Often I have felt there is no cure for being me. I see my struggle—a desert stretching to the horizon. I feel like a black hole.
We’ve all had a friend who seems forever hungry for more attention and engagement. If we devoted every waking hour to their needs, they still would not be satisfied. I have felt that way about myself—like I will never get to the point where I am full and I can sit down with a sigh of contentment.
I suppose this is what some call the “God-shaped hole.” Since I’ve been a follower of Jesus my whole life, I thought didn’t have a God-shaped hole. Then I began to wonder. When I became still and thought about who I was, I cried. Evidence suggested that I did indeed have a hole, and it was not filled with God.
This was a disheartening realization, and a relief. Instead of assuming emptiness was all I could expect out of life, acknowledging the hole gave me hope—eventually. It took a while (years) to adjust to having a hole, but it was better than pretending I didn’t have one. I had put cones and yellow caution tape around that hole, keeping both myself and God out of it, not knowing my mess was inconsequential to God. I forgot that He willingly envelops me in Himself, and willingly lowers Himself into my frightening black depths.
“God meets our intensity of longing with intensity of longing,”* wrote Father Boyle. During this intensity I feel, this drivenness, this scrambling because I can never be satisfied—God moves toward me with equal intensity, with drivenness, with purpose, because He loves to satisfy me, and indeed He is satisfied with me. With Him there is contentment, enjoyment.
Do I still have a hole? Yes, but it’s not as scary and not as empty. It can be uncomfortable and unpredictable. Some days I still put up the orange cones and play it safe. But even on those days, I know that if I fall in, I’ll be okay. And most days I live life in that hole, because I’m not as scared of myself as I used to be, and it turns out that when I inhabit my own self and I hold hands with God, having a hole is not so bad.
*Gregory Boyle, The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness
Welcome to week seven (part two) 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. Next Wednesday’s post for week 8 will conclude this series.
I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.
Father’s House. Lesson seven. Myth #41: God turns His back on me when I have needs—especially needs that are annoying or ongoing.
Having needs is a no-go for me, for many reasons. Needing is vulnerable. If I need, I’m giving another person the opportunity to help or ignore me, and that’s way too far out of my control. Needing is weak; it happens because I didn’t plan right, or I made a mistake. In short, needing is never safe. Never. If I’m not strong, I’m worthless. Needs are more likely to create distance than bring connection. I don’t feel safe within my own self to have a need; heaven forbid I need something from my husband or friends, or from God Himself.
Father’s House points out that, “Everywhere Jesus went we encounter His immeasurable goodness—healing ALL who came to Him, delivering people from demonic torment, raising the dead, forgiving sinners, loving the unlovely and dining with the disreputable.”2 Yes, but this is all about doing, and I get hung up there. It sounds like Jesus went around fixing things, but my spiritual experience tells me that’s a mis-read. God hasn’t been much into fixing me. I think the Bible, the way people talk about the Bible, and the way I understand Jesus have given me the wrong idea of Father.
There is a God I know and trust, a Father I have encountered in my anger and fear and self-loathing; in music and friends and words and quietness. I have found His abiding presence in my knotted heartstrings, and in the cadence of my day. But there is also a Father who isn’t going to help me live my life, who is okay with me running on empty and doing only what I can do in my humanness. I am terrified to approach Him with deeply felt needs. Does God actually respond to a person’s real, tangible needs? What about the intangible needs I don’t even have words for? How often will God “meet” my needs, whatever that means? If it’s one time out of ten, I’d rather not ask.
I want a loving Father’s help, but the stakes feel high. I always end up angry at Him, at me, or at both of us—probably because I have expectations. I want a contract. In fact, a prenuptial agreement would be nice. I’d like to know what I get out of this when God stops showing up.
But I also want to know what it’s like to be cared for. I want to trust, to settle into what is better than a contract.
Father’s House. Day Two. Page 125: “Now climb up in [Papa’s] lap in His big chair and tell Him what you need from Him. Lay it all out.”3 I’m terrified to admit that I need to be lavishly loved, that I want to be celebrated. But I know I will settle for less if I keep clutching my needs, unwilling to hold them out, to allow someone else to see them. So I follow directions. I make a list of what I need from Papa.
