The Growing Voices of Reciprocity

This past week, I’ve had acute pharyngitis, which is fancy urgent care speak for a bad sore throat. I don’t get sick often. Or maybe I do, but I don’t give myself the permission to really notice. As a mom, you wear your servitude like a badge of honor, a sash of martyrdom you don with the right to complain. 😂 It’s not a good look, but secretly, you like that you have to be strong for everyone else. Of course, it’s a badge you’d happily discard if it meant you didn’t have to clean kid puke off the floor, walls & bathtub ten minutes before you take your sick self to urgent care (but that’s a longer story).

I thought I was getting better, but in an unexpected turn, I completely lost my voice for 24 hours. People say that you never know what you have until it’s gone. They say that; I couldn’t, because my voice was what was actually gone. 😅 This had an interesting effect on my children. They suddenly became hyper aware of my weakness. Rather than exploit this for their own devious purposes, they softened like butter on a southern counter. My son offered sweet but impractical suggestions, that I should transcribe my every thought to save my voice. My oldest daughter heated hot water in the microwave for my throat. Then, in the evening, Pete told me that I needed to get in bed & read my Kindle. “Try not to talk. Just rest, mom.”

This, of course, had me feeling a whole kind of way. Are these the first glimmers of reciprocity? Is this a snapshot of the kind of people they’re becoming?

I’m not used to being on the receiving end of caregiving in this relationship. As moms with young kids, we give & give with very little return or evidence that our diligence is making a difference. We change diapers & clean up puke, we correct the same behaviors over & over with little change, & we grow accustomed to the often thankless nature of the work we do. When we’re breaking up the millionth fight of the day, the voice of doubt wonders quietly if they’ll ever be the kind of empathetic people who give without getting anything in return. But someday, these humans that we bathed, fed, & nursed back to health will be the ones taking care of us.

stepping into my shoes

That 24 hour voiceless day reminded me that this season of endless pouring out isn’t actually as endless as it feels. At some point, the sand shifts & our kids are no longer toddling through drifts, shoving handfuls in their mouths, but charging up mountains of their own making. In the meantime, we show them how to dig; we help them carry the bucket even when we are weak; and when they tell us to lie down & rest, we bury our pride & try to listen. Their voices are getting louder and hopefully, kinder too.

Thick Skin, Soft Heart

Did you know that Jesus prayed for us? In John 17:20-26, Jesus interceded for each & every person who would believe in Him through the words of His disciples. That’s us! And do you know what He prayed for? He prayed for UNITY.

I grew up in a pastor’s house, and I married a pastor who grew up in a pastor’s house. I’ve had a lifetime of watching people I love deal with disunity in the church. Honestly, it can be a struggle sometimes to maintain a softness towards people. Complaints become personal. That’s my dad! That’s my husband! They’re real people with real feelings trying to do their best to serve the Lord. Those offhanded comments can hurt! So when Jesus talks about unity, it’s easy for it to feel like other people’s problem. If they could only realize that their opinions are preferences & not reasons to divide! If they could only realize how their criticisms cut! It’s them. It’s them.

But my reactions to my brothers & sisters in Christ can also be a part of the problem. How quick I am to disengage from His people with a shrug & the sentiment, “You can’t please everyone!” How easy it is to harbor resentment instead of forgiveness when people complain! Cynicism divides as much as criticism does. Bitterness divides as much as brash opinions do. When I feel myself want to withdraw, to write someone off in order to self-protect, that’s when I realize: Jesus was praying for me when He prayed for unity. This is also a ME problem. It’s me. It’s me.

Really though, it goes even beyond “me” or “them.” Tony Evans wrote, “What Satan can divide, he can control.” We have a common enemy & it’s not each other. Satan feels like he can win if he can get us to fight over politics, personalities, & preferences. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want him to have any sway in what goes on inside the walls of my church.

So I need to be on my knees pleading with God to remove any disunity lurking in MY heart. Any frustration leading to a lack of empathy? Any hurt turning towards resentment? Lord, give me eyes to see it & the power to release it. Give me a thick skin & a soft heart. Deal with me first. Jesus, may your prayer for unity be answered with a resounding “AMEN,” so the world will see how You love by how we love each other!

