is almost comical, given my upbringing and my high-energy plunge into teen and adult life. I always worked during high school—babysitting, custodial, cashier, fruit picking, door-to-door sales, school office, yearbook editor. I was never idle. My boyfriend in college, whom I married after my sophomore year, pushed me to work a little less and play a little more. Conversely, I pushed him to play a little less and work a little more. Marital conflict ensued. But, eventually I could watch a movie without crocheting at the same time to feel productive, and he could mow the lawn before it got out of control.
At age 27, after five years working full time, I quit work to stay home with our newborn daughter. That was the beginning of the end of having energy. I didn’t know sleep was my drug of choice until I could no longer reach for it at will. I became afraid, always afraid, of not having enough energy. I was too much of a purist to drink coffee, too independent to ask for help, and too naive to realize I was depressed.
Fast forward three years. I had a three-year-old and a one-year-old, who still often woke me at night. Exhaustion was so normal I couldn’t remember any other state. I was resentful and angry. I was too stubborn to consider working instead of staying home full time, too lonely in marriage to lean into my husband, and too resentful to take refuge in gratitude. At this point I became tired enough of myself that I started seeing a therapist. Her name was Beth. Together we turned directly into a swamp of pain that would take seven years to wade through.
It’s May 3, 2023. My babies are ages ten and eight years old. Tomorrow I will be 38. I like myself, more than half the time. I enjoy a hundred things—including hot showers (which I previously hated), my children (whom I previously resented), coffee (which I am no longer too much of a purist to drink), and friends (they’re not as scary as they used to be). I’m taking antidepressants, enjoying life-changing intimacy in my marriage, and practicing asking for help. I write poems of gratitude. I blog for fun. I rarely write a to-do list, and I’ve given up controlling my schedule and my loved ones (at least some of the time).
I am free in a dozen ways—fruit of the last five years spent dredging my murky depths. An ability to hold the stresses of life lightly is one of these freedoms. I could stress out when a friend stands me up on a lunch date, or I could enjoy the rare time alone and the gossipy conversation of sweet-smelling, wrinkled ladies at the next table. I could shame myself for not getting groceries until two days after the milk runs out, or I could enjoy making peanut butter and banana sandwiches for breakfast. I could be angry when a kid wakes up in the middle of the night, or I could be grateful I’m able to be there with them.
Please, please understand this is not about choice. I have very ugly, unresolved feelings toward whoever says we can choose to be happy. Maybe I’m an exceptionally difficult case, but I did not have access to the “power of choice” for many long years. The ability to choose love, grace, and the quirky flow of life—wow, it’s relief, like a warm bowl of soup after gardening in the rain.
I think God is having the last laugh when it comes to my anxiety about never having enough energy. After ten years (ten years!) it is apparent to me that stressing about everyone’s behavior (including inanimate things—watch out if the utensil drawer sticks when I try to close it) takes an incredible amount of energy. Possibly more energy than loving. I know, it’s a long shot. Finding my wholeness has given me courage to take long shots.
Here I thought God was asking me to do more, but actually He was inviting me to do less. My new mantra is: Don’t try so hard, don’t analyzing everything, just live. Love doesn’t have time to mull over every unmet expectation or frustrating inconvenience. It turns out open-handed receiving takes less energy than tight-fisted control.
I breathe, and my oxygen-starved heart says, “It took you long enough.” I smile, because I don’t have the energy to feel bad about ten years of struggle. Ain’t no love got time for that.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for the charity of choice: not the weighty responsibility I once thought it was, but a wild freedom and strength.
Blessed are You for choice, release from resentment, return to myself, invitation to be brave and to choose Love— for myself, and for the person in front of me.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for the peace of knowing I invariably have choice. I am not a victim; rather, I am a victor—a chooser— in Love.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for turmoil, propelling me to seek Peace and treasure it when I find it.
Blessed are You for insisting You will be present with me, though You are soiled by association and condemned for holding my hand.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for showing up to tell me who I am; for taking up residence in me and declaring, “Peace in this place.”
