Snapshot #1: I am the Daughter of a King

[As I start to write about my identity in Christ, my plan is to listen to God as I read the book of John. In John, Jesus makes seven "I am" statements. It's my belief that my life is hidden in Christ. When Jesus says, "I am," He's not only giving me insight into Himself, He's telling me who I am too. Rather than jump straight to the "I am" statements, though, I'm beginning in chapter 1. I don't have any plans for how much time this will take or how long it will get. I'll write until it's time to stop, until the message is finished, or God moves me on to something new. ]

Grey woke up a little while ago. He's currently sitting in his swing smiling at me and making noises, swiping at his toys or drooling. My boy's company is welcome.

Grey is my child. From the moment he was conceived, he was a part of my family and nothing he does or does not do will ever change that. He is my child. He is welcome. He is mine.

In John 1:3-4, God says that through the Word (Jesus), all things were made... in him was life.
God continues to make life. I think God rejoices in every life He makes. When I think about the feeling I had when I held Story or Grey for the first time- the weight of their little bodies, their sounds and movements. I could see, for the first time, they were their own little people, separate but dependent. It was joy.

God feels that way about me. The moment I was born, He gazed upon upon my smallness and knew that He had made someone separate but dependent. My life brought Him joy.

I am not just a created thing. I have always been created by God, I have always been loved by Him. But I did not always recognize Him or receive Him. But after His grace took me into one of the darkest corners of my life, my eyes opened and I could see. Since then, I have been a child by faith. And to those children, John 1: 12 says, have been given rights.

I have the rights of a child of the Creator of the Universe. I'll have to explore more about those rights in another post. But for now, I know this. I am God's child. Child of creation. Child of grace through faith in Jesus Christ.

And like Grey, I am welcome. Not only welcome, I am expected. When Grey woke up hungry, it wasn't a surprise. I expected him. I knew he would need me. Nothing feels more natural than bringing him to myself.

I am the daughter of a King. And nothing feels more natural to that King than bringing me to Himself. I am welcome. I am expected. Because I am His.

Snapshots of Who I Am

The rainy day I spent at the lakeside coffee shop in Austin was one of my calmer days of reflection on what I was going through. Not every day was spent in quiet reflection. Oh, I was reflecting everyday, that's for sure, but I wasn't always quiet about it.

My mind was in turmoil most of the time. And my words and behavior (especially towards Andy) followed the tide of my emotions. It was almost unbearable.

I was confused. I was confused about what was going on, why people weren't responding to me the way that I expected they would or thought that they should. I was confused about what I should or should not be doing.

I was scared. I was far away from everything that had once comforted me. I left my job and my home and my family and friends to follow Andy to Texas. The work that I did and the people that I loved who made me feel valued and secure were very far away. And my situation felt weird. I was in completely unknown territory. But what was far more frightening was that I was looking for Jesus to show up in the situation I was in. I was a believer. The people I was in conflict with were believers. But I couldn't see Jesus. And nothing is more frightening than not being able to find Him.

I was angry. Early on in my marriage, anger was both my weapon and my defense. If it comes down to fight, flight or freeze, I'm totally a fight kind of a girl. When all of this started happening, I couldn't separate the fear from the anger. I didn't know that it was fear that was causing a lot of my anger. I'll write more about this later.

And I was exhausted. Sin is exhausting. And that's what I was in. I was in a cauldron of sin. And I was worn out from it.

Andy and I went to church one Sunday morning and the pastor preached a message about finding comfort and security in God, no matter your circumstances. He used an illustration that resonated with me. He had a little girl- I think she was about three years old at the time- and he and his wife were expecting their second child. But they were noticing a pattern that their little girl would start "acting out" when they got caught up in preparations for the new baby. Sensing what was going on, the pastor took his little girl in his lap and got out her baby book. Together, they went through the pictures one by one. "This is you when you were inside of mommy's belly." "This is you when we brought you home for the first time." A father, reassuring his daughter, that, even though things are changing, and will change further still, she is known, she is loved, she is secure.

That's what I wanted. What I still want. I want my Father to sit me down and show me, "This is who you are. And no matter what, no matter who you meet or how they treat you, no matter what you do or do not do, no matter how much you sin, how big you fail or how much you disappoint others, you are known, you are loved, you are secure."