The Past, The Present, The Pierogi

On Christmas Eve morning, flour will be mixed with egg yolks & salt into a sticky mix. Then it will be rolled out, cut into circles, and stuffed with an assortment of fillings: traditional potato mixed with cheddar cheese, Lekvar (a prune paste), finely chopped mushrooms, or sauerkraut & kielbasa. Then they will be laid out on heavily floured tea towels to prevent sticking & covered until they’re all stuffed & ready to boil. Then the real job begins. The dumplings are scooped out of boiling water once they float & topped with burnt butter, the nutty smell of which settles into the walls for days. It takes concentration to keep eyes on pierogi in the undulating water & also not let the butter boil over. Depending on how many pierogi you make, the cooking portion can take longer than the stuffing.

Why do it? It takes so much time. My back aches at the end of the night. I always misestimate the amount of flour I’ll need. Every year I worry that I’ll be late for dinner because I didn’t start boiling early enough. At what point is the effort expended not worth continuing the practice?

I may only be half Polish, but this is the tradition that stuck. My great great grandparents made their way into this country through Ellis Island. They survived the Depression by owning & maintaining a butcher shop in New Jersey. Their families would gather around tables together to roll the dough, to stuff with delectable fillings, to seal with sticky fingers.

Today, mandating alliances in order to preserve a cultural identity is an antiquated practice, but the unsavory truth is that these traditions are always just one generation away from dying. Our bloodlines are melting together & clouding over, like the water after hours of boiling floured pierogi. There is a lot of good to be had in that cloudiness, identity forged by something other than history or geography. But the cost of melting together is that we forfeit a sense connection to the past.

My past is floured with memories of my mom in the kitchen over butcher block counter dressed in Christmas Moose overalls, reading off the recipe in my great grandmother’s handwriting. It’s scenes of my type-A sister micromanaging our pierogi, offering helpful & often unwanted tips. It’s flour on every surface, caked under finger nails, brushed like paint across damp foreheads. It’s laughter as a less type-A sister makes a pierogi so hideous looking, we wonder how Polish she actually is.

And now, I get to share this tradition with the family I married into. The scene has shifted to my husband’s cousins & siblings armed with aprons & Dutch Bros to fuel our endeavors. It’s my mother-in-law manning the mixer to keep up with the stuffing. It’s showing my own daughters how to pinch the dough between their tiny fingers so it seals.

I worry that we may lose the patience for such painstaking practices. Pierogi making is an all day endeavor. We roll dough until our arms ache & roll our necks as they stiffen from leaning over the boiling pot. And if we’re honest, sometimes we roll our eyes at those who share the load. But as long as I have space on my counter, it will be worth it to gather & labor over pierogi. It draws us together in a shared experience that is meaningful & rewarding. It echoes the generations before us who gathered over flour & filling. And as we savor the end result & clog our arteries in the process, we hope the tradition will continue on long after we’re gone.

Allegory of a Train

Two strangers sat side by side on the Train of Thought. Both had a lot on their minds.

One was named Knowledge, and this train ride offered a timely pause for her weary mind. For as long as she could remember, Knowledge had been a student. She had spent her formative years pouring over the books, filling her mind with facts & figures. She had attended every class, read every text book, and surrounded herself with brilliant people. And she had not limited herself to the academic classroom. She’d spent hours outdoors collecting data, measuring & checking results, and recording it. The more Knowledge grew, the more she felt confident in herself. She was proud of all that she was able to comprehend & retain. She felt certain that there was no limit to what she could know.

But recently she had stumbled across some questions in a book that had given her pause. “Where did I come from? Why am I here?” she had read.

The first question seemed easier to solve, for she knew how she had come to be. She had studied biology and knew all about reproduction & human development. But the more she thought about it, she realized that these facts had been gathered through observation & study over time. What about the first life? When the first life had originated, she hadn’t been there to gather the data. She certainly knew all the theories of how the world came to be, and she had made observations about life that led to her to several different hypotheses; but she was no time traveler. She could only gather proof in the present, not see where time & space began. Furthermore, much of what she had learned about history was also handed down to her. Was she certain that they had recorded their observations correctly? Much of what she learned was often disproven later. All of this was troubling.

