It was a blisteringly hot July afternoon when Jesus asked me to have a glass of wine with Him. I know that sounds really weird to some people- Christian people can be touchy about drinking. Understandably. The Bible is really clear that getting drunk is NOT something that God wants people to do. And sometimes, when people drink, they get drunk. So it might sound really odd to some people that Jesus would invite me to sit down and have a glass of wine with Him. Except, that's exactly what He did.
I put my kids down for their afternoon nap, and I sat down at my computer with my wine glass, and I started to write. See, this invitation wasn't about kicking back and relaxing. This was an invitation into truth. In vino, veritas, right? It was an invitation to let my mind flow freely, to let the words and feelings pour out onto the page in front of me.
I was having a glass of Pinot Noir, but what I poured out for Jesus was this- disappointment, disillusionment, anger, unbelief. I didn't really hold back. I poured Him a cup of my wrath, a fully disclosed rendition of the state of my heart and mind.
I didn't realize it at the time, but this invitation of His was more than just an invitation to share my deepest, darkest secrets. It was an invitation into His healing.
About a week later, I got really sick. I wrote a blog about those feelings earlier in August. What I didn't write about, though, was how it persisted, and then got worse. My anxiety was followed by a terrible sinus infection, and then migraine headaches. Every day of the month of August, I felt so miserable that I thought that it would be better to die than go on feeling the same way.
It wasn't just that I felt physically bad. I felt unmoored. Like I could not find myself. Like I was a stranger in my own body. I could not seem to access the "good" feelings that are characteristic of my life. Whatever the chemical "cause" of this, I do not really know. What I do know is that God was using this physical change to do a greater spiritual work in me.
I started reading Ann Voskamp's The Broken Way a few days before Jesus and I had wine. Early in the book, Voskamp describes a time when she was seated beside a rabbi on an airplane. She had a bottle of water and the rabbi spoke poetically about its purpose- to be broken open and poured out. Our lives are like that, he said, made to be broken and poured out. Voskamp makes the point that it's a risky thing to pour out your broken life. To do so requires faith that God loves enough, cares enough, is enough... to refill what has been broken and poured out.
I didn't know how to articulate this until reading about the rabbi and the water bottle, but, for so long, I have felt like there is a filter over my life. Like that bottle cannot be refilled because there's something covering it. I believe that God is Living Water, but it's like something covers my heart and prevents me from really being satisfied by His goodness.
After the wine, but before the sickness, an old friend came by for a visit. We hadn't seen each other in a long time, but she's someone who knows about my life- my hurts and disappointments. She also works as a life coach and is passionate about helping sisters in Christ get "unstuck" from places like the one that I have been occupying. I thought that things were fairly "okay" while she was at my house visiting- I was feeling pretty put together that day actually. But, after the sickness came, I knew it was time to ask for some help.
I sat on my back porch cocooned by the sounds of crickets and cicadas for our first phone conversation. I told her how I had been feeling physically. Then, I told her about the "filter"- how I couldn't seem to be filled up by God. My pain- the pain that made me start writing these Snapshots in the first place- covered my life. But it wasn't just covering me, it was choking me. The belief that I could not be loved, that I had to prove my worth, that rejection and misunderstanding from people equated with rejection and misunderstanding from God- was destroying me.
When I had wine with Jesus, I accused Him of something. That afternoon, my wine-loosened fingers typed it out- My spirit died. You let them kill me. That night on the phone with my friend, while the insects roared, Jesus so gently began to respond to that accusation.
We prayed against the nastiness that entangled my heart. I would love to say that the next day I woke up and it was all over. That I was suddenly better physically, mentally and spiritually. But that wasn't the case.
I was reading the book of Mark at night when my anxiety kept me awake. I paid special attention to Jesus' healing miracles. I began to wonder what it felt like when people with life-long illnesses or possession by evil spirits were healed. I've always just read those stories abstractly. But now, I wanted to know- what does a miracle feel like? Was it painful when Jesus touched those people? Did it feel like fire or lightning or was it comforting, maybe even peaceful?
For years, I've prayed for a miracle. Especially at Christmas time, I would pray for a miracle- for miraculous healing of broken relationships. In all those prayers, I've sometimes wondered- what if what God is doing in my life- and in Andy's life- what if that is the miracle? But, to tell the truth, I didn't believe that was enough. I'm just one person, and not a very important one. A miracle in my heart would be nice, but it was not enough. It had to be bigger. It had to be everyone. It had to be something that could be shouted from the rooftops- something that people would look at and proclaim - God is good.
