Archive for 2020

Home Archive for 2020

Sometimes I’m the lifeboat, sometimes I’m sinking. Sometimes the shepherd, sometimes the lost sheep. But always I’m shaped by the people who love me. — Andy Gullahorn

People often wait to become something great or create something epic before making a public show of thanks. They appear in movie credits, book forwards, or speeches at significant birthdays or weddings. That’s valid. No one wants to spend every day of their life writing exhaustive lists of everyone they owe their gratitude to for everything. However in lieu of these milestone events, the opportunities to publicly honour those who have contributed to your journey are sadly few.

I don’t like that.

The last twelve months of my life have been phenomenal. I’ve grown so much, learnt so much, met so many people and been so blessed by them on this journey. It has been one of the most profound years of my life, and I truly feel like a different person to who I was this time in 2019. So I’m taking an insignificant moment to offer some significant people a public thankyou for their presence in my life and for the unique ways they have contributed to who I've become this year.

In no particular order:

Sarah Carter, Michaela Mason, Elizabeth Allen, Josiah & Katrianna Hoodenpyle. You are the ones who stay. Time and space literally have no bearings on our friendship. Your faithfulness and nearness of spirit—no matter the distance—are such bulwarks in my life. You are safe places. You are always a phonecall or a text away, even if it has been months in between. I know if ever I were in a crisis, you would move heaven and earth to support me. That surety is priceless. Thankyou for your enduring love.

Madeleine & Clayton Cowley, Bethany Bell, Hannah Alley, Rachel Bemmer. You have let me be real in ugly ways and loved me despite it. You have been voices of wisdom, a safe place for my wounded heart, and a kind spirit when I needed one. Whether you've known me for half my life or only recently, our connection has been close to kindred for me. In many ways, God has rescued me through you and I am deeply grateful for your lovingkindness and godliness.

Lindsay & Nicole Teasdale, Julie & David Guy, Stephen & Cherie Punch, Andrew & Sue Betts, Neil & Jenny Parish. You not only invited me into your church and your homes, you invited me into your hearts. You have upheld me in prayer, held me when I’ve cried, been a steady support I can lean on, and you have loved me when I have had nothing to give in return, and that humbles me to my core. I could not have asked for better mentors and Godly examples in my life. “Thankyou” is too small a word for all I wish I could express.

James White, Glenn Coombs, Dave Tankard. The Lord used you to set me on a path I never would have found on my own. When I had countless voices in my head telling me “you can’t”, you said “you can”. The extent of your belief in me humbles me to this day, but more than that, the extent of your belief in the mission is what matters most. The way you live dedicated to the call of Christ continues to inspire and challenge me to live wholly for Him. I cherish your wisdom and knowledge so freely shared, and I am grateful also to Miriam, Leanne and Jude: your gentle support, strength of character, and quiet wisdom has been a gift to me, even just by your presence. The beauty and peace each of you carry have been so influential in my life. What incredible teams you are. I pray someday I am able to be even half as inspirational to someone as all of you have been to me. Thankyou for your faith.

My extended family. You know who you are. You are the aunts, uncles, cousins, and cousins’ children who have shown me what family means. You show up, you travel long distances, you call, you remember birthdays, you visit, you invite, you work through hard, hard things. You keep looking forward. Your presence in my life means I have a strong foundation under my feet that tells me to keep walking, and to make a difference. You remind me life is worth living.

My brothers and sisters-in-law, Jacob & Emily, Isaac & Kate. You have invited me to be a part of your families, allowing me to be an aunty to your children and so freely given me the opportunity to love them. Don't underestimate the gift it is to my single heart to have children around me, and to have your interest in my life amidst the fullness of your own. It is so deeply appreciated. Having you all in my life is one of the brightest parts of my existence, and it’s a gift I pray I never take for granted. Thankyou for your presence.

My siblings, Olivia, Thomas, Lily, Caleb. You make my life fun and interesting, while always challenging me to be a better person. You’ve been along for the ride with my crazy adventures, you’ve supported me, loved me at my worst, and made me laugh more than anyone else on earth. Life would simply not be as rich or as colourful without you. Thankyou for loving me. It means the world. Shoutout in particular to Olivia for being the soundboard for hours of processing/venting, the kick in the butt when I sorely needed it, the always supportive, always optimistic, always challenging, always hilarious, and always striving for excellence sister and partner in ministry. You've made me a better person simply by being you.

Dad, thankyou for your love and your support in all that I do. Knowing you approve of the life I'm living blesses me more than you'll know. The way you continually seek out the best on my behalf, the energy you give to helping me when I need assistance with anything, and your tireless work ethic are gifts that are irreplaceable to me. Thankyou for the sacrifices you have made, and for all that you have given me. I'm undyingly grateful.

