sun shower

this morning, like the real, working-from-home adult that I am, I sat on my screened in back porch to sift through unread emails, unanswered texts, and an endless to-do list. the scene was perfect: sun shining, birds singing, overhead fans circulating a warm and gentle breeze…in a word, picturesque. And as I sat overlooking both my computer screen and the construction behind my house, one of my favorite marvels happened. though the sky was brilliantly blue and the sun was shining, it began to rain. gentle, steady and over nearly as quickly as it began.

and as I watched the drops of rain fall like tiny diamonds in the sun, I felt my eyes fill with tears. not the overwhelmed-with-COVID kind of tears, but good, genuine, deep, heart tears.

at the risk of sounding dramatic, the last 2 years have felt like a long, hot Indian summer.
the kind that stretches deep into October and leaves all that was once green and lush, looking scorched and tired.

I have felt like that scorched earth, drying out underneath the intense, hot rays of disappointment, frustration, uncertainty, fear and shame brought on by my inability to fix all the things or “get over it” or regain whatever control I feel has been lost.
For what feels like forever, i’ve turned my eyes from circumstance to circumstance, expecting that one of these days a storm will pass through, bringing relief to my weary world. our weary world.
but the chaos has persisted. the sun has continued to beat.
around each corner, what I thought would be a change for the better, has all too often turned out to be another ache, another disappointment, another unknown, another long, hot day.

the reality is that the world is aching and feels chaotic and in ways that are big and small I too have carried an ache.
I feel like i’ve spent the better part of the last 24 months looking to the sky and begging God for change.
telling myself (quite convincingly) that if just one circumstance could change, if I could just get one “win” in the books, it would color my whole world differently. that the grass could grow again.
i’ve begged and pleaded and waffled between what I thought was deep trust and inexplicable frustration, wondering all the while what I could possibly do differently or better in order to garner the response from the Lord that I am looking for.

I hate it, but I still find myself getting so stuck in conditional trust. conditional love.
my sinful cycle of “if I give God this, He will give me that”.
but God’s most gracious, most generous, most beneficial, most blessed answer, has consistently been “no”.
my renewal has to come through suffering.
if I really believe Jesus, which I do, then my suffering , your suffering, the suffering of the black community, the suffering of the marginalized, the suffering of the world at large, can’t lead to death…it can’t be the end.
eventually the long, hot days become so desperate that we no longer ask for a fan or an umbrella or even a sprinkler.
none of those will do.
this Indian summer calls me to beg for a summer rain.

God’s heart for the suffering of His children is consistent and true.
whether it’s His ache over my personal disappointments, my heart of sadness over a life that, though good and full, just really isn't what I had expected.
or his brokenness over the pride, fear and privilege that leads brother to murder brother, and one skin tone to elevate itself over another.
His ache, His care, His grief and His answer are all the same…
Himself.
more of Him.
only Him.

He is the living water.
His suffering gave us access.
our suffering gives us the humility to ask.
but in the end is life.

may we all sit in the shimmering drops of Him.
may we all let His shower drench our weary souls and give us strength to delight in another day of sun.

octobers

If you’ve ever opened instagram or looked at Pinterest during the autumn I can guarantee that you have seen a photo of girls laughing in a pumpkin patch (or apple orchard or corn maze, pick your poison) paired with the caption “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.”
sweaters, falling leaves, hot drinks, trees dressed to the nines in glowing oranges, reds and yellows, the joyful anticipation of the holidays, pumpkin becoming a staple in nearly every recipe…it’s an all around good time. we love it, we Pinterest it, we live for it.

in my case though, fall is known much more for it’s bad than it’s good.
fall has long been a dreaded season symbolizing pain and cold, dark, endless nights.
the kind of nights where you have to keep a light on, just to remind yourself that light exists.
for years fall felt like the loneliest, darkest season I could imagine, and one I could barely endure. at least winter brought the promise of spring.

it was in my darkest fall that that the mess of my life was exposed.
it was in my darkest fall that I felt like my entire identity slipped into a coma.
it was in my darkest fall that I was confronted with the reality that I didn’t truly know if this God I called Father truly loved me or saw me.
the outcome?
crippling loneliness.
startling clarity.
it was in my darkest fall that my abuse was brought to light and at the end of my abuse I found an absolute lack of trust that the Lord cared for me, or defended me, or protected me.
the invisibility of abuse goes all the way up the ladder and leaves you feeling that you are so lacking in value that even if the Lord saw what happened, He had no time to be bothered.
thus began a cycle of dread and fear and survival rather than joyful anticipation.