But that was before. Before Ann Voskamp and her poured-out heart. Before anxiety made me feel like the universe was splitting apart. Before the night I spoke to the lies while the cicadas sang. Before the headaches made me want to die. Before I started taking walks with God every morning. Before I heard His voice. Speaking. Singing. Calling. Assuring. Comforting. Giving. Clarifying. Answering. Challenging.
I used to think that I would have to outline these Snapshots. My plan was always to go searching for them in an orderly fashion. But it never really seemed to work. I believed that the answers were there in the Scripture. I thought if I just went digging deeper, more diligently, more systematically, then I would find it. And then I could use them. I could fortify myself with the truth. I could outline myself into an existence where I wouldn't experience pain like this ever again. I could structure and write myself into a place where I would feel loved and secure.
I used to think that if I had known my identity well enough, then I would never have gone through this. I never would have believed the lies. I never would have suffered like this. But now I'm starting to think that it doesn't work that way at all. I'm beginning to see that identity is a gift, as is the faith that's required to receive it. And that the identity we are given is the identity that Christ sees that we need, minute by minute, hour by hour of our one and only, precious, God-given life. Like manna, I'm not sure that it's something that I can store up the way that I have so desired.
I'm beginning to see that what I did was store up an identity that I thought looked pretty good, in an effort to protect myself from further pain. Never mind that it wasn't exactly what Jesus was speaking and singing and giving to me. It was based on the Bible. It was good-looking. It was neat and orderly and purposeful. And yet, it failed. Every pain-filled, terrifying day of this past month, God has been completely disassembling what I have built up for the past nine years. Every lie, every painful memory, every sinful response, every attempt to fix it, every good thing that I've tried to build up as a buffer- it's all coming down. And, in its place, He is rebuilding me with His very specific words for my very specific needs.
I have long loved Mark 5: 21-43. In these verses, Jesus performs two miracles at basically the same time. A woman is miraculously cured of her internal pain, and a little girl is raised to life. This is my Snapshot from this most painful place in this journey. Because, you see, I am a miracle. I am this miracle. A woman with internal pain. A little girl who died. And a Jesus who has said, "Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering."
For a lot of years, I've felt kind of foolish talking and writing about my suffering. Because it doesn't seem serious enough. It came from rejection from relatively nice people. Rejection happens. It's part of life, so it has always felt like something that I should be able to just get over. But the truth is, those people represented Christ. So their rejection felt like His rejection. When they wouldn't listen, it felt like He wasn't listening. When they failed to understand, I thought that He didn't either. For all this time, that's what I have been suffering. Not the rejection of man, but the confusion that comes when man's rejection masquerades as God's rejection. Feeling unloved and rejected and separated from God is suffering. Even if the catalyst for that starts with something small, even foolish.
But Jesus hasn't ever thought that my suffering was silly or foolish or insignificant. Jesus, who asked my angry, busted, confused heart to pour Him a cup of my wrath that July afternoon, passionately pursues me. In Mark 5, the dying girl's father comes to Jesus, the woman with internal wounds comes to Jesus. But in July, Jesus, filled with compassion, came to me. Have a glass of wine with me, Meredith. Pour out what's inside. Let it come out. Let it come down. Let me refill and rebuild.
Now I know what a miracle feels like. It feels like a racing heart and shaking hands and migraines that keep you awake at night. It feels like losing everything, even your very grip on what makes you, you. It feels like desperate cries for prayer when your own prayer feels like it's not enough to get you through. And in the midst of it all, you're wondering- what is He doing?
He is coming with compassion. He is speaking the truth. He is reminding me of who He is. He is telling me who I am. He is singing over me. He is strengthening me. He is saying "Be still!" to the storms of my mind. He is promising me the future. He is guiding me in His word. He is giving me friends who are co-suffering with me. He is changing me. He is healing me. He is taking away my pain. He is giving me new life. He is doing a miracle.
I am a miracle because He is a Miracle Worker. I've wanted a miracle. I've wanted a restoration. And, now, at last, I have one. And maybe it isn't the miracle that I prayed for all those Christmases. But what I have learned is that my life is enough. Enough to glorify the Miracle Worker. When I wake up in the morning, I will walk with Jesus. I'll hear His voice clearly. The filter is gone. The dead in me is coming back to life. The internal wounds are healing. And, with my one voice, I will proclaim that He is good.
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