The second question bothered Knowledge even more. She had taken so much pride in her life’s work of knowing things. But had she stopped to reflect on why? How does one gather the proof to answer such a question? Every bump of the Train of Thought was jarring, as if the Train itself was shaking into her consciousness every limit she never knew she had. Knowledge realized that she was on the brink of a full blown identity crisis.

Little did she know, the person sitting next to her on the train wasn’t fairing much better. Belief was struggling with her own concerns. For years, she had lived her life on instinct. She had prided herself on her trusting nature & her ability to perceive an earnest heart. She found that many people had real conviction, and she was ready to follow.

As a result, Belief’s life so far had been an adventure, if not slightly unstable. She had followed a variety of people, and had learned the hard way a couple of times that not everyone had noble intentions. Belief did not do anything halfway. Whoever she followed got her full devotion, even worship. Everything she did & said would flow out of her sincere commitment to whoever was leading her. She was beginning to earn a reputation for herself. Because so many people held their convictions earnestly, Belief found herself easily persuaded. Some had called her Gullible & Naïve. Others said that Belief was just a crutch for when hard times came.

Belief wasn’t sure how to feel about all of this. She found that it was with the same fervor that she trusted that she also doubted. Perhaps these naysayers were correct in their assumptions about her. They said it with such conviction.

Recently, Belief had stumbled across the same book as Knowledge and had found herself pondering the questions presented there. She realized that she was completely overwhelmed. Belief, like Knowledge, had heard all the theories. But everyone she had asked about these questions had answered with conviction. How could she possibly know which one was true? Her thoughts rocked back in forth in rhythm with the Train of Thought, and she let out an frustrated sigh.

“I understand that,” muttered Knowledge. Belief’s sigh was the audible expression of her own frame of mind. She turned to her seat mate, “What brings you here?”

Belief didn’t mean to divulge so much to a complete stranger, but before she knew it, she was sharing her life’s story with Knowledge. When she mentioned the book, Knowledge could hardly believe it. “I’ve read that book too! And I certainly have some thoughts.”

She revealed her own struggles with the questions she had read, and as she spoke it dawned on her, “Can’t we be friends? Belief, you can fill in the gaps for me, and I can help support you. Together we can really go places.”

“Perhaps you’re right! You seem like a trustworthy person,” agreed Belief, “Speaking of going places, where exactly are we going?”

“Good question!” Knowledge paused. “Come to think of it, I’m not really sure how I got on this train in the first place.”

“Me either,” Belief said thoughtfully.

Knowledge began to feel a sense of urgency, “There must be someone here who can tell us for certain.”

“I believe the Conductor would know,” Belief mused. As the train lurched, the two new friends stood haphazardly together in search of some answers.

The Conductor, of course, had been there the whole time, and when Knowledge & Belief sought him out, He was ready to help. There was nothing special about His face, but they recognized certain features there that were familiar. Knowledge recognized the lines spread across His forehead, though they seemed deeper to her, as if His knowledge had no limit. To Belief, the resolute way His mouth moved revealed a deeper conviction than she’d ever seen before. But it was when He spoke that she knew for sure; His words had real perfect power in them.

Perhaps they could see a little of themselves in these features; but there was something entirely unique about His eyes that captivated their attention, something that made them feel safe in spite of their limitations. Deep in the warm irises, framed by softened skin of timeless devotion was pure & intense love.

“Your tickets were a gift,” the Conductor said, his voice low & gentle, “You don’t earn your ticket to the Train of Thought. It has always been a gift. Even your ability to know & believe are my gifts to you.”

“How can this be?” both girls wondered.

“Knowledge & Belief, I’ve always intended that you be friends, but that’s not why I invited you on this train,” He looked at them with so much love, “I invited you, so you could be close to me, so you could know & believe with certainty whose you are. That book you’ve been reading? I wrote those questions to be answered by me.”

His eyes focused on Knowledge, “Knowledge, the more you know me, the more you’ll realize how little you know. Rest in this, little one. When pride dies, love can grow.”

He turned next to Belief, “Belief, the more you believe me, the more you’ll be led to be like me, to love like I do, to think & speak like I do. Instead of being led by everyone, you’ll be leading everyone to me. Rest, little one. I will be your strength.”

“That still doesn’t explain where we’re going,” said Knowledge.

“Doesn’t it?” replied the Conductor. The lines in His forehead softened. His mouth turned up in a slight smile.