I need You to bless me. I need You to see me. I need Your seeing to precipitate action on my behalf. I need You to remind me it’s okay not to be useful. I need You to move toward me with interest and intention. I need You to want to hear from me as much when I’m doing poorly as when I’m doing well. I need You to like being with me. I need You to behave extravagantly toward me. I need to be wedded to You—a forever kind of togetherness. I need “enough” to be out of the equation—no evaluating. I need to order takeout and waste time with You, in my pajamas. I need to hold hands with You. I need You to ask how I’m doing and listen without an agenda.
My list surprises me. It seems I’m more interested in being seen and loved than being served or dealt a fair hand. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I know relationship is better than rules, but sometimes I want God to follow the rules. Sometimes predictable feels safe.
Maybe predicting is rather like weather forecasting. You end up with a mix of everything, undefined no matter how hard you try to define it. But, every day we know there will be weather. I don’t know how God is going to show up today, but I know He’s going to show up. It might not be the sunshine I prayed for, but I need never fear I’ll wake up to a day with no weather at all. God is alive and I am alive, and there are days when all that aliveness is unpredictable, stormy, maybe even disastrous. But no one will wonder if anything happened that day. We’ll know. So I don’t need God to run my life, or predict my life, or change the forecast to be in my favor. I just need Him to like me and see me and bless me, and keep showing up.
It is safe to have needs in Papa’s house.
Gregory Boyle writes that when we are “held by a no-matter-what-ness” we can “reidentify and accept [ourselves] with a mystical wholeness. You can then discard all those things that previously you held back. The places where you used to get stuck. … After that, it’s not so much smooth sailing as it is resilient and integrated enough to deepen the sense of your own truth.”4 My truth is that God’s Spirit joins with my mine to affirm that I am His child (Romans 8:16). I hear His affirmation, and I make another list.
God says, I’m so glad you’re here. I love holding you. I love being with you. I am and I have all that you need. Together, let’s rest in what is finished. Let’s rest for a long time. Let’s be together with no distractions. Let’s have fun together. Let’s go for a walk, get ice cream, love every person we see. Let’s enjoy and create. Let’s take everything that burdens and stresses you and put it on my docket. You’re free. Let’s do relationships together. Let’s parent together. Let me spoil you. Let me do more than you “deserve.” Let me warm you and feed you and provide a feast of beauty for your eyes. Let’s be alive together. I release you from the identity of responsible servant-child and name you sparkling heiress. I’m your Daddy. I made this world and the people in it. You can’t break anything or anyone in a way that I can’t re-make. I always have your back (and your front and sides). I know you. You don’t ever need to hide, or explain yourself to me. You make perfect sense. You’re exactly where you need to be. Every moment. You are not bound or caged. You are wild and free and alive. You cannot lose my favor. I would never think to say that, because it seems silly to me, so thank you for letting me know what you need to hear. “I’ll love you forever. I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living [which will be a long time], my [daughter] you’ll be.”5
I have believed I am worthy of having what God perceives as my needs met, but not worthy of having what I perceive as my needs met. Now I’m less sure that’s an important distinction. God is listening and loving. He is not measuring and monitoring. That’s about as safe as it gets. So I will practice bringing my needs to the table, and I will take comfort in being “held by a no-matter-what-ness.” In Papa’s house, needs are a point of connection. They are a meeting place for intimate friends. They are safe.
Endnotes: 1See Father’s House, page 120 2Father’s House,page 127 3Father’s House,page 125 4The Whole Language, page 110 5Love You Forever, by Robert Munsch
If you were my neighbor, you might have seen my butt, clad in my favorite snowflake leggings, disappear into our kitchen window on a Tuesday morning in early December. It was the end of one act in a drama that began Monday evening.
My husband left Monday morning for a work trip to New York, and since my friend Tiffaney’s husband was also out of town for work, we planned a Monday night moms-and-kids sleepover. It was a snowy day, school was canceled, but we stayed busy putting up our Christmas tree, doing a few snippets of homework, baking pies, running errands, and getting props ready for the school Christmas program.