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.
You are my Savior. I don’t have to save myself today.
You are my Lord. I don’t have to master myself today.
You are my Father. I belong in a loving home today.
If a man can predict his own death and resurrection, and pull it off, I just go with whatever that man says. – Andy Stanley
Today looks daunting; but today I serve a Man who predicted His own death and resurrection.
Today I feel broken beyond help; but today I serve a Redeemer who touched dead people and they came back to life.
Today feels impossible; but today I serve a Father who serves me, and who has proclaimed all things possible.
Today I feel lonely; but today I serve a Friend who has never and will never leave me alone.
Today I suffocate with worry; but today I serve a Lord who knows me and my needs and delights in providing for me.
Today I want to save myself; but today I serve a God who sacrificed self and emerged from the other side to tell the story.
Today Satan tempts me to settle; but today I serve a God who “did not spare even His own Son but gave him up for us all, won’t he also give us everything else?” (Romans 8:32 NLT)
If obedience is a turning toward God (I explored this idea in Obedience, Part 1), then how do I decide when to turn toward Him? Do I need to understand and agree in order to obey? I will be arguing in this post that agreement and understanding do not precede obedience. But before exploring that further, let’s agree that it is important to understand who God is, and agree with His kingdom principles before we trust and follow Him. He is not asking us to choose Him blindly. But once we do choose Him, and we learn to trust Him (which, by the way, happens over time, not magically all at once), we will miss the glory of being His if we obey only when we agree and understand. I also want to note before I begin that the ideas presented under “Why Obedience” come primarily from a presentation by Bob Folkenberg, which may be viewed in full here: https://vimeo.com/32471840
Why Obedience?
Think about what happens in a parent-child relationship when a child wants to know “why?” Suppose I ask my daughter Kayt to wash the dinner table. At this point she can obey or disobey, based only on the fact that I am her mother and I have asked her to do something. But suppose she asks why, and I explain, “we’re going to do a craft and I don’t want crumbs and sticky food to get on our craft.” Now she can think about that and decide whether she also doesn’t want crumbs and sticky stuff on her craft. Or whether she will do it because she wants to keep me happy by doing what’s important to me. Or perhaps she’ll decide not to do it, because she doesn’t think what I said makes any sense. The point is, now that I have given her my reason, she will use her own judgement to decide whether to obey me. Folkenberg says, “Therefore they are not doing what you asked them to do. They are doing what they have decided is appropriate to do. They are worshipping their own opinions, which are higher than yours.” Since I have given my reason, my daughter is now making a decision based on her own authority and judgement, not mine.
Understanding is a good prerequisite for decision making, but not for obedience. In most of our relationships obedience makes no sense. Ought we to do whatever our boss says without thinking about it? I should think not. What about our friends, coworkers, small group leaders, pastors? Certainly not. But in our relationship with God, as well as in the parent-child relationship, it does make sense to obey without understanding, without making our own judgement about the situation. What child would cheerfully put herself to bed at 8pm every night because you explained the importance of sleep? What child would eagerly hand over his toys whenever friends came to play because you explained the importance of caring about others? Children must obey their parents without understanding or agreeing, because their life and wellbeing depends on it. They would die if left to their own understanding. And so will we.
Consider Lucifer’s sin. “For you have said in your heart: ‘I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God…’” (Isaiah 14:13a NKJV). His sin was in his thoughts, his heart, and it was a conflict of authority. Folkenberg puts it this way: Lucifer says “You have the authority to make all the rules you want to, but I get to decide which ones I’m going to follow…. And that means I’m a god like You’re a God. I’ve got the same authority ‘cause I crowned myself an alternate God.”