Belief paused for a moment then said thoughtfully, “Well, if we were invited on this train to know & believe you, then the place you’re taking us must be where we will know & believe you fully.”

“Yes, little one,” said the Conductor. “Now you see me in part, but there you will see me in full. Where we are going, Belief will be confirmed & Knowledge will be complete. Knowledge, your struggle to understand will be over. Belief, you will never doubt again.”

“It sounds like a safe place. If it’s real, I’d like to go there,” said Belief.

“You will,” said the Conductor, “in time. Certainty is not arrived at while you ride the Train of Thought, but it is the final destination. While you wait, I want you to spread the word about what you know & believe. There are a lot of desperate people on this train. Stay together; it’s how I’ve designed you to thrive.” He paused for a moment & looked deeply into their eyes “Of this be certain: I’m always here. I will never leave you. I will keep you on the rails.”

At these words, Knowledge & Belief felt peace for the first time since stepping on the train; they let their minds rest, slowed by the steady turning of well oiled wheels.

“Now, hold onto me,” said the Conductor.

The screech of grinding steel met their ears, sparks like synapses fired off the rails, and with a jolt, the Train of Thought switched track & began chugging toward the horizon.

When The Church Is God

Someone could write an entire book about John 9. It contains the detailed story of Jesus’ healing of the man born blind, his subsequent run-in with a very proud group of Pharisees, and his ultimate spiritual healing.

Right in the middle of the narrative, there is this very interesting interaction between the Pharisees & the blind man’s parents. The parents basically disavow their son, because they are afraid that if they call Jesus the Messiah, they’ll be kicked out of the synagogue. The synagogue was significant in those days not only as a center of worship but also as a place of community. It’s still jarring to read that their son’s miraculous healing caused them to fear rather than celebrate.

Perhaps we are not that different. It’s far too easy for the places that we worship to become more important to us than the Person that we worship. Without Jesus at center, the church is just a building where there’s a weekly concert, where a club of common interests gathers for motivational speeches. Putting the community over the Person can only lead to dysfunction. In this astounding example of disordered priorities, the blind man’s parents couldn’t even celebrate their own child’s healing. They were too afraid of excommunication.

In America, we see this play out differently: in church hurt. The place of spiritual worship, the body of believers, is merged with Christ Himself, so any slippage or failure of the former leads to a loss of faith in the latter. But are we putting our faith in believers in Jesus or are we believing in Jesus?

Yes, there is brokenness in the church. We should never minimize this. There’s the power hungry spiritual platform climbers who’ve lost sight of Who holds ultimate power. There are the predators who make the church a dirty sanctuary to hide their indiscretions. There’s petty parishioners who make quick judgments & divisive complaints.

But we also should remember that Jesus is none of that. He hates what often goes down in the church under the guise of piety. Yet, He came & died to heal it; He came & opened our eyes to see….Him. The church is ideally meant to be a sanctuary, a united body, a beautiful bride. But it’s Jesus we’ve come to worship! We can’t let the brokenness of the body keep us from pursuing the Healer. We don’t want to miss out on Him like the blind man’s parents did. He’s distinctive. He’s the perfect Messiah. He makes the blind see. He makes the dead alive. May we never lose sight of Him!

Lessons from Barry

Christians can actually learn a lot from Barry Berkman.

I’m not recommending we take any lifestyle tips from a show where the titular character is a hit man; but since watching the final season, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how the show portrayed Christianity.

Barry, after years of involvement with various crime organizations, moves to the middle of nowhere to hide & is raising his son in pious isolation. When an old friend threatens to expose him, Barry decides to drive to California to commit one last hit. On the drive he puts on a Christian podcast that is discussing the nature of sin. What is sin? Are some sins worse than others? Is murder a sin? He listens long enough to hear murder condemned before switching to a new podcast. By the time he reaches the golden coast, he’s done this several times. Finally, sitting in a car outside the house of his mark, Barry finds a podcast that claims that murder can be not only justified but sanctioned by God.

It’s played for laughs, but I felt squirmy watching it. It wasn’t just because Hollywood’s portrayal of Christianity is often cynical & inaccurate. I think I felt uncomfortable because it was presenting an extreme example of what Christians today do all the time. And I’ll be honest; I saw myself in that car with Barry, earbuds in.