Mum, our souls were cut from the same cloth. Words will fail to articulate my deep thankfulness for the way you have counselled me, mentored me, discipled me, mothered me, befriended me. There is no one like you on the planet, and I owe God a debt I couldn't repay—even if I lived a hundred lifetimes—for giving me you. Thankyou for the depth of your love and support, but especially, thankyou for the way you live like you believe the truth of who Christ is. May I ever follow in your footsteps of faithfulness.

Jesus. Only you know the journey it has taken for us to get here, and where we are to go from here. You have seen me at my absolute worst, and yet you stay. In fact, you still consider me worth the cost of your life, even knowing all the ways I am weak, pathetic, needy, broken and sinful. You have carried my grief and my sorrow, you have shared my joys and delights. This year you have walked with me through the darkness of tragedy, death, sickness, pain and heartache, and even when I haven't felt you anywhere, you brought me through it into the light again. You discipline me, correct me, teach me, and help me endure hard things, yet always you love me, give me more grace and mercy than I deserve, and make me better than I am. You have suffered my anger with kindness, my secret shames and burdens of guilt you took on yourself, in the times I've forgotten you, your faithfulness has remained. You love me too well to leave me as you found me. You are a friend that is closer than a brother. No one cares for me as you do. You are worthy of all my awe, all my devotion, all my life. May I ever be found in Thee. I love you.

There are many more names I could add to this list, and my gratefulness overflows to them also. Every kind word, every gentle rebuke, and even every hardship given for God to use as an instrument of goodness in my life I am growing more and more thankful for. It is with this deep sense of gratitude in my heart that I face the coming new year. I feel more whole than I have for a long time. I have been trained by the Lord's discipline, and by His grace, it has given me a strength and readiness to face what comes next with courage and perseverance. As I look back on the person I have been, I find myself so thankful for where God has brought me, and for the people He gave me. By His mercy, may we all be found faithful still.

Welcome, 2021.

I don’t know where I’m going, these dreams are all I’m holding. Take me down any road, I’m dancing in the dawn of the unknown. — Jake Scott

“So Jacob named that place Peniel, saying, ‘I have seen God face to face, but my life was saved.’ Then the sun rose as he was leaving that place.” – Genesis 32:30-31a NCV

“I’ve been waiting for the sun to come blazing up out of the night like a bullet from a gun, till every shadow is scattered, every dragon is on the run; oh, I believe, I believe that the light is gonna come; this is the dark, this is the dark before the dawn.” – Andrew Peterson

Shiny things attract me.

Things that sparkle, things that glow. Not blingy stuff, per se, but things that just shine or catch the eye in a beautiful or magical way.

I remember being a little girl at the local show, and as dusk fell, all the carnival vendors would pull out their cheap plastic gadgets and toys with pulsing LED lights inside them. The dark alleys would soon be lit up with the neon of the show rides, and hundreds of glowing orbs, gaudy headbands and lightsabers. I used to admire the teenagers walking by laughing and rowdy with all their trinkets; shadowy figures you could see coming from a long way off thanks to glow stick necklaces and flashing stuffed toys. Add to this the excitement of fireworks at the end of the night, and all of it transformed the dusty showground into a fairyland. Once I got home, I remember putting the one trinket I was allowed to buy on my nightstand, and I would watch it pulse and glow with wonder. I’d stare at its magic until I drifted off to sleep.

I still like shiny things, however they’ve taken on a different form since I’ve gotten older. From my teenage years, my love of glowing things slowly morphed into a love of glowing praise, shiny words, or sparkling affirmation. I was drawn to the magic of people’s approval, and I would bask in the wonder of the love I thought people had for me. While I didn’t particularly seek out the brightness of the spotlight, I did strive to always be a star; whether that was being the best at a given task, or being the favourite – a teacher’s pet.

In recent times this tendency has shifted to seeing the gold in others. It is so natural for me to admire the character of people I respect, to take a shine to their virtues, and aspire to be like them. For me, the impact they've made for the Kingdom and the legacies they have left behind glow like beacons in such an attractive way that I can’t ignore them. So you see, I’m still a sucker for shiny things.

The trouble with shiny things, is that they often make perfect idols.

Whenever I think of the word “idol”, the image of a squat little golden Budda statue often comes to mind, but that is a rather two-dimensional understanding of the word. Idolatry is a sin the Bible talks about at great length, yet so rarely makes its way into our present day conversations and sermons. Since working my way through Isaiah and Jeremiah this year, however, I’ve come to recognise more clearly how prevalent a sin idolatry is, particularly in my own life.