even in the years after my abuse — after I had truly worked through it, truly forgiven, truly let go, truly begun the long hike to healing and restoration, I still didn’t view the Lord as a protector.
early in the process He redeemed many of my misconceptions of Him; He helped me to see Him as kind and good and sovereign and loving…but “defender” and “protector” didn’t exist in my vocabulary for God.
certainly, theologically, I could speak to God’s nature/character as a fierce warrior, as a righteous defender, as a capable protector, I could point to countless stories in the Bible that claimed Him as just that, but in my personal experience of God and of trauma those things were neither felt nor believed.
and He let me sit there.
in a beautiful, condescending mercy He allowed me to see Him as so much less than He is.
that is to say that He let me sit there until He didn’t.
until His stillness turned to action and called me to see Him for more: to see Him as He is rather than how He felt to me in that moment.
”it’s time” He spoke, “it’s time to know me as your protector.”
and by a miracle of grace, I said “ok”.

and when did this call come?
in October.
despite my predisposition, despite my bias, despite my wounds, despite my fear, the Lord started me on a journey to meet Him as my defender.
the journey from that October to this October has not been simple or comfortable. it has been challenging and refining and vulnerable. it has hurt and i’ve cried more than i’ve probably ever cried in my life.
we don’t need a defender or protector unless their is risk involved. unless there is something to be defended from, protected against. and truly this past year has created a chasm in my life that only a perfect protector can fill. in His perfect love He has led me through uncharted waters of vulnerability in order that I might obediently step into deeper, fuller, truer knowledge of the Holy.
in the last 12 months this has never been easy, but it has gotten easier.
trusting Him didn’t feel safe at first, but it is feeling safer.
opening my self to hurt and disappointment and the absolute TERROR that is vulnerability (too dramatic? idk) has been deeply uncomfortable, but I am daily finding greater comfort in releasing the need to shield myself from any perceived threat. daily realizing that it is better to sink into His protection than attempt to conjure it myself.

and as the fear of being unprotected, of being vulnerable, of being unseen and undefended began to loosen and lessen, the most amazing thing happened.
subsequently my dread of October not just melted away, but wholly and completely disappeared.
it was no longer even a thought in my mind.
why fear the fall when I know that I have a protector on my side who sees me and loves me and fights for me, even when I can’t see it…especially when I can’t see it?
I think of Christ on the cross, never had anyone and never again will anyone be so defenseless, so vulnerable, so unprotected. And He joyfully endured it that I may step in the perfect, inexplicable protection of the Lord.
suddenly disappointment or vulnerability or weakness or failure don’t feel scary, but instead feel like an opportunity to the Lord fight on my behalf and an opportunity to love Him as my protector.
no longer must I steel myself against every “threat” — instead I get to rest knowing that the Creator of the Universe stands as my defense. The One who sees does not fail; this perfect protector cannot fail.

October leads to January which leads to April.
and in the same way my trauma led to my darkness which led to His light.

It’s a beautiful thing to be able to say that I now am truly happy to live in a world where there are Octobers, not because of the changing leaves or the reintroduction of sweaters to my wardrobe, but because of the reminders that life can be revived out of even the deepest of deaths and light can be cast into the darkest of nights.
Leaves have to fall off of trees to make room for new growth, for rebirth, the old must die before the new can be born. And in the same way, am I.
The death in me had to die and that had to start somewhere.
The long, dark, shadowy nights paved the way for a life lived in the light.
may we all be so fortunate to “live in a world where there are Octobers.”

flooded moats.

i recently found the journal that i filled during what could only be remembered as the most refining, painful year of my life. during that year i lived by the Hemingway quote that says to “write hard and clear about what hurts". there is a beauty in looking back at the reality of where i was, in the brilliant light of where i am.
how sweet it is that all of my pain was true and real and mine, but it wasn’t forever, and that is just as true and real and mine.
so if this finds you in a season of desolation and destruction, know that it’s hard and hurts and it is all so very real, but it is also temporary.
rest in the tension.
i am so, so thankful that i did.

excerpt from my journal - 12/28/2013
“it’s like i’ve built myself into a sandcastle.
one that has finally been met by the tide.
i suppose it was always going to catch up with me.
i shouldn’t be surprised that it did.
and yet, it it was the castle i built.
i created it and i let myself believe it would stand forever.
but in a single moment it has been washed away.
gone forever.
and as the tide has repeatedly crashed into my shore and retreated to it’s own boundless depths, it has ripped from me more than what i had built to begin with.
leaving behind caverns and hollows.
but like a child, i tried to fight the powerful tide.
i’ve built walls and moats around myself to guard my kingdom from the unbridled, vicious sea.
but my moats have flooded and my walls crumble into nothing as the waves reach out and grab my towers and spires, my corridors and dungeons, until every locked door has been washed away and every secret passage obliterated.