There are two tendencies we need to recognize. First, I think we have the tendency to consume ideas without asking the hard question, “Is this actually Biblical?” This is often just laziness on our part. Second, we have the tendency to make up our minds (without asking the question) & then seek out extra-biblical sources to interpret the Bible to support our decisions. This is manipulative. We must be careful that Scripture informs what we believe and not the other way around. We will always be able to find a voice that seconds our opinion & a verse out of context to back it up. That doesn’t make it the truth.

In this extreme example, Barry kept switching podcasts until he found a pastor that claimed that he felt God leading him to kill someone. That’s not how God works! He will not condone what His Word rejects. This pastor was making his own feelings into truth. And Barry, rather than questioning whether it was Biblical or not, was making this pastor’s feelings into truth. Neither was the actual Truth.

If the Bible is not our number one authority, (more than experts, preachers & teachers, more than mentors & friends, more than voting positions & the current cultural norms, more than our own emotions), then we are doomed to be led by what we want to hear & not by truth. We have to stop fitting the Bible into our worldview & start making it the foundation.

On Death & Hot Dog Fingers

You can go a lifetime without touching a dead body, until yours is the body that’s dead. It’s not an essential experience for a fulfilled life; and definitely not an experience you anticipate, unless you’re a true crime junkie with serial killer tendencies. I can tell you with certainty that I wasn’t expecting it as a 10 year old.

It was the late 90’s, and we had recently moved from upstate New York to Southern California, where my dad was making the transition from being a Baptist East Coast reverend to a Nondenominational West Coast pastor. Vestiges of formality lingered. Dad was still wearing suits in the pulpit, while it wasn’t uncommon that one church member in particular showed up in sweat pants with snaps down the side. I’m sure there are certain parts of Southern California where people get dressed up for church, but the High Desert isn’t one of them. That guy would later serve on the elder board and pass out communion wafers in his track suit.

My dad had brought me and my younger sister early to the chapel where he would be performing the funeral ceremony. The room was eerily quiet, pews empty, bereft of any weeping family members or parishioners in black. The top portion of the casket was open in front of the powder blue curtains that lined the stage. There he lay, the dead man. His thinning gray hair was coiffed to one side, matching gray suit, his hands flat against his sides. No one holds their hands like that in real life, unless you’re in the military, so we were certain he was truly dead.

His name I’ve forgotten now. But I vaguely remember that he had been on the search committee that brought my dad and us by extension across the continental U.S. His was the first welcoming presence to a family going through a major life transition. I didn’t know him well, but Dad seemed saddened by his passing. He said that this man had been kind to him.

My sister and I walked tentatively to the casket and gazed in at his face, which was at eye level. There was a tightness to his skin, starched and pale as his crisp white shirt. He looked as if he was on loan from a wax museum.

A large floral arrangement was to one side. It’s always been odd to me that flowers are present at funerals. Perhaps their presence is to brighten the mood, their perfume to disguise the fragrance of formaldehyde. Or maybe they’re a simple reminder that once cut from the root, it’s nothing but a brief bright bloom before the inevitable end.

“Do you want to touch his hand? It feels like a hot dog.” Dad said this matter of factly, as if handling dead bodies was just a part of a day’s work for a pastor. I hesitated. I was afraid to touch this man; this body that had once breathed, now reduced to a stiff suit and hot dog fingers. It’s a cliché to fear death, but how was I supposed to feel about the dead?

I looked over my shoulder at the empty chapel to make sure no one was watching, quickly shot out my hand, squeezed his right pointer finger, and withdrew my hand quickly, half expecting him to flinch. It turns out that his hand did indeed feel like a hot dog. I looked conspiratorially at my younger sister who wasn’t about to touch his hand if I didn’t go first. How daring we were!

I’m sure I fidgeted through the whole service, ate oversized helpings of potluck casseroles at the reception, and went home to peel the itchy dress off my body before bed. Those memories are lost to me now, but are scenes entirely familiar to many a church event from my past. But the hot dog fingers of the dead? That has stuck with me. The man who had laid before me was not the man who was. He was probably the kind of man who, in life, would have offered his hand to me. But in a moment of morbid fascination, without his consent, I had gripped his cold dead finger, and this act felt audacious.