You’ve probably heard it said that discerning between good and bad isn't hard, but rather, it’s discerning between what is good and what is best. I find it incredibly easy to recognise the good in people and situations. This, of course, is a Godly thing. It’s good to be able to discern the Presence of God or the fruit of the Spirit in someone’s life, or to recognise the way God uses people and things to encourage us and remind us of His great love and care for us. They are reflections of His nature. It’s when I become bedazzled by those reflections instead of Him that I get into trouble.

I’m ashamed to admit how easy it is for me to make an idol out of good things, rather than seeking the best that is Christ. It was one thing to go through books of the Bible and write notes in the margins about the idolatry of Israel, but another thing to recognise the ways I so quickly stumble into it in my own life. It was enormously confronting to see the pathetic neediness in my nature that wanted to wrap my hope, my worth, and my admiration around what mere people could give me. How I craved affirmation, to be told I had done well, and to be considered of special regard or importance. I recognised it in the disappointment I could feel if I wasn’t as praised as someone else, or how I wanted to see my name in writing when it came to offering thanks. It was disgusting to me and discouraging how compulsive these thought patterns had become. Even my use of past-tense words right now are a stretch. Turning from these temptations and tendencies remains a present work of God in my life.

“It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.” – C.S. Lewis.

So much of this struggle has highlighted the fact that this life is not my final destination. C.S. Lewis was right; how easily pleased I am. How is it I can look to the words or affirmation of another human as my ambition? Why do I work so hard to please people, doing a dance for their approval or making a god out of their character and virtues, when in the end I will stand, not before the crowd or a human, but before my Maker? The foolishness of the Israelites’ constant repetition of bowing down to something shiny only confirmed my own folly of losing sight of eternity. The glimpses of good in others – affirmation, encouragement, love, approval, character, virtue, praise – no matter how good, are still incomparable with the best that Christ is. I know it, in my head. But my heart still reaches out to snatch at the goodness it sees like a selfish, hungry child.

I’ve often been critical of those who seek instant gratification above holiness. How could someone choose the convenience of sex over an intentional and healthy relationship, I would wonder. Or choose a high, a good time, a drink, or a binge over faithfulness to Christ? Yet I (so holy!) can fold like a stack of cards to a compliment, or bow down to saying “yes” to please another, or bask in the glow of praise from a superior as if I’m God’s gift to the world. Who is the hypocrite now? Chasing reflections was just my preferred form of instant gratification.

A friend of mine once called these shiny reflections ‘echoes’. “If you chase the echoes, you will never find what you were looking for,” He said. “Men have driven themselves mad that way. But if you chase the real thing, and set your mind on eternity, you can find much of what you thought you had lost.” How much more true this statement has become for me. It’s not the reflections that I truly want, I keep telling myself. It’s the sun.

“So I’m waiting for the King to come galloping out of the clouds while the angel armies sing, He’s gonna gather His people in the shadow of His wings and I’m gonna raise my voice with the song of the redeemed because all this darkness is a small and passing thing.” – Andrew Peterson

The sun. The Son. When the reflections dazzle and distract me, it’s not the shiny that I really want. It’s what the shiny reflects. My worth and my validation cannot survive on human praise alone. I was wired for the words of my Saviour: “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” The reflections con me. They make me think I’m not living in the dark, that there aren’t shadows and dragons here. They make me think human love is enough, that their praise equals fulfillment. It doesn’t. They are fleeting, passing things. It’s the Master’s voice I need. I am driven mad when I seek it from my peers, or my mentors. Yes, both are important and both can be expressions of God’s love and guidance towards me, however they are not Him. They are good, but they are not the best.

Pride would tell me I am blameless. I try not to listen to that voice. It’s far too easy to see oneself in a favourable light and not recognise the darkness of such idolatry. Isaiah’s words chasten me well: “woe to those who trust in Egypt, horses or chariots; who do not look to the Holy One of Israel, nor seek the Lord! The Egyptians are men, and not God; their horses are flesh, and not spirit. Return to Him; for in that day every man shall throw away his idols of silver and his idols of gold – sin, which your own hands have made for yourselves” (Isaiah 31). It is a painful retraining of my mind to look a friend in the eye, receive their kindness, and still say, “you are not my God”. How foolish it seems, written there so plainly on the page. How much it proves my desperate need for grace and mercy.

So, only by the said grace and mercy of my Saviour, I’m able to lift my eyes from the things of earth. With the recognition of their futility, the shiny things grow strangely dim, and I’m again searching the skies for the Son. It makes a yearning, a longing, a desperation well up in my heart when I don’t see Him yet. No longer distracted by reflections, I ache for the real thing. Isaiah’s words ring true once again, “in that day a man will look to his Maker; and his eyes will have respect for the Holy One of Israel. He will not look to the altars, the work of his hands; he will not respect what his fingers have made, nor the wooden images nor the incense altars” (Isaiah 17:7-8). This dawning has been slow to arrive, but I see it now.