Late that afternoon I backed our Highlander out of the garage and pulled up to the sidewalk by the back door. I pushed the button to close the garage door but it didn’t respond. I’ll back up several feet and try again before I pull out, I thought. We loaded up our snow clothes, sleepover bags, and a pie, and by the time we pulled out I had forgotten about the open garage door.
Five minutes later we arrived at Tiffaney’s house, parked at the end of her driveway, and tromped through the snow to her warm kitchen, carrying our bags of clothes. We stowed our things away in the downstairs guest room and the kids went out to play in the snow, while I settled down to a puzzle in the living room and Tiffaney made dinner. The kids came in after dark, their icy clothes leaving melting puddles here and there in the entryway. After dinner they played, then put their PJs on and had a bedtime story by the fire. It was a cozy and delightful evening.
In the morning we had pumpkin pie and muffins, veggie sausage and fruit for breakfast, then scurried to gather our things and get out the door for school. Tiffaney left with her kids while my girls and I gathered the last of our things by the kitchen door and prepared to take armloads of snow clothes to the Highlander. My keys weren’t in my purse, but I’m notorious for misplacing things, so I wasn’t alarmed. I checked my coat pockets next. “I don’t know where my keys are.”
“I had them last night,” my older daughter said with concern. “I don’t know what I did with them.”
I had forgotten she took the keys to get a sled from the Highlander. While I felt slightly relieved that I hadn’t unknowingly misplaced the keys, I now also felt a much higher level of concern at the possibility of not being able to find them at all. We began searching, starting in my daughter’s coat pocket, where she remembered putting the keys. But they weren’t in the coat pocket, or the pants pockets, or anywhere we looked in the house. We continued the search outside where there were still several inches of snow on the ground. We walked slowly to the Highlander, heads down. Tiffaney’s neighbor, Ben, noticed us searching the ground and asked if we had lost keys. “Yes,” I said, “we used them last night and now we can’t find them.” He promptly offered to take my girls to school, and I gladly accepted.
Tiffaney came home and together we continued searching for the keys, but found nothing. I texted my parents that I was coming over to get a spare house key. My parents live across the street from my house and they keep a spare key, so it would be easy to go home from there and grab the extra Highlander keys to use until I found the lost key ring. Tiffaney dropped me off at my parents’ house, where I was greeted with the unwelcome news, “We can’t find the key to your house.” Mommy and Daddy were searching kitchen drawers and coat pockets, but to no avail. I decided to walk over to my house and look for a way to break in. I tried all the doors and a couple of windows, but everything was locked. As I stood at the back of the house, looking at the windows, I noticed the latch was pointing a different direction on the kitchen window than it was on the other windows. Maybe it’s not locked.
I carried our orange step-ladder from the still-open garage to the kitchen window. Propping it open, I climbed up and tried the window. It opened! Sliding it all the way up, I angled my head and shoulders through the narrow opening, held onto the counter as I balanced awkwardly over the piles of dishes in and around the sink, and finally lowered myself to the kitchen floor. From there it was a dozen steps to the back door, which I unlocked as I headed out to put the ladder away. I tromped back through the snow to my parents’ house with the news of my lucky break-in, and retrieved my purse.
As I was walked home again it dawned on me that I couldn’t have opened the kitchen window if the garage door was closed and I didn’t have access to the ladder. Sometimes my mistakes or forgetfulness can be in my favor! Glad to finally be home, I settled down to write until Tiffaney could take me back to her house to retrieve the Highlander. Then life resumed as usual.
Monday’s sleepover was such a hit that we showed up again Wednesday evening to spend the night. There was still snow on the ground, and we searched for the keys to no avail. Tiffaney took all the kids to her son’s school Christmas program, and I got better acquainted with Alice, who got stuck at the bottom of Tiffaney’s driveway. Using door mats, car mats, blankets, and—finally—a neighbor, we got her little car to the end of the driveway. Tiffaney’s house was beginning to feel like one adventure after another.
Snow melted over the weekend, and we offered the neighborhood kids—fourteen of them—a $2 reward for finding my keys. Sunday it rained and I stayed inside. Monday I increased the reward to $3, and Tiffaney chimed in on our group text, “I’ll double that!” Three of us adults also combed the sledding hill on Monday but found nothing shiny or key-like.