Consider Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Lucifer shows up and crowns himself as another god – able to make judgements about God – in the sight of Adam and Eve by contradicting God: “you won’t die.” Then he offers Eve the opportunity to become a god too: “your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:4b NKJV). She accepted his invitation and used her own reasoning to consider what God had said about the tree, consider what she herself could see and understand about the tree, and make a decision. “So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree desirable to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate” (Genesis 3:6a NKJV). She placed her own judgement above God’s judgement. She crowned herself another god. Folkenberg says there is only one sin: “Yes God, I know what you said, but it seems to me…”
Both Lucifer and Eve rejected God’s sovereignty and His love. Folkenberg argues that God’s love/acceptance and His sovereignty/authority are two sides of the same coin, and that you cannot have one without the other. “Sin [as defined above] is the rebellion that is made evident in the deed that rejects God’s sovereign authority and love beyond description. You cannot reject His authority without rejecting His love. You cannot separate His sovereign love that is the basis for His means of salvation without also rejecting His authority. And we most commonly reject His sovereignty, His lordship. But we can’t have one without the other… The Lord says, ‘You cannot be anything like me unless you let me change your likes and dislikes and your wants and your desires. I’m the one. Let me in; I’ll help you.'” This is Lordship in a nutshell:
Me: I’m trying so hard.
God: Stop trying, I’ve got it covered.
If you’re agreeing with God, the weight is on you. You have to make the right decision. If you’re trusting God, the weight is on Him. As my friend Nic always says, “Are you trusting God, or trusting yourself?”
Let’s be clear that prioritizing obedience does not somehow place salvation in our hands. We are not saved by obedience. We’re saved by grace, and by the process of responding to that grace in the only way that we can – falling in love with Jesus. In fact, Folkenberg goes on to say that if we obey God because we agree with Him, we’re not actually obeying Him, we’re obeying ourselves. Our actions that appear to be obedience may actually be sin if they are done out of agreement (we have now placed ourselves in judgement over God) and not trust.
So if we’re not saved by obedience, but by grace, why does God ask us to obey Him? 1 John 2:3 says, “Now by this we know that we know Him, if we keep His commandments.” By this WE know. Folkenberg says, “my obedience is not designed to impress God… orto impress somebody else (it’s none of their business)… it is there for me, as an honesty check on who I am. [When we put on a good act] we deceive everybody else and deceive ourselves. Folks, we’re not as good as we think we are and we’re certainly not as good as anybody else thinks we are. The Lord says… ‘I’ve designed the plan of salvation so that you have to confront who you are. You’re saved by grace… but I’m helping you realize that you’ve got a struggle, and your struggle is to set your opinions aside and simply say, “Lord make me what you want [me] to be.”‘ Don’t be impressed by yourself. Face the reality of yourself.”
My Experience
Obedience is like a trust thermometer. Nearly four years ago I realized I didn’t trust God one bit. The idea of waking up in the morning and saying, “Lord, you are God, do as you see fit today,” was absolutely terrifying and practically revolting to me. I didn’t want what God wanted. I wanted what I wanted, and if He wanted to help with it, that would be lovely. Of course He didn’t, so things got a little awkward there for a while. After years of honest conversation, humbly seeking to fall in love with Jesus, and facing the reality of my deep brokenness, most mornings I am now relieved to leave everything in God’s hands. Have I mastered trust? Heavens, no! By God’s grace I have taken one tiny step toward fully trusting Him. There is always another layer, a deeper experience. God is never done. As I learn to trust Him in one place, He stretches me in another.
Walking with God is comforting, but right on the edge of unnerving. It’s not a gradient where I move from unnerved to comforted. Rather, they are stacked right against each other. The second I forget how much God loves me, I move from peace to stress. Which of course makes sense, because God’s kingdom is ridiculous and impossible for me, and thinking about it causes fear and anxiety when I am trying to follow Him by making the right decisions myself. But knowing and trusting God – and letting Him make the decisions – changes everything. There is great peace and comfort in His presence.