I wonder at Jacob, having wrestled with God and seen His face – a face that left Moses’ face glowing with the reflection of it. How must the sunrise have looked that morning? Dim? Jacob had been made weak with a limp in the wrestle, had turned from his own desires, and looked into the face of his Master. Yet he couldn’t stay there. He had to limp away to face his future. He wasn’t home yet. Did all his possessions seem lacklustre after that moment? Did the approval of his brother no longer matter? Did he quit scheming to keep his image intact and make peace with the weak and pathetic man he was? Weak and pathetic, but who had seen the face of God. I don’t know for sure, but I can’t help but imagine that every sunrise he saw after that encounter served to remind him of the true Light he was looking for. He had seen the real thing. He was no longer content with the reflections the world had to offer. Even the dawn was just a shadow compared to the glory of God.

My favourite quote of all time (and probably will be forever), was penned by a young man named Joshua Eddy. If you don’t know his story, I strongly suggest you seek out his blog and read it. The quote reads, “to pursue anything but the full measure of the glory of God’s love is a wasted life.” I have known this truth to varying levels over the course of my life, however facing my own shallowness has given it a greater depth. Do I truly live like I believe this? Sadly, not always. The wrestling with evil will blind me at times. The limp of humanness will occasionally make me falter. But I don’t want to live there. No, I want to deeply, truly, wholly know the love of God that surpasses all knowledge. I want to believe with all my heart and soul the love of God for myself, for me: to know in a tangible and undeniable way that He, He loves me. To be assured that my life is not wasted on this glorious pursuit. How I wrestle! How pride tries to rise above the goodness of God and reduce it to a reflection. How I love myself or others too much or not enough, or hate what I do too much or too little. Though I can despair at times when my level of belief doesn’t match what I claim, I cling to the pursuit of believing God’s love for me. How I long for the day that my understanding is unimpeded by any lie, by any selfishness, or by any sin. When I finally stand before my Maker, trusting fully in His Son, coming home at last, and I finally believe the King truly loved me all along. Eternity glows like the dawning sun in the distance; the Son rising, guiding me, reminding me that He is calling me Home, to where I belong.

Home.

Make haste, my Beloved.

“I had a dream that I was waking at the burning edge of dawn, and I could see the fields of glory, I could hear the Sower’s song. I had a dream that I was waking at the burning edge of dawn and all that rain had washed me clean, all the sorrow was gone. I had a dream that I was waking at the burning edge of dawn, and I could finally believe the King had loved me all along, I had a dream that I was waking at the burning edge of dawn, and I saw the Sower in the silver mist, and He was calling me Home.” – Andrew Peterson

“Lead me home, Jesus. Let me die to my need to be someone important. Let me die to my need to leave a mark.” – Andrew Peterson

“Now when He saw that He did not prevail against him, He touched the socket of his hip; and the socket of Jacob’s hip was out of joint as He wrestled with him.” - Genesis 32:25

Generally speaking, I’m too busy, too driven, and too focused to notice the things I don’t have (unless of course it’s in my face, like my printer isn’t working). I’m typically a pretty easygoing and contented person. However when my world stops swirling and I’m still and quiet, things slowly float to the surface. Repressed longings and yearnings start to ache, like the throbbing pain of a hammered thumb that keeps its victim awake at night. The things my heart so earnestly craves emerge in the absence of preoccupation, and I can’t help but sigh for the day I don’t feel the limp anymore.

I deeply desire to marry (there, I said it). Why it’s always so difficult and painful to admit, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the vulnerability of being honest about a reality I can do little to change. Lord knows, whole books are written on the subject, so I have no need to belabour the many strategies for procuring a “happily ever after” here. But the ache to share my life and my heart with someone who is passionate and hard working has never gone away; despite the many stages and philosophies I’ve been through in life. Though I don’t feel desperate or hopeless, it just isn’t my reality yet. Which means for the present, there will be painful times. But don’t we all have that same pain in some way, shape or form?