Another week passed, it snowed again, and Christmas vacation began. I was at my writing desk on a Wednesday morning, two weeks after I had climbed through our kitchen window, when my daughter appeared in the doorway wearing her snow pants and coat. “I hear metal,” she said, shaking up and down. She reached down, opened the side pocket of her snow pants, and pulled out the missing keys! She had put them safely in her pocket … just not her coat pocket. I joyfully texted my friends.
The drama had finally reached its conclusion after fifteen days of waiting. That’s plenty of time to fret about the astronomical price of a new key fob, my—or my daughter’s—lack of responsibility, and the outlaws who might be running around with keys to my house. It’s plenty of time to scold and moan and budget. Enough time to compare all the “shoulda’s” with reality. It’s enough time to buy a new fob, schedule an appointment to have the house re-keyed, and write a chore list long enough so my daughter can pay me back for said fob.
But I didn’t do any of those things. I blame God for this. I also blame Tiffaney, who is queen of going with the flow, and who spent more time praying than fretting—in fact she prayed about finding the keys just a couple of hours before my daughter found them.
I am still getting acquainted with the me who doesn’t freak out about everything, shame and blame, and frantically try to fix things in record time. This new me appreciates my friends and gives grace to my children. She allows for changes in plans and inconveniences. She waits, with a slow pulse.
Don’t get me wrong, I can still throw a first-class tantrum. When things go sideways I still panic and reach for my two favorites—anger and control. But I love this whole story because it’s a case in point that I am freer than I used to be. I am free to love, to make mistakes, and to allow others to make mistakes. I am free to receive life open-handed, to laugh, to pray, to wait, to be in community. No matter the outcome, all the energy I might have spent steaming out my ears for two weeks was put to better use. Thank you, Papa God, for seeing fit to replace my heart of stone with a heart of flesh.
I’m tired this morning. I want to crawl back in bed like my daughter and husband, who have colds. But I find myself feeling grateful for physical tiredness, preferring it to mental or emotional tiredness. Michael and I are enjoying a season of peace and joy in our marriage. I’m soaking up the wonder and belonging of friendship with other women. I’m underprepared for Christmas, yet taking it all in stride, doing one thing at a time. (Michael’s comment on this atypical flexibility: “You’re not the woman I married.”) For the first time in my life, I am spending more time present to what is in front of me, and less time captive to what is behind or beyond me.
Sometimes I feel guilty for enjoying my life (because others have less) or I worry the other shoe is about to drop (it has to someday). What a rash way to live, devaluing what is in front of me because I don’t know what is behind it, or because someone else doesn’t have it.
What a privilege to be wife to Michael and mom to Kayt and Kyli, to belong in a family where we enjoy each other. Books are stacked high on my nightstand, and firewood is stacked high for cozy evenings. I have every kind of music at my fingertips through our music subscriptions and home speakers. I have comfortable clothes and slippers, warm children’s cheeks to press against and a stubbly masculine face to kiss. I am rich, rich, rich.
I am surprised as I rise on this fountain of abundance, knowing that if I fall it will be so worth it. I am full, and this moment is here, not threatening to squeeze me empty, but to stuff me even fuller.
Life will empty me too, and that’s okay. Not being defined by how full or empty I am is precisely what allows me to enjoy fullness more than I ever have, and to know that being empty will also be acceptable—receivable. My unshakeable center is not good fortune, but my own worth. The lyrics of “Oh Holy Night” capture me.
O holy night, the stars are brightly shining, It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth; Long lay the world in sin and error pining, ‘Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth. A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn; Fall on your knees, oh hear the angel voices!
The soul felt its worth. This hope that finds us in our weariness is a miracle—for all times, places, and people. I’m more willing than ever to fall on my knees and hear the angel voices singing—in my daughters’ eyes, the falling snow, hot water rinsing dirty dishes, warm clothes out of the dryer, text messages and songs, Christmas shopping and sleep. The angel voices are everywhere.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for Your gigantic hands, capable of holding next weekend’s to-do list, a relationship on pause, the unknown— everything I spin and squeeze in my tense mind and muscles.