As a ten year old, I couldn’t fully explain my dad’s nonchalance about this man’s body. He wasn’t afraid of it or concerned we were committing sacrilege by touching it. I think my dad understood that while the human form was there, his humanity was gone the moment breath left his body. And even that body would soon return to dust. Death is a final dehumanization. And yet, it is also, beautifully, for those of faith, the means by which we become fully human as we were designed to be. How many times had my dad told us over the years that to be absent from the body was to be present with the Lord? Too many times to count. When we have faith in Someone who conquered death, we don’t have to fear death anymore. Or the dead, either. Or life for that matter. We’re all just dust & hot dog fingers on our way to something eternally better.

Reading Aloud the Hard Stuff

I really love reading out loud to my kids. It’s for them, sure, but I also just love children’s literature for myself. There’s something so delightful about revisiting as an adult old favorites that made you love reading in the first place.

Leanor has been wanting to read “The Secret Garden” for months now. I had it read out loud to me in school when I was in the 6th grade, so I wasn’t sure my sweet 1st grader would stay engaged. But she insisted, so we gave it a shot. It was going pretty well, and then we stumbled across an interaction that had me cringing. A maidservant, Martha, and the main character, Mary, have a conversation about the natives in India. Mary had just returned to England from India after her entire family died of cholera. Martha tells Mary that she was wondering if Mary would be black, and Mary’s response is horror: How could Martha assume this? Natives aren’t even human.

I was shocked! I did NOT remember this being in this book at all. Either it’s a detail that slipped through the cracks of my 6th grade brain or my teacher simply skipped over it. Honestly, that was my first reaction too, to skip it. I felt deeply uncomfortable, and I was really unsure of what to say. But the more I thought about it the more I realized that this is how people really thought then (and how some people still think) about people with different skin colors. Am I doing my kids a disservice by skipping over this and pretending like it’s not there?

So I went back and read the passage as written, and asked my kids a few questions: Is this true? Are people inhuman because they have different skin colors? What does God have to say about this idea? Then we talked about how God created each person with intention and in His image, and how every person no matter the amount of melanin in their skin has value & worth.

I’m not writing all of this because I’ve got it figured out. I cannot stress to you how little I have figured out about parenting. 😂😂 I’m writing this because I recognize my own resistance to having conversations that make me uncomfortable and uncertain. It’s humbling to know that so many parents don’t have the option of simply skipping over the hard parts. These ideologies directly involve them and their kids because of their skin color.

When you dig deep to the root of censorship, you will always find fear. We fear what messages our kids are receiving. We fear how they’re going to respond. We fear not having a right response for them. We fear exposing them too soon. I certainly felt it reading “The Secret Garden.” It’s just easier to ban something than to have a conversation.

God gave us a high calling to teach our kids, and when we skip over the truly despicable, we are missing organic opportunities to prepare them to combat it when they come up against it in their real life experiences. Fear wins when we hide. I really want my kids to be able to discern when they read and watch, to be able to filter it through the lens of Truth. They learn this by watching us as parents do it ourselves, but they also learn when we take the time to teach them.

I’m not saying that we don’t use wisdom in what our kids consume. It’s every parent’s responsibility to consider what is appropriate for their family & even their individual child in their development. What I am saying is that if letting our kids see the ugly side of human hearts allows us to have conversations that lead back to how good God is, why not have that conversation? Maybe when we push past our own fear and expose the darkness, they will better appreciate & love the Light.

The Kindness of Limits from a Limitless God

We are in that phase of 2-ness where curiosity has no limits and neither do the messes. This morning, I caught Mae pulling out and examining every single card from the Balderdash game in the closet. When I told her “No!”, her response (which was way too clear for a freshly minted 2 year old) was, “THAT’S NOT KIND! I told ya!” 😅😂

As I thought about this, I realized I am my daughter’s mother. I too often mistake my Father’s limits for unkindness too. Our culture would heartily agree. God is a cosmic killjoy, and true freedom should mean that I’m able to watch what I want, stay up as late as I want, eat and drink whatever I want, say what I want, have sex with whoever I want, do whatever I want with my body.