“Everyone wants something they don’t have. Everyone can point to a place in their life that feels like a barren wasteland. Even if someone was in their best season ever, and you handed them a microphone and asked, ‘What do you want that you don’t have,’ they’d still be able to give you an answer. Whether it’s a bigger house, or more job opportunities, or greater influence, or kids, or a girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever—everyone I know wants something they don’t have. Don’t you? What do you want that you don’t have?” — Remember God, Annie F. Downs

At the end of 2019, I was browsing Koorong. Running my fingers along the book spines in the women’s section, my touch stopped on a book by Annie F. Downs. It was called “Remember God”. Intrigued by the title (and also the gorgeous binding. I will die a designer), I pulled it off the shelf and read the back. “I know God is loving; I know He is good; I believe He is big and powerful. But sometimes I wonder if He is really kind— really deeply always kind. Is He?” The question hit a chord way down inside me somewhere, as if I had just discovered a wound that I didn’t know I had. I bought the book, and one Saturday afternoon I sat on the verandah of our granny flat and read almost the entire thing in one sitting, ugly crying for most of it.

It was a story so similar to my own; longing for things, wanting to believe for them, being gut-wrenchingly disappointed, and picking up the pieces of hurt and trying not to put them back together in one big, cynical, jaded puzzle; all the while wondering what God’s kindness looks like (if it exists). Even down to the date, the book ended on an unresolved note on a New Year’s Eve - the same day of 2019. The timing of the book felt like both a smack in the face and oddly, a gift from God.

“This darkest season marked me forever. It’s done a thing in me I can’t explain, except that I keep picturing what happens when a chunk of stone gets chipped out of a statue. It doesn’t ruin the statue, but it sure does change it permanently. And that feels like me. I can’t pretend I didn’t stand out in the storm while my entire self got soaked and beat up. I can’t pretend my soul hasn’t been weathered. It has. I’m rougher for it. I’m chipped forever. I have a limp that will not heal.” — Annie F. Downs

I limped out of 2019. That year I suffered quite a few blows that left me nursing scars I wish I could forget. But after reading Annie’s book, my heart felt like a blank slate before God. 2020 launched me into a month of ministry and as I shelved my pain to serve, I could sense God writing, filling up the slate with new purpose, new direction. I was given the opportunity to serve on staff in a paid position in a ministry I deeply loved, and I forged against my insecurities and fears to say yes to it. I had a whole new world opened to me with new colleagues and friends, challenges and lessons; new territory in my life that I had only dreamed would happen. In so many places of naivety, uncertainty, and self doubt, God showed Himself so immensely faithful, reminding me just how little I can do without Him.

Throwing myself into work I adore, and embracing new challenges made it easy to forget my limp. Almost. It’s still there. Sometimes I lay awake at night and just… wonder. In some ways, it’s startlingly clear to me how God’s hand has miraculously directed my life and caused me to arrive in this ministry position. But there are other threads that end in question marks. “What the heck was that friendship even for? What was the whole point of that experience? Why do I still ache for a someone when I know God is enough?” I know God is good and faithful to direct me and my gifts to a place where He knows they will operate best. But kind…? I wonder to myself. Is it heresy to even voice the thought, “Will I only truly believe God is kind if I see Him grant my heart’s fondest desire?” And if He doesn’t, then what? Is there more to this itch I’m not paying attention to?

Lately I’ve been nannying for my brother and sister-in-law until their new baby comes. I spend most of my time with their two girls under three, watching them play, argue, and eat. As I watch them, I've found memories coming back to me. I remember being their age. Watching my little niece stick her head outside the pram just to watch the wheel go round, I remember. I remember certain types of grass that I made toy meals out of, or used as string to tie teepee sticks together with. I remember songs I sang, or games I made up. I remember how I saw the world, and even now, I can feel tears welling up just at the thought of how bright and beautiful everything was to that curly-haired little girl who thought she would grow up to be a princess who lived in the Disney castle. What on earth is wrong with me?

I can feel bitterness rise in me as I recall who she was. I almost resent her, for her good and easy life. On a staff development retreat early in the year, we were asked to draw a timeline of our life and label the different seasons we experienced. I called my childhood “Innocence”. While my growing up years weren’t perfect, they were marked by an idyllic innocence that led me to see the world more like a story that ended with smiles and rainbows rather than the pain and confusion I’ve so often found. “Liar,” I think to myself now. “How dare you have such a wonderful childhood to believe in when the world is so different from what you think it is.” I feel almost conned by that younger me; to have believed her perspective of the world, and now after living in it for a while, finding it wanting in so many ways. Yet how quickly shame arrives on the heels of these honest thoughts. “How ungrateful you are,” it hisses. “How much worse so many others have had it, and you regret the blessing God gave you?”