Blessed are You for holding me, tiny though I may be, in the safest and most intimate corner of Your largeness, where Your attention is entirely mine.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for this awareness— I am Your favorite. I have Your serenade, Your favor, Your secrets whispered in my ear, my small hand in Your expansive one.
“Rest first.” This is God’s favorite thing to say to me. It’s incredibly irritating. I am terrible at resting, compelled to be a productive and functional human being. But God is provokingly persistent.
“Rest first.”
But I’m too messy to rest.
“Rest first.”
But there’s work to be done.
“Rest first.”
But people need me.
“Rest first.”
But I don’t deserve to rest.
“Rest first.”
But rest makes me feel restless.
“Rest first.”
But what if I get tired and sleep too long?
“Rest first.”
But what if I’m missing something? What if right now is the moment I need to grab what You have for me and hold on tight?
“Rest first.”
At this point I’m out of excuses, so I sit slumped down with arms crossed, pouting.
I have fought God tooth and nail on His invitation to rest first, and His corresponding refusal to “fix” me before I can rest.
In my defense, it’s impossible to rest when I don’t feel safe in my own skin. My journal bears witness to this ongoing struggle.
August 1 - What am I afraid of? Myself. And I think I’m afraid of admitting I’m afraid of myself, because it took me a long time to write that down, and I’m feeling really vulnerable.
September 22 - I wanted to be alone today, but it occurs to me that perhaps I wanted to get away even from myself, and this is hard (read “impossible”) to do. If I’m scared of me, anxiety is inescapable. Even if I get away from people and distract myself with busyness, in the end I’m still with myself.
I have been plagued with fear that I am a liability in life. Every time I fail, or don’t show up how I want to, it seems my fear is confirmed, and I am, in fact, a liability. Fighting this battle, against what I perceive as my own nature, sucks away time and energy like a board meeting. I struggle against my own self, day in and day out. I am a liability. I must protect myself and the people around me from this truth by performing well. Every. Single. Time.
But fighting and performing inevitably fails. I suppose the redeeming feature of failure is that eventually I become willing to consider what God is saying; consider thinking differently; consider rest.
I am allowed to be a mess.
I am allowed to skip out on some work.
I am allowed to take a break from meeting people’s needs.
I am allowed to rest.
I am worthy of rest.
I am not going to miss out on anything.
In her book Braving the Wilderness, Brené Brown uses the phrase, “Strong back. Soft front.” For me, this is a depiction of what it means to have an identity in Christ. I was created by God; I am inhabited by God; I am destined for perfect union with God. This is my strong back. I am not waiting to find out who I am today—to define myself by success or failure. I know who I am.
And today my soft front is three things: 1) love for people—especially my family, 2) grace for myself, and 3) holding things loosely—especially tiredness, fear, sadness, confusion, and loneliness in my marriage. These things are transient, but God and love and grace aren’t going anywhere.
I am able to have a soft front only when I have a strong back. If I have no back, I rely on an exoskeleton of performance to hold me together. But when I have a backbone of awareness that I am loved and righteous, I become soft and able to rest; and after rest, to embrace the person in front of me.
This freedom pokes its way into my consciousness through friendship, quiet time, reading. I write down moments of grace-full thinking and return to them:
“I am beautiful without adding or taking away anything, just like the lilies of the field. I am clothed by God, and my clothing is not distinguishable from me, just like a violet. I am clothed in dignity.”
“I am not a liability.”
“I am learning how to hold myself, receive comfort from God, and receive comfort from people. This is a valuable skill. I have survived without it, but I will thrive with it.”
“I have permission to enjoy my own company. I get to decide how I treat myself.”
Some time ago I wrote reminders to myself on a notecard, including: “I believe God is trustworthy,” and “I believe my husband is trustworthy.” With some trepidation I recently added, “I believe I am trustworthy.” After a lifetime of being told that sinful humans can’t be trusted, believing I am trustworthy may be what returns me to myself. I can be trusted to make decisions, manage my emotions, spend my time. In other words, I can be trusted to be in charge of myself. I am not on trial with God or anyone else, so all of these decisions are simply opportunities to learn. I can be curious about myself—about life—and I can be compassionate with myself.