So that's what I'm going to write. I'm going to write my identity in Christ. I'm going to listen to His words and ask for His help to believe the snapshots of who I am.

There is no shame in asking

In yesterday's post, I mentioned that I'm learning to be less ashamed of my questions.

Will you love me? Will you value me? Will you listen to me? Will you believe me? Will you try to understand?

There are a couple of reasons why I felt shame for asking these questions in the first place. For one, when you ask these questions of people who are either unable or unwilling to affirmatively answer- they have a tendency to make you feel like you're crazy for asking. You're too sensitive, too unforgiving, too needy. You just need to learn to accept things the way they are.

Another reason can come from within. Asking these questions of other people seems "less spiritual" than asking them of God alone. Aren't truly faithful followers supposed to be looking for all of our answers to come from a still, small voice or pages with the words of Christ printed in red ink? So we can shame ourselves into thinking that we should glide through life without ever looking to other humans for answers. But the problem with that is it keeps us from experiencing God's love through human relationships (something that Jesus was really into) It might save us some of the deep disappointment we feel when relationships with people fail, but it also doesn't afford us the opportunity to become more deeply humble through our vulnerability.

God is showing me that it's okay to be real. He, nor anyone else, is impressed by my "super religious" thoughts or talk. He knows when I really desire Him and when I'm just blowing smoke in my own mind or in other people's faces. It is okay to desire Him and healthy, fulfilling relationships with other people.

But what He is also showing me is that humans are finite. And that I absolutely will come to places where my questions, though not shameful, will need to be redirected.

I am blessed because I am surrounded by people- my husband, my family, my friends- who answer these questions affirmatively, in word and deed, every single day. You'd think that would always be enough. But I am a bottomless pit, guzzling love down and thirsty for more each day.

There's only One who can accommodate a thirst like that. In Isaiah 55: 1, He says, "Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters." So that's what I'm here to do. I'm here to drink down the yes that I am so thirsty for- the understanding, the love, the value that I crave.

There is no shame in asking for other people to love and understand you. But, even the best of people- the safe ones- even their love cannot completely satisfy. Verse 3 goes on to say, "Give ear and come to me; listen, that you may live."

Tune my ear, Oh Lord. I'm listening. I want to live. And I am thirsty.

The Questions

I sat at a lakeside coffee shop in Austin one morning eight years ago. It was the spring that it never stopped raining- a Texas El Nino spring. Every day was grey and wet. Those types of days were not what I expected when I envisioned my new life in Texas- I thought it would be all sun and cactuses and wide open skies. But that's not what it turned out to be that first spring. It was fitting, the way that weather descended upon on the quirky little city. It suited the mood of my life- unexpectedly dark.

From my table, I watched raindrops hit the lake, each one creating a tiny crater in the water that then expanded into a perfect circle- like the blip on a radar screen. Before the water could recover, could recalibrate to a glossy, smooth surface, another raindrop would hit and the whole thing would start over again. Each drop, damaging the stillness of the water, a pulse of disturbance.

Yes, dark and disturbed. Those words fit. But I didn't want them to. I was a newlywed in my late twenties. I expected that season to be light, filled with joy- I had wanted to be married so badly. I knew (in my head) that trouble comes in all seasons- single, married, kids, no kids- trouble comes. But, for what had seemed like a long time, my trouble had been loneliness. And that trouble had departed the day I met Andy. But troubles are a part of the human condition, something we are guaranteed to encounter. And when one trouble departs, it isn't long before another one takes its place. The trouble that was settling into my life on that rainy spring morning was unexpected, unwelcome and unsettling.

I want to be loved. I want to be valued. I want to be listened to and believed. I want to be understood.
I didn't know it at the time because it was all too fresh and confusing, but when I sat at that coffee shop that day, those desires were pulsating in my flesh and soul and mind, spreading out and touching every facet of who I am. In and of itself it wasn't a new sensation. I've always felt these desires. But, when I was younger, before I obeyed Jesus, I tried to get those desires met in my own way. Then, when I was a sophomore in college, God chased me down, and I gave my life to Him. After that, I started gradually trusting and obeying. Those wants were still there, but I was now looking to God and other Christians to meet them.