“And it was good, good, good / now it’s gone, gone, gone / and there’s a little boy who’s lost out in the woods always looking for the fawn / So come back to me, please come back to me / is there any way we can change the ending of this tragedy? Or does it have to be this way?” — Andrew Peterson

In the midst of these hurts coming to the surface that I didn’t even realise were there, something about Andrew Peterson’s “Light For the Lost Boy” album had been pushing its way into my heart. I’d known most of the songs on that record for years, and yet I found myself listening to it on repeat; aching, limping, moaning inside myself as I listened through the lyrics. Songs I had first heard years ago and didn’t “get” or like, I was now hanging on every word. I looked up stories behind the songs, video journals on YouTube about the album, and as I did, I stumbled across the artist speaking these words:

"This album at its heart is about the loss of innocence that we all go through. The fact that it's a universal experience. Everyone, I think, has inside of them a ten-year-old version of themselves who lives in their heart and is looking around wondering what went wrong.”

I cried. It still makes me cry. I feel as though the adult shell of who I’ve become is grieved and angry over how broken and messed up this world I’ve woken up in is, yet it still houses that ten-year-old version of myself; the kid in the dirty shirt, messy hair she’d barely brushed in a week because she was too busy playing in the sun and relishing in her fantastic imaginings, her; she’s hidden inside, wondering why we’re limping now. Wondering how we got here. Wondering why it doesn’t look like we thought it would. Such a huge part of my wrestling has been with myself: adult me, hurt and angry, blaming younger me for selling me a lie, but at the same time, wishing with all my heart I could go back and be her again, even for a day. To forget. To be unmade, and untarnished, and unhurt. To be free. To believe like she did. To see everything sad become untrue.

Maybe that’s why I limp; why we all limp. See, maybe I’ll get married, and maybe I won’t. But the limp won’t go away. We were made for an eternity of good things, for true love, for a world that doesn’t die. Walking along the road one day this Autumn in the clear blue sky, the gorgeous warmth of the afternoon sun, the fields green from the prayed-for rain, I looked down and noticed a wren dead on the side of the road. There it was again, a stinging blow to my soul. Perfection doesn’t exist, but I crave it. I yearn for it. Every fiber of me was made for it, and I don’t see it. Death and pain and unmet craving and loss of innocence isn’t what I was made for. None of us were made for this. I need something more. Not to go back to ten year old me, but to go on to eternal me, where nothing will ever die again. At home in the Presence of God. My heart is restless till it finds its rest in Thee. I will be restless, yearning, limping and hurting until the day I die. No marriage, no higher calling, no ministry, no miracle, no desire met on earth will slake the eternity in my soul that this mortal world cannot satisfy.

But there is God’s grace, His mercy, His undying faithfulness and love abundant here. Maybe it truly is His kindness to give a limp at times. If I were truly satisfied here, in Him, would I look forward to that day? More than likely not. Would we even need to see Him face to face if a life of faith on earth was enough? We wouldn’t. Maybe if I didn’t limp in some way, I wouldn’t know how much I need Him.

“When the struggle is over, Jacob is left with a limp that - as far as we know—never went away. He wanted a blessing, and he got a limp. Or maybe the limp was his blessing. “ — John Ortberg

I wonder if that’s why Jacob limped. It may have healed, and he may have got along just fine in time. But maybe that wrestling with God—that tenacity of spirit that writhed and struggled with God Himself to get a blessing—maybe there was a lesson wrapped up in that somewhere which God didn’t want Jacob to forget. Sure, he got his blessing— a new name—but he got a limp as well. I wonder if every time he took a step he remembered where he got it, and who gave it to Him? What lessons would he have recalled because of it? 2019 hurt me bad enough that things changed inside of me. I no longer approach people or circumstances in the same way, with the same lens that I used to look through. That me is gone, much like Jacob was gone and Israel remained. While I don’t think God is an inflicter of punishment or pain, I do think He can use those things to open cracks in our heart for Him to pour His healing Spirit into; cleansing us, redirecting us, changing us into something new. How many new names will we receive in this lifetime, I wonder? How many versions of ourselves will die, and will we bury and mourn at the graves of before our final death, where we rise again to the only name we will ever have for the rest of eternity? (Rev. 2:17)

So I will drag a leg for the rest of my time here. It may heal somewhat, but there will always be a numb patch, or a cramp to remind me not to get comfortable here. But maybe there are ways adult me can learn from younger me. Younger me reminds me that good things do exist. The limp is a kindness, reminding me of them. That’s why it hurts so bad. It has to be truly good if the lack of it hurts so. Younger me can take adult me by the hand and lead me back to the Source of that goodness. The idyllic childhood, and the rose-coloured glasses I looked through? It wasn’t naivety or idealism. It was eternity. Maybe children can see better than adults. I know the only reason I’m bitter or resentful now is because I want what younger me had. And I will, someday. Ten year old me will help me get there.

After all, didn’t Jesus Himself say we must come as a child?

And a child wouldn’t let a limp stop them, they just come.

Maybe that’s just another way God is kind.

He came first.

Come back soon, Lord Jesus. I miss you.