Earlier this year I really got my panties in a wad, worrying that I wasn’t receiving what God had for me. After months of struggling I admitted things weren’t looking too good and set up an appointment with my counselor, Beth. When I told her I was worried and distracted by wanting God to fix me, and fearful I wasn’t letting Him do what He wanted to do, Beth said, “But you do know how to listen to the Holy Spirit and trust Him.”
After my long struggle I felt it would be necessary to claw my way back to peace and trust. But Beth said it’s just a tweak, a chiropractic adjustment, and I am back in trust with God. And so I journal again, choosing to trust God, and in so doing, to trust myself.
“God with the Welcoming Lap, I leave behind my perfectionist, outcomes-based thinking, and I return to trust. I am fully capable of responding to Your Spirit.”
In Zach Williams’ song, “Fear Is a Liar,” this line arrests me: “…you could be the one that grace could never change.” Despite (or maybe because of) being a lifelong Bible-believing Christian, I fear I could be the one who can get it wrong, miss out, not respond how or when I’m supposed to. This lie has felt so close to truth.
There’s a whole conversation about whether it’s hard to be “saved” or hard to be “lost,” which I’m not going to get into. I will say that believing it’s hard to be saved is a death sentence for a perfectionist. What helps me unclench is knowing “It is finished.” God already did the thing that rescued me. I can go with what He did, instead of what I’m doing. I can agree with Him, instead of my wretched feelings. He says I am righteous. Full stop.
And so I pray: “I leave behind my stubborn fear that I am the one grace could never change. I am capable of trusting You. I am not a helpless victim. I am able to hear You, trust You, and choose You. I am not in need of the right formula, or the right circumstances, or the future version of me that is better than this one. You created me with the ability to choose and to trust. ‘Being good’ was completed by Jesus, and there is nothing left for me to perform.”
Oh, sweet rest, how I longed to fall into your soft pillows, pull up a thick blanket, and be still. And here I am finally, with both feet tucked in, glasses off, curled up around my pillow, almost laughing with joy before I sink into peaceful stillness. Rest.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for breath, the rise and fall of my chest, bringing life to my body one moment at a time. I cannot store up breath, and breathing out is equally as important as breathing in.
Blessed are You for this gentle infusion of life, without which I would die, and yet of which I am hardly aware. You would think, knowing if I stop breathing I’ll die, that I would obsess over it. But I trust my mind and body to keep the rise and fall of my chest and the beat of my heart and to let me know if anything goes awry.
Perhaps Your Spirit in me is this way. I don’t need to always be aware of it for it to be always there, tending Life inside me, centering me like a deep breath, spreading life to the very edges of my body every moment, gently, and so faithful that I need not give it a second thought, except to pause in gratitude that I am inhabited by Life and this is the Lord’s doing.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for the reminder that I can work hard to hold on tight, or I can remember that You are inhabiting me, and rest.
“Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” (Matthew 6:26, NKJV)
“The early bird gets the worm,” we say; but God provides for all the birds. And Jesus lauded them not for getting up early, but for receiving what they need when they need it; not for sowing, reaping, and gathering into barns, but for partaking in the provision of their Creator. “Look at the lilies,” He said, “they neither toil nor spin; yet even King Solomon in all his glory was not dressed like one of these.” (see Matthew 6:28, 29)
“For though by this time you ought to be teachers, you need someone to teach you again the first principles… you have come to need milk and not solid food.” (Hebrews 5:12, NKJV)
Feeling offended by this assessment from the writer of Hebrews, I have rushed to grow up, skipping the part where I am dependent on my Father; the part where I trust because trust is all I know and all I have. I am a toddler convinced that I’m 18. I’ve made it out of the house, onto the street with my bag of snacks, and I’m very proud of myself. When a car approaches, I don’t even know to feel afraid until it has nearly killed me—when I feel the rumble of the engine in my chest, hear the screeching tires, feel the heat.