and as the tide recedes i am left in it’s wake.
worn by my losing battle.
bruised and beaten by the rubble of my own crumbled kingdom.
stripped by the sand and stung by salt that has clung to my wounds.
my eyes release that same salty salvation, forcing me to succumb to a reluctant surrender.
and there, beneath the moon and all the stars, with the waves before me and the rubble behind, i know that
i will never be the same.
the sea will never return to me that which it has stripped away.
certainly my wounds will heal in time.
my eyes will dry.
my fists will open and drop the final vestiges of my fallen fortress.
the sea will level my grounds.
and there, in my newfound desolation, i will accept the vast unknown.
i will give in to the power of the sea.
my salt stung scars reminding me forever of what’s behind and all that lies ahead. “

in good company

we say that misery loves company

we find comfort in knowing that we are not the only ones who are unhappy. we find solidarity and unity in our pain, or discontentment, or unmet expectations. we rest easy knowing that we aren’t the only ones who are left wanting.

i recently taught a sermon on the miracle of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead…which you’ve probably heard a million times if you are even remotely “churched”.
but, after reading it in preparation, something new stuck out to me: as Jesus is approaching the tomb of Lazarus, he asks them to move the stone away, to which Lazarus’ sister Martha replies “Lord, he’s been dead for 4 days, there will be an odor”.
the Creator of the universe nears the death that lies in a tomb and the human response is to attempt to shield Him from the mess within.
what struck me is that this is exactly like our lives.
every single one of us has a “tomb” that we are trying to shield the Lord from entering.
every single one of us has a place in our lives that is so filled with death and shame and guilt and pain and brokenness that we can’t even begin to imagine letting the Lord look upon, much less enter in.
we become Jesus’ backseat drivers, attempting to steer Him away from the one place in our lives that needs him the most.
at least that’s what i did…
and my tomb was closed for a lot more than 4 days.
my tomb was closed for 11 years.
there were no longer distinguishable remains inside of my tomb, just bones and ash and dust.
scarcely were there signs that life had ever flourished in what now lay, disheveled within the walls of my heart.

my tomb was a mess of broken identity, fractured trust, all-consuming shame, severed relationships, paralyzing anxiety + absolute hopelessness, all coexisting in blinding darkness.
my condition was chronic.
my tomb was filled with a splintering truth, buried under a decades worth of lies.
my tomb was sexual assault.

the stone stayed over my abuse for 11 years.
no light. no life. just still, haunting, darkness.
until one day Jesus arrived and told the stone that it was time to move.
i was angry. and scared. and confused.
couldn’t this wait?
hadn’t everything been ok with the tomb locked up tight?
why would Jesus want to let the light shine in and expose something so unbelievably — something so incomprehensibly ugly and wrong?
it had been buried. why would a loving Savior make me look at all of the pieces of myself that were dead?

but in the way that He does, He opened the tomb, and all the light of life and truth poured in.
which was stark and disorienting and exposing.
my misery, now on display for all to see, but most importantly for Him to see.
i struggled through a lot of anger and pride as i looked in the face of my misery. i so desperately didn’t want to be another number, i didn’t want to be a part of a statistic.
"one in three women will experience sexual violence at some point in their lifetime”
”one in four girls will be sexually abused before they turn 18”
in one fell swoop it seemed that suddenly my identity was no longer my own. my identity was that of “victim” and it was one that i shared with a whole new demographic of other faceless sufferers.
my misery had found company. and it was company that i didn’t want to be associated with.

but then He did the unthinkable.
He did the impossible.
with a love that’s big enough to overcome death, He peered into my tomb and simply said “come alive”.
and in a turn as unexpected as a dead man raising to life, the dead parts of my identity began to open their eyes and feel the warm light of the sun on their cold skin.
slowly at first, and then all at once.
the road to the tomb was arduous and harrowing.
there was not a single step that didn’t ache in some untouched corner of my soul.
but the moment that Jesus stepped in front of my fear, rolled away the stone and spoke value and worth and love and kindness into my tomb, all that was dead suddenly had the courage to walk out of the shadows and into His radiant light.

there was a lot that i thought was lost and gone forever through the process of my assault.
hope and identity and truth and confidence and value and worth, all scattered like ashes, but just like Adam, He scooped up the dirt from inside my tomb and breathed life into a soul that had been in the grave for a long time.
1 Peter 5:10 says “And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you”
He knew the path to the tomb would make me feel like i was going to die. He knew it would hurt and that my feet would bleed and my heart would ache to just give up.
but He also knew the promise on the other side.
He knew life didn’t just mean breathing lungs and a beating heart, it meant an identity finally found thriving in Him. it meant a whole being (body, mind, heart and soul) that was restored, confirmed, strengthened and established.
He knew.