“And it hurts so bad / but it's so good to be young / and I don't want to go back / I just want to go on and on and on / So don't lose heart, though your body's wasting away / Your soul is not, it's being remade / So don't lose heart, don't lose heart / your body will rise and never decay / day by day by day.” — Andrew Peterson

"He answered me, 'I am all you need. I give you My loving-favor. My power works best in weak people.' I am happy to be weak and have troubles so I can have Christ’s power in me." — 2 Corinthians 12:9 NLV

“But Jacob stayed behind by himself, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak.” ‭‭— Gen. ‭32:24 ‭MSG‬‬

The image looking back at me from the mirror was not my typical one. My newly dyed ombré hair was pulled up high and tight into a ponytail; I could see the grey ends sticking out behind one shoulder. I was wearing a slightly emo, black fitted dress shirt. My mouth was pinched shut, and dark circles loomed under my eyes. There was a dull, hard expression in my gaze, and the overall look as I stared back at myself gave a rather specific impression.

"You could be a bitch."

The sentence formed itself in my mind unbidden. It wasn’t an accusation, or even a condemnation. It was a suggestion. I felt the iciness of it claw its way up out of a cold, dark space in my heart; a defensive thought that wanted to snuff out any kindness or empathy left in me. My mirrored image confirmed it: I looked like I could definitely pull off that B-word.

To be honest, it was tempting. For a second I really wanted to be a terrible person, to lock my heart away and be someone who couldn’t care less about the feelings of others, and only seek to please myself. To be my own priority, and hang everyone else—just cut them out of my life, and tell them exactly why and what I think of them. To be as mean and cruel as I could possibly be (and boy, I could be). Make phone calls or write letters and let them know what I truly felt, not just the things that were right or acceptable like I always did. I wanted—for a moment—to not be myself; to be ugly and poisonous, even if only to keep my broken heart safe.

It’d been a year of wrestling with God, wrestling with people, and wrestling with myself. But mostly wrestling with God. There were tough questions I needed answers for, and I wasn’t getting any. There were deeply scarring experiences from people that had left me feeling so busted inside that all I could do was take one step at a time; gingerly, hoping I wouldn’t fall through the ice and drown in my own grief and confusion. Even still, I spent months with my face barely breaking the surface of all my pain and questions to catch a breath, and God felt very, very unkind. I was angry with Him, though I cried to Him, and I asked “why” of Him a lot. Many times I felt like God had my thrashing, scrabbling arms and legs pinned, and He was pushing me face into the ground, crushing me; my sweat and tears mingling with bruises and blood as I moaned and struggled beneath the weight of what I thought to be Him.

I’ve never been able to understand why when tragedy strikes, some Christians’ first (or eventual) response is to blame God and walk away from Him; as though He were refundable for not serving them the way they expected Him to. I’ve inwardly scoffed at the notion that being a Christian insulates us from a wicked world out to destroy us. Part of me still does. It’s always seemed kind of stupid to me that one would blame God for the way people have treated them. It’s not God’s fault people can be evil. It’s people’s fault. God Himself promised we would have tribulation in this world. However He also promised us wisdom and discernment if we seek Him. It was this last promise that caused my wrestling.

See, it’s one thing to be blindsided by someone’s wickedness or a tragedy. It is completely another to strive to be obedient in following in Christ’s footsteps, and discover despite your best efforts, you get deceived, used, and abused. To come face to face with the fact that you are not as wise as you thought, or as discerning as you believed, or that God didn’t give you a head’s up earlier of. The sudden realisation that God has seemingly hung you out to dry is like hitting a brick wall at 100mph. So while others may question God by saying, “if you’re so good, why was this person wicked towards me?” I, on the other hand, was questioning, “If you’re so good, why didn’t you show me the person's wickedness?” I felt my blindness was my problem, and I wondered why God hadn’t helped me see. It’s not my fault people are bad, but I sure as heck believed it was my fault for not recognising it, and it felt like God had let me down. Where was the wisdom You promised me? Where was Your insight and discernment when my compassion was being used for a dirty dishrag and my selfless heart was being chewed and used up? Am I that naive and stupid?

So you see why I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror dressed in black wishing I could turn into an ugly witch who could spit poison. If my softness toward God meant I could be exploited by hard-hearted people, I would much rather protect my heart by being cruel to everyone. Anything was better than the shame of being fresh meat for predators. I was wrestling with the way God had made me; cursing the fact I had this heart that longed to chase down every lost sheep and love them into Christ. I detested the way I strived to find the best in others, and loathed how self-sacrifice came so naturally to me. I didn’t want to be fooled again by my “good heart”. Compassion was as blinding as infatuation, and empathy could fool you into believing a wolf was a lamb. I regretted the love God had seemingly allowed me to waste.