It’s kind of like being naked or being clothed. Imagine trying to go through a typical day naked. When I’m naked I can’t take on anything because all I can think about is needing to be dressed. But when I am clothed, those thoughts disappear completely and I am ready to tackle the day. Walking with God, rooted in His love, is like being dressed. When I start to wonder if He’s really got it covered, it’s like my underwear are showing. If I keep going that way, pretty soon my buttons fall off and I might as well be naked because it’s all I can think about. But if I pull my clothes back into place – if I remember God’s love for me – I return to the safety of being covered. Am I always naked underneath the clothes? Yes. Will I always be naked underneath God’s love and provision? Yes. But will the knowledge of that nakedness be practically nonexistent in my mind as I enjoy His clothing? I believe yes.
If we only obey God when we agree with Him, we will be forever running around naked. When we trust Him, and our obedience comes from a place of love and safety, we will always be clothed. We can honestly bring our deepest hurts and our greatest confusions to Him and know that there is comfort in His saving grace and His powerful lordship.
If you don’t feel peace and comfort in God’s presence, and you don’t want to trust Him, don’t despair. Your shortcoming are never ever so great that He can’t reach right through them and save you. Get really honest. Tell Him how you really feel. Put forth the tiny seed of faith you have, even if you’re embarrassed how small it is. For me, I couldn’t say I trusted Him, or even that I wanted to trust Him, but I could say that I wanted to want to trust Him. And that’s where I started.
Years ago I was blessed in an unnerving way by a small group Bible study that required identifying personal idols. Of course I had heard about “modern idols” all my good Christian life, but the concept had never broken into my heart’s reality. This time it pressed in until I began to be aware of some personal idols. One of the first idols I identified was comfort, or being comfortable. I do not like being uncomfortable – physically, mentally, emotionally, and everything in between. No discomfort please. Have I “given” this idol to God? Not really. I operate more on the “misery loves company” principle, and make sure everyone around me knows when I am uncomfortable. I try to fix things, and I get mad when it doesn’t work. I would say I still have comfort on a pedestal. But that doesn’t stop God from giving me something to think about.
Earlier this week as I was sitting with God in the early morning quiet, I was feeling uncomfortable. My spirit was not at peace and I wanted to escape the discomfort. As I sat with God in my discomfort, He suggested that perhaps peace and discomfort go hand in hand. His peace settled in my heart, and I felt both peaceful and uncomfortable at the same time. This has happened before, but I had not previously stopped to name it. Could peace and discomfort be two sides of the same coin in our existence on broken earth as Jesus followers? Is this a common experience among believers?
Peace with everything comfortable would hardly merit the title “peace that passes understanding” (Philippians 4:7). And being comfortable seems an unlikely description for a life lived in spiritual warfare, or being part of an upside down kingdom, or being in the process of transformation from having a heart of stone to a heart of flesh (Ezekiel 36:26). I don’t want to admit that life is uncomfortable, but the truth is that my uncomfortable moments outnumber my comfortable moments.
So if I go ahead and admit that life (even – or especially – a Christian life) is uncomfortable, discomfort suddenly has purpose. It’s like a constant whisper in my soul, “remember Jesus.” Every time I notice my cold feet, or replay a conversation that didn’t go well, or feel rejected, it’s a whisper, “remember Jesus.” I cannot forget, because I cannot make my life go well and stay comfortable. Every time I feel the discomfort, it’s an invitation to “peace that passes understanding.” An invitation to remember that the One who provides stands ready to give me peace. Only in feeling the discomfort do I know the desire for peace, and turn toward Him to receive it.
In her book “Searching for Sunday,” Rachel Held Evans says, “Imagine if every church became a place where everyone is safe, but no one is comfortable.” I love this because it rings true with the way I experience God. He is the ultimate safe Being, and in His presence I flail, I curse, I cry and shout, I sit in silent misery, I question, I complain, and always He is present. There is no person I have ever known that even came close to this level of emotional safety. And yet I am not comfortable. I don’t come before God to feel good about myself or to get things fixed. His work in me is often uncomfortable. Safe, but not comfortable. Peaceful, but not comfortable. Maybe someday I will get used to this.
My Favorite Subject 