we say that misery loves company.
but the more i reflect on misery the more i see that misery doesn’t love company, it is simply comfortable in the company it keeps.
what i really think misery loves is a way out of it’s misery.
i think the truth is that misery loves to have a hero.
a hero who heals and restores and brings it out of darkness into light.
misery longs to be healed.
and it has been in my healing that i have found myself seated in good company.
the selfishness of one abuser brought me into misery, but the selflessness of one Savior brought me into joy.
an abuser may have minimized my identity to nothing more than a statistic on a page, but it is only through the death that Jesus was able to call me to life and bring me into the company of other’s just like me:
broken people made whole by the miracle that is Jesus.

may we be people standing at the mouth of our tomb, humbly asking Jesus to roll it away, trusting that the death within is never too dead for Him to bring it back to life.

all is not lost, it just needs to be woken back up.

from where i stand.

i think that most of life is a nonlinear narrative. all the pieces of the story are disjointed, out of sequence, jumbled, forcing us to continually pull back and put the moments together in the bigger picture. we live in constant adjacent cycles of rising action, falling action and resolution, all overlapping, getting tangled. until each detail falls into place and suddenly the lights come on, the full value of the story is finally realized.

at least that’s what my life is: a series of causal coincidences.
moments full of unknown purpose and significance going virtually unrecognized until that moment of sparkling, incandescent clarity.

the season surrounding the remembrance of (and subsequent dealing with) my abuse often felt like the most disjointed series of unconnected events. as i dealt with the fall out, my prayer was often that the Lord would just reveal to me the purpose. i thought that i would have an easier time letting go, moving on, if i simply knew why it had happened. if God could just show me the completed puzzle then i would be able to push past the journey and move forward to the destination.
clearly, as He does, the Lord had a much different trajectory for me, for my story.
i wanted a neatly cut bouquet of flowers, but He wanted to plant the seeds and bring life from dry ground.
the years, the work, the highs and lows of hope and total apathy; they all felt isolated. each phase seemingly wrapping itself in a bow and getting placed into the banks of my memory, all becoming islands in the sea of my story.

but then the sweetest thing happened.

recently the Lord called to mind a memory of an image He gave me prior to the memory of my abuse. He had showed me the picture of myself standing outside of a paned glass door. the windows were shrouded in fog, and though i could see the shadows of figures within, there was no way for me to experience the light and life on the other side. i ached for months never understanding why i couldn’t access the inner room, why i couldn’t be in His direct presence.
this image lived in the recesses of my heart for years, all but forgotten, until the other day, when the Lord, in His sovereignty called it back to the front of my mind.

when the image returned i realized a thing of beauty: for years my life was marked by an unknown barrier. one that kept me from the presence of life and light and freedom. one that kept me from truly knowing the Lord and being truly known.
i was aware that life existed, but i didn’t really have it and i didn’t know how to open the door and experience it. i was trapped by the hurts that had been lying dormant in my heart. living in a lie, living with a whole chapter of my story missing, created a door that i could never open. a wall i could never climb.

but from where i stand today, as i look back on the event (16 years ago) and the memory resurfacing (5 years ago) i finally see a different image. i’m no longer the confused, wounded 22 year old seeing the glow of life from outside the door.
and it’s not just that the fog cleared, it’s that the door opened. paned glass no longer separates me from experiencing the warmth, the light, the joy, the freedom of His presence.
the puzzle pieces have fallen together and the beauty of His story is fully alive.

for years and years i searched high and low through my story for some kind of purpose. i begged the Lord to make my pain useful. i thought that i just desperately wanted a black and white answer.
but really i wanted a way to avoid the hurt and struggle of a life marked by sin and separation.
and then, just like that, in a season where i have not been asking questions, where i have been happily living in the mystery of His plan, He chooses to reveal the most beautiful truth, the most perfect purpose:
the point is, what happened to me didn’t happen to make me a better discipler or give me a better story. it didn’t happen to make me more relatable or more human. it didn’t happen so that i could be a better leader or better friend or better daughter.
sure, those things may be peripheral results, but it happened so that i could ushered into a closer communion with the Lord than i could have ever imagined. it happened in order to make my life reflect the life of Christ. it happened so that God could be glorified. it happened so that i could know and be known, that i could love and be loved, that i could see and be seen.
what more purpose is there?

it’s not that the thought had never crossed my mind, but the truth is, i couldn’t see the forest for the trees. i couldn’t make myself. He, in His time, had to scoop me into His hands and let me see the whole picture. every piece bathed in the incandescent light of His presence.
redemption and restoration are miraculous wonders.
what a good and faithful and sovereign God we serve, that in His kindness He doesn’t just apply purpose to our pain, but He truly brings our darkest, deadest parts back to life and makes them more beautiful than they’ve ever been. He makes them into images of Himself.
what a joy to suffer alongside my Savior, i’m unbelievably blessed to bare scars that look like His.
may i never tire of taking joy in the way i fit into His bigger picture, and the way He skillfully designs mine.