You'd think that would be safe, but it isn't. And that's what was fresh on that El Nino morning. Christians are not always safe.

I had gone to a group of Christians with something that was bewildering and burdening to me. Something that was troubling me so much that I was sinning in my anger. I knew that my flesh was weak, I didn't want to continue to fester, so I spoke up. My words, at times, are too much, too strong. God has (and still is) editing my mind and my mouth. I don't know what my words were exactly, but I know my heart was- I want to be loved. I want to be valued. I want to be listened to, believed and understood. But I wasn't. What I spoke up about opened a Pandora's box I could never have imagined.

So those desires became questions deep within me, burrowing into the very fibers of my being, pulsing, expanding, disturbing- like those rain drops on one of the first days of this life season. Will you love me? Will you value me? Will you listen to me? Will you believe me? Will you try to understand? In my deepest parts, I have been asking those questions of these Christians for a very long time. I've asked as I've walked along the Seine in Paris, when I've wandered Las Ramblas in Barcelona, when I've sipped coffee and watched the sunrise in the Dominican Republic, when I've sat in traffic in Austin, when I've gazed at the stars in the Rockies, when I've smelled the wet earth of Appalachia. They've pulsed all the more deeply when I've looked into my children's blue eyes. And when I look at the mirror and see that a woman of 35 has replaced the girl who started all this asking, it hasn't made me stop. It isn't something you grow out of, not in that sense anyway.

So, why am I writing this? Because, from that first time I spoke out (really, most likely, it was before then), I've been getting the same answer but not receiving it. I've been pushing back, hoping, praying, trying, striving, thinking, writing, doing, not doing, going a little bit crazy over it, but now finally... finally...finally...accepting. The answer is no.  

That's hard. No is really, really hard. Christians don't like that answer. We don't like no. We are yes people, and for good reason. There's much to explore here. But for now, I'll end with this.

I'm beginning to feel less and less ashamed of my questions. I'll write a lot more about that later. There is no shame in desiring to be loved and listened to, valued and understood. It is kind and Christ-like to treat one another with empathy and understanding. When I haven't received those things, I have been absolutely wrecked. Learning to survive that deficit and continue in hope and belief is the theme of this story. But let me tell you, briefly, how Jesus, in this present moment, is transforming my mind.

I am not the only one asking these questions.

It's the middle of the night as I write this, and a little while ago, I let my dog outside. I looked up at a particularly bright star. It was pulsing. Radiating. And it made me think of the Bright Morning Star- my Savior, Jesus Christ. The Hero of this story. The God-Man, who has been asking me ALL THIS TIME- Will you love me? Will you value me? Will you listen to me? Will you believe me? Will you try to understand?  Oh, Jesus. Yes. Let my answer be yes. Because, as I am learning, real love is demonstrated when we listen, value, believe and try to understand. So, Lord, let me listen to You. Let me value You. Let me believe You. Help me understand You.

Come with me. I'll tell you what I hear.

On the outside

I was talking with a friend a few days ago. She said something I've been ruminating on ever since. She said that she didn't want to live her life as an outsider.

This comment immediately resonated with me. An outsider. Yes, I know that feeling. I know it all too well.

Feeling like an outsider never feels good. In fact in can feel incredibly, painfully, life-alteringly bad. I think we tend to associate that experience with childhood or adolescence- not getting invited to someone's birthday party, being left out of the "cool" kid group- that's a normal part of growing up. Kids have to learn to cope with those experiences. So we adults advise children on how to deal with being left out. We say things like, "be who God created you to be." "Surround yourself with your own group of friends who enjoy you for who you are." But, my friend's comment, and my own experience, let me know that those experiences are NOT limited to a life stage. But we sort of act like, now that everyone is all grown up, we aren't going to experience marginalization, and if we do, we need to just pick ourselves up by the boot straps and move on. No one likes a whiner. That's a great way to stay on everyone's outside.

But I've been on the outside and it has made me sick. Heart-sick, physically sick. I'm too sick to go on. And my boot straps are broken. God is telling me to stop. Stop trying to get inside. Stop trying to fix it. Stop and just reflect on the experience that has pushed me to the outside, that has thinned out my mind, depleted my hope and eaten away at my body.