Deep down, all of us know, despite platitudes like “just do you” or “be your truest self,” that we cannot just do what we whatever we want with our bodies. The moment “just doing you” infringes on someone else “just doing you,” there is conflict, chaos, cancellation, even crime. And if by being my truest self I bring harm to another person or myself, then my truest self had better shape up…or else. It is by common grace that we see that there are limits to our rebellion against limits.

God’s economy works differently. The way God sees it, limits actually lead to freedom.

The only truly limitless being is God Himself, and even He took on the physical limits of humanity (Philippians 2:5-7). As Creator, He is intimately familiar with the human frame, and as God-man, He understands the sinful weakness that human bodies house (Psalm 139:13, Hebrews 4:15). Because He knows best what humanity is capable of, the limits He sets for my physical body are actually for my protection. To try to be live outside of them only leads to failure and shame. And shame is not from God; He died to kill it.

Instead He wants me to see myself as I really am, my truest self: imperfect and in need of grace. When I believe this, I can thrive in limits because He is my boundless source of joy, forgiveness, grace, and strength. This is the upside-down freedom of being His child! The closer I get to Him, the more I grow in love for Him, the more I can rest in Him and trust that His boundaries are for my good.

It is my choice whether to see His limits on me as a kindness or not. As a sinful parent, there is a good chance that many of the limits I set on my two-year-old daughter are not based on her good as much as my preference for convenience. I just don’t like messes. But God isn’t selfish like I can be. He is my perfect Father. I can resent Him that I’m not allowed to do exactly what I want, or I can just trust Him that His kindness is at the heart of every “no.”

Never Forget

Prepare for some raw honesty here. I struggle with doubt. This faith that I’ve held dear for my whole life is a strange one to believe. I serve a God I can’t see, a Man who lived thousands of years ago & did unbelievable things, all based on a Book that is even older than that. I have reasons to believe, but some days it all seems a little crazy!!

In addition to my personal doubts, I have had to grapple with the fact that people I deeply love have turned their back on this faith that I cling to. What is it that makes them walk away? Am I missing something?

I’ve found myself searching for the commonality between my loved ones’ deconstruction stories. Is it a painful loss that unites them? It can’t be just that, because I know people who have been through unbelievable loss and still cling to Jesus. Is it the presence of sin? It can’t just be that, because true believers struggle with sin all the time. WHAT IS IT?

When I get in this head space, my husband listens to me and then faithfully walks me back through the story of my life. He talks me through every instance where we’ve seen the hand of God working. Story after story where it could’ve been coincidence, but the story is just too good to be anything else but a sovereign God at work.

It just so happens (and it never just so happens) that I recently began reading the book of Deuteronomy. Over and over and over, Moses reminds Israel to remember the Lord. “Don’t forget!” he says to them. “Carefully remember!” he pleads. “Tell it to your kids! Write it on your walls! Just don’t forget it!” Why does Moses do this?

I think it’s because he knew that they WOULD forget. And you know what? He was right! They did forget. One could even argue that the entire Bible is the story of human forgetfulness. And the story of my life is similar. I forget God all the time. And when I forget Him, I doubt.

This call to remembrance is especially poignant for me today. Two years ago, one of our family’s heroes went to be with Jesus. Papa was one of the most faithful men of God I have ever met. And he was also really really good at remembering. I can’t tell you how many times we sat around his kitchen table, and he would recount the stories of God’s faithfulness: The time he smuggled Bibles behind the Iron Curtain and should’ve been caught but wasn’t. Or the time he was in a foreign country for a conference (didn’t speak the language or know anybody) and he asked God for a name of someone to call, and the stranger he called happened to be going to the conference where he was supposed to speak. Or the time he lost his first wife to cancer, leaving behind a young son, and he had to choose whether to still follow Jesus. And God gave him Mumum (another hero of ours).

All of these stories point me back to a God who always remembers us, even in the little things. The Bible could be a story of human forgetfulness, but it’s more the story of God’s remembrance. He never forgot his covenant with His people. He never forgot his promise to send a Savior. He never forgets me even when I forget Him.

The only thing He chooses to forget is our sin. When difficult circumstances have us questioning God, let’s not forget THAT! When sin tries to distract us from singular focus on Him, let’s forget THAT! We’ve got to tell it to our kids and write it on our walls. Our God who remembers everything forgets our sin because of Jesus!! This is our hope of Heaven; and I know that because of this, Heaven will probably be a lot fuller than we realize.