But under all the regret, self-doubt, and frustration with God, self and people was a singular, deep, wounded question:

“If God loves me, why did He let me fail?”

Indeed, if love covers a multitude of sins and truth sets people free, how come all my love and truth had apparently failed? This question clouded my vision to the point where hope seemed a fruitless endeavour. If God could love me and YET, let me fail, why hope? If I couldn’t trust God’s love to give me the wisdom and discernment and the truth about my life and the lives of others that I so desperately needed; if He was going to let me fall, how could He love me? Does love let people fail?

Recently I was struck afresh by the first lines of the popular song, “Oceans”, which I have heard a million times:

You call me out upon the waters / the great unknown / where feet may fail

“Where feet may fail… Where feet may fail…” The phrase echoed and bounced around in my mind. Could God call us to a place where we will fail? While I don’t believe God tempts us with evil or sets us up to fall, what if the trials we experience are a result of us walking out to where God has called us to be? Are there lessons along this road where, though it may come to a dead end, I’ll be stronger (and perhaps wiser) for? I wrestled too, with this tension of God being for us and not against us, but also, living in a world where God can use everything for our good and His purpose.

Could it be I was meant to both love people AND be hurt by them? Could it be I was called out upon the waters of trial and sorrow for my good? Could my failure simply be a place for God’s strength to come through? Was I fighting against something that could be teaching me instead? The frenzied questioning, wrestling, lack of sleep, pining for answers; what if I submitted to—made peace with—my failure, and surrendered that failure to Christ? Not to try and insulate myself from future hurts, but to stay soft and discerning of God’s voice, even while walking the paths my feet had failed me on. What if the failure of my feet had no bearing on God’s good path for me?

For some unknown reason, God has given me a connection with a songwriting artist whose music ministers to my heart on a very vulnerable level. Occasionally they’ll send me a text with something they’re working on, or I’ll design a lyric poster for them. Randomly, I got a text from them a few weeks ago sharing one of their favourite poems with me.

“It came into my mind that you might appreciate it if you have never read it before,” they said.

It was called “The Man Watching” by Maria Rilke, and I felt something stir deep within me as I read the verses:

What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights with us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win it’s with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.

I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestlers’ sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.

Submission to something greater… Submitting to the wrestle… As I read, an image sprang to mind of a tree choosing not to fight against the storms and the wind and the rain; how it stays rooted to its source, and allows itself to sway and be bent and twisted by the howling winds, yet at the end of it all, remains standing. Scarred, bruised, but alive… still standing. That line, “This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater beings”. Isn’t to grow my greatest passion? Don’t I want to become that tree planted by the living waters, who bears fruit in season and whose leaves never dry up? Yet the tree only grows by being defeated—ever surrendered to the overwhelming greatness of God that is always present, no matter the trial it faces.

My thoughts return to the story of Jacob as he wrestled with the Angel of God. How desperate he must have been for answers, for mercy, for the assurance that something good was in store for him; something to hope for. What were the thoughts going through his mind as he locked arms with the Almighty, I wonder? His request leads me to believe that they were much the same as my own thoughts: Please. Bless me. Be kind to me. Don’t treat me as I deserve.

I think of how God answered Jacob; in His extreme kindness (yes, I must tell myself: God is still kind), God did bless Jacob. He gave him what he asked for. Yet despite receiving the blessing he wrestled God for all night long, the only thought in his mind come morning was, “I have seen God, and lived.” It would seem that seeing God’s face was enough to end the wrestling. It’s not so much about seeing the blessing I think I need, but rather seeing the face of kindness shining upon me.

Maybe if I choose to look upon God’s face, instead of burying my face in the fight, His kindness will overwhelm me. Perhaps that is the true wrestle: fighting to see the goodness of God in all things. I’m grateful that God, being Divine, graciously allows me to humanly strive with Him; that I and my questions are not too much for His grace, and that even in the wrestling, His fingers caress my soul. He feels my struggles, and He tells me they are not wasted.

For out of them, He makes music.

“When Jacob wrestled with the angel and won, he cried and asked for his blessing. Later, God met with him at Bethel and spoke with him there. It was the Lord God All-Powerful; the Lord is his great name. You must return to your God; love him, do what is just, and always trust in him as your God.”
— Hosea 12:4-6 NCV

“The central reality for Christians is the personal, unalterable, persevering commitment God makes to us. [It’s] the reason Christians can look back over a long life crisscrossed with cruelties, unannounced tragedies, unexpected setbacks, sufferings, disappointments, depressions—look back across all that and see it as a road of blessing, and make a song out of what we see.”

— Eugene Peterson

Further Listening:
New Song, Jason Gray

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