“How often I wanted to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, but you were not willing!” (Luke 13:34b, NKJV)
Perhaps this is when I consider embracing my status as toddler in my Father’s house. Streets can come later. Now is the season of still-warm folded laundry; a booster seat pulled up to a laden table; being carried when I get tired; handed a sippy-cup when I am thirsty. This is a time to relish the dependance that goes hand in hand with abundant provision.
“‘I will be a Father to you, and you shall be my sons and daughters,’ says the Lord Almighty.” (2 Corinthians 6:18, NKJV)
God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.
Matthew 5:3, NLT
Soft patting from my six-year-old woke me up at 3am. “I want you,” was the reason she gave. I tried to fix things and send her back to bed, but she wasn’t having it. I gave up and made a blanket bed on the floor in my room. She settled in and slept. I felt resentful, trapped, overwhelmed… and angry that I can’t seem to make a parenting decision without feeling all those things. Such a simple decision, but just look at me make it complicated. I lay in bed anxious, dialed up to ten, and I prayed for God to provide. For help. And I slept.
The same little hands woke me a few hours later—too early, but not early enough to send her back to bed. She wanted help opening a door. We have an old house and most of the doors slipped out of alignment long ago. They require a firm hand to actually latch, and make a popping sound when opened. The early-up daughter opened four doors, and my irritation dialed right up again—first at her, and then at myself. Again I prayed for help, and I slept.
I have conflicting feelings about these moments of struggle. Sometimes God helps me and I feel so ashamed for needing help. I want the stories of God showing up in my life to be more glamorous and less highlighting my selfishness. I’ve been reading about a young woman who dedicated her life to the marginalized, and I feel so stupid for the smallness of my stressors. Her struggles seem saintly; mine feel embarrassing.
But my feelings have forgotten the truth, which I whisper to God: You show up in each of our moments without discrimination. The “saintly” young woman is loved. I am loved. I am here, feeling paralyzed by fear, tantalized by control, and tempted by selfishness and scarcity. And You, You show up with the embrace of a friend who feels the tiredness, gives me a knowing squeeze, and sits beside me.
Another morning: I woke up a little earlier than usual. I got up, drank a glass of water, relieved myself of the previous evening’s glass of water, and sat down to pray. I felt heavy and snappy, and was grateful for a few extra moments of quiet time. I opened the window a crack to smell the fresh morning air, then closed it again to keep out the cold. I opened my hands and closed my eyes.
Then I heard the girls, up early this morning. They came in my room to ask, “Can we get up now?” They left the door open and Phred (our cat) jumped on the bed where my husband was still sleeping. Sigh. Two minutes later Kyli came back because they had a fight (already?!). She climbed on my lap. Kayt came in repentant: “I’m ready to apologize.” I mediated, and finally they left me to the quiet.
I was losing. The quiet time I felt I desperately needed was being riddled with holes. I prayed, Help. I asked God if I could spend today finding contentment in watching Him provide. And in a sudden turn of thoughts, I imagined how stressful it would have been to wake up to the girls having a fight, not having had those first moments of quiet. Ah, the sweet relief of gratitude for provision already made.
The kingdom of heaven is mine. “Blessed are the poor in spirit—those who recognize their spiritual poverty—for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:3). The kingdom of heaven is mine because I am poor. If I were rich I wouldn’t need it, and if I thought I was rich I wouldn’t know I needed it. It is precisely when I know I am poor that the kingdom of heaven is mine. I may rejoice in the poverty that lands me exactly where I want to be—a place of receiving. Finding contentment in watching Him provide, and knowing that every moment of apparent poverty is an invitation to great wealth. Thank you, Jesus, that there is no shame in receiving Your help.
God says, “Be still, and know that I am God!” (Psalm 46:10a NLT). I wonder how “they” decide where to place exclamation points in scripture. This one startles me, like maybe God just shouted a little bit. It’s like He knows it takes an act of nature to shake me out of performing and perfecting.