So I'm starting something. Call it a new chapter, a journey, a transformation- I don't know how to classify it, really, but it's something new. I'm going to start saying "Yes," to things that lead to wholeness and healing, and "No," to things that tear me down and seek to destroy me. Part of saying yes is telling the truth about this. I'm going to tell my story. In bits and pieces. Fits and starts. It isn't going to be beautiful. It might not even be coherent, but I'm going to tell the truth about what has happened to me.

I'm going to tell my story because Jesus is in it. And because, the one thing that I know deepest down is that I was made to glorify Him. When I reach the light at the end of some dark tunnel. When I receive new revelation that I cannot keep inside- it's always about Him, about raising His name high, about telling you the truth about Him. That's my purpose. I won't retreat from that purpose.

My sweet friend's words resonated in my mind and circulated through my memories, but rather than staying stuck in pain, Jesus did a good work. He reminded me that He does not make me feel like an outsider. I don't have to prove my worth or change my behavior to be with Him. I'm not looked down upon or pitied. I'm not a target or a scapegoat. He doesn't misunderstand me or ignore my desperate cries. He is my Shepherd. And, even in my darkest, most pain-filled places, He is there. He doesn't value one race or ethnicity over another. He has sheep from many folds. We can all be inside with Him- each and every one of us who believes in our hearts that He is Lord. And (blow my mind) if one of us gets out, He will come and find us. I don't want to be an outsider, either. Thank you, Jesus, for ensuring my inclusion- not just here, but for all of eternity. 

As this truth has settled into my heart this week, it's changed the way I've looked at my classroom, my own little sheep pen. My heart felt flooded with love and a desire to train, serve and protect the ones that God has given to me this semester. To let them know that, no matter who they are, no matter where they come from, no matter how they perform... I want them. They are mine. And, God help me, because my time and energy are so limited... when one wanders off, I want to go find them.

It's going to take a long time and a lot of truth-telling to heal. But it's going to happen as I do this. As I lay down lies and speak and begin to believe the truth. I hope this is a good start.

The Lord is my Shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. 
Psalm 23:1

Hello, my name is Meredith and I am suffering.

About a week after Christmas, I learned that a BSF sister of mine had gone to be with Jesus. LaTanya suffered from a congenital disease that left her with severe physical handicaps. She got around in a motorized wheelchair, and relied on Austin's public transport system to bring her to class on Monday nights. When she was in my small group, I sat beside her during lecture and took notes for her, as she was not easily able to write in her own hand. LaTanya was not always easy to understand because her disorder made it hard for her to form words the way that you or I would. I remember praying while listening to her speak in small group, relying on the Holy Spirit to reveal to me the heart of what she said, even if the actual words jumbled in my ear.

The day I learned of LaTanya's death, I started to study Romans 8: 17-27- a passage of scripture that is all about suffering. Nothing could have been more appropriate for that moment, as LaTanya suffered as much as anyone I've ever met.

When we remember someone, or even when we speak about their difficulties in the present, it's rare to openly talk about their suffering. It is equally as unusual to admit our own sufferings. It's true that you'll bump into the odd individual who enjoys telling others all about their personal pain. But I find that most folks don't like talking about their suffering. 

I know that I don't like talking about my suffering a whole lot with others because I fear that it will annoy them. I also feel like my suffering, which is emotional and spiritual, is so much less than the suffering I see in some of my closest friends. 

I know people who are suffering physically from illnesses that might not get better. I have friends who are suffering in singleness (I know that some people count singleness as a gift, but for some of my sweet friends, it is most definitely a source of suffering) and watching the years slip away. There are those dear to my heart who have had their hearts shattered by broken promises. Some face unfair situations in their places of work or ministry. Others are encountering the vacuum left in the universe after someone precious has passed, and finding it an ugly and frightening space. 

So I'm writing this, not because I consider my suffering comparable to theirs, but because, as I have learned this week, when it comes to suffering, there is no remedy save hope and fellowship. 