Learning to be still with Jesus is an ongoing pursuit for me. For years my habitual quiet time in the morning was infused with a hurry/produce mentality. I focused my time around memorizing a chapter of the Bible or reading one chapter of a book each day. I would journal all my angst, problems, and frustration over my lack of control. Ever so slowly I have learned to be still in God’s presence. Learning to be without an agenda has often resulted in tears. For most of my life I didn’t know what it was like to be seen and loved. As I came to experience Jesus, I cried many tears: tears of joy over being loved for no reason, and tears of grief over releasing who I was striving to be.
After a long season of either crying or feeling “blank” in my quiet times, I began to listen. I got really honest. I learned to take inventory of my heart. The thing about sitting with Jesus is that He doesn’t meet me where I wish I was; He meets me where I actually am.
I remember the day I was sitting in my “prayer chair” looking into the expansive greenness of a large tree near the window. I was thinking about trusting God, and realized that I could not pray, “I trust You today.” I didn’t trust God. I had no idea what He would ask me to do and I had no intention of handing Him my life to do with as He pleased. This was hard to admit. It’s kind of awkward when you’ve been a Christian for 30 years and realize you still think you’re a better god than God.
But I can’t manage trust the way I manage brushing my teeth. It doesn’t happen because I write it on my schedule. It happens when I get to know someone who’s trustworthy.
My honest reflection landed me here: I want to want to trust God. That’s two levels away from actually trusting, but it was a start: the beginning of “starting over” getting to know God. A year or two later a day came where I felt that God just might manage my day better than I could. Trust. Built on honesty, hard questions, arguments, and the discovery that God is emotional safety on steroids. Often I didn’t know my own heart, but Jesus brought it to the surface so we could engage with it together. At first this took a long time, but gradually it happened faster.
Other things flowed into my quiet time as well. I began to enjoy praying for all kinds of people: family, friends, acquaintances, classmates, neighbors, strangers. I began to catch myself when I started to rant and have a pity party, and instead make a choice to say what I was thankful for, or to praise God for who He is, or to revisit a promise or a truth He had previously given me. Quiet time became a daily opportunity to be seen and loved, no matter what state I was in.
Then, because God is absurdly good to me (I am His favorite child), this practice of stillness filtered into other parts of my day. I began to experience more emotional safety in relationships, and I watched the clock less when spending time with people. God invited me to do daily tasks one at a time, relieving my exhausting mental multitasking. I began to seek stillness and allow tears or rest instead of pushing myself harder when tired. Fruits of the Spirit like patience—for which I had cajoled God for years—began to show up.
One week last fall was ridiculously busy. I was harvesting and processing garden produce, preparing for my daughter’s birthday, and putting together a chapel talk for my kids’ school, in addition to writing several hours more than usual. The kids got sent home from school one day because of a power outage, and I felt behind all week. As I watched myself go through the week I noticed unusual behaviors: I didn’t demand that my family be as busy as me. I didn’t get up early, stay up late, or skip meals to keep being productive. I didn’t make long lists and then freak out when I only finished half. I took short naps. I took time to be still in the mornings and evenings. I often engaged in the task I was doing without rehearsing the next five tasks in my mind. I was flexible when timelines or events changed.
I didn’t even know that was possible.
I have a sneaking suspicion that God knew.
It was still a tough week, but there was a taste of grace. I was impatient sometimes. I complained about all I had to do. At times, I stilled my body but my mind and spirit didn’t follow suit. Yet there was a breeze of grace that has not often been present. There was a tendency to stop when I felt anxious or tired, instead of going faster. There was an acceptance of the times when stillness was a physical choice but mental rest didn’t follow.
One afternoon I started a fire in the outdoor fire pit, with great hopes of enjoying a deep breath in my spirit. I sat down with a blanket and a book. I started a poem about my tangled feelings. But I ended up more anxious than I began. Sometimes that’s how it goes.
I bumble along, and God persistently shows up. I am humbled, and grateful to the point of tears, for all the moments that were redeemed by His grace that long week. The times when I helped my children instead of demanding they go faster. The times I snuggled with my husband instead of doing one more thing. Participating with my daughter in baking and party preparations. Time spent with friends. These were all gifts from a persistent God who shows me the beauty of stillness despite my adamance that going fast and doing more is a noble agenda which He ought to adopt with me.
Stillness is an act of trust. Stillness is changing my life.
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