My particular suffering comes from deep disappointment and a heart that grieves over sin. Brokenness has won the day in one part of my life. And despite years of fervent prayer, the broken pieces lay shattered. For so long, I have put my hope in the idea that God will put those pieces back together. Certainly sin shouldn't win. Everyone involved in this cursed mess claims to believe... 

But, what LaTanya and Paul have helped me discover is that that kind of hope- though it is right and good- is not the hope that I've been promised in God's Word. There is no promise that it will get better here. There is nothing in God's Word that says that He will heal our illnesses or our broken hearts, or our stubborn, wrecked relationships while we are here on this Earth. LaTanya got that. One of the ladies from my Austin BSF class reminded me how LaTanya loved to talk about  how she could not wait to dance with Jesus in her new body. She knew that body was going to be birthed in another place, one promised to her, but one she did not know outside of God's word. All her hope was in that place. And mine should be too. 

Paul writes in Romans 8 that suffering in this world is like going through labor pains. We groan, as does the rest of creation, under the weight of the brokenness of sin, the ravages of injustice, the wretchedness of death, the ache of longings unfulfilled. But as we groan, we do so in expectation- not for something that will happen here- but for something that is guaranteed to happen on another Day. The Day of the Lord. When He rights all wrong. When He fills every desire. When He MAKES ALL THINGS NEW. 

I often wake up in the night in grief over my particular suffering. Maybe you do too. Sometimes I try to distract myself from it by reading or looking at my phone. Sometimes I let it fester into something that leaves me feeling despondent. But last night, as I put my face into my pillow, and I groaned inwardly, I didn't have the same outlook as I have had. Studying Romans 8 has encouraged me to groan and grieve and suffer the way that God desires- with an outlook that I WILL BE DELIVERED from this painful place. I just have to wait the rest of my lifetime. And in light of eternal glory, Paul says... that's actually not asking that much. 

When I went into labor with Grey, it was really rough. He was turned the wrong way and we ended up needing forceps to get him out. I remember that pain. I remember how I thought that I might die. But when I sit and hold his healthy little body in my arms now, I don't care about that pain. I don't care that I thought it might kill me. I have fullness of joy. 

LaTanya feels that kind of joy now, only in greater measure than I could ever convey in words. Because from her stead at my Savior's side, she can remember every moment of suffering and for her, now, it all feels light and momentary. 

My suffering friends, I grieve and groan with you. I wait with you for the eternal weight of glory that will surpass all of this. May that glory be beautifully heavy in our hearts and our hands and outweigh the suffering God has called us to share with Him here. But may our feet be light on that Day... we're going to need to dance with LaTanya. 

December 26

The anticipation of this shimmering season reached its zenith 24 hours ago. Christmas morning came with its wrapping paper and wide-toothed smiles, Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole and sugar-coated calories. It was wonderful, and now it's over.

I used to sort of dread December 26. When I was a lot younger, I almost immediately dreaded returning to school. Come to think of it... that part hasn't really changed. ;) The best part of the break always seemed to be before Christmas Day. There always was an abundance of purpose and joy in those days, and then the days afterward seemed dark and aimless- some people would consider that relaxing, but I've never been much good at that task.

This year, I'm tempted to feel the same way. I enjoyed the Christmas season so much. I loved preparing my home and talking about the menu. I loved visiting friends in Austin and then returning home to my babies. And the joy of Christmas morning with a toddler has to be one of life's best gifts. But, I'm not feeling down this morning, and I'm hoping that won't set in.  Here's why...

At the beginning of the Christmas season, I was listening to a sermon series on idolatry. In the last message of that series, the pastor pointed out that when we set our hearts on something that God could do for us, then, when that thing doesn't come to pass, we can begin to ask God, "What good are you?" I confess, I have felt this way for years. And each Christmas, as I've considered this thing that I want God to do for me, I have asked Him for a miracle. But as those Christmas days have faded into nights, and my life looks the same on December 26th, I've felt depressed, frustrated, and angry with God. I've thought, "What good are you? Isn't Christmas a time for miracles? Isn't this miracle according to your will? Why don't you come through for me on this?" This year I realized that I needed to just worship the Newborn King. That He is the miracle, and that I did not need to ask for more.

While I was in Austin, I got to sit down to lunch with three dear friends. They are my burden-bearers. Those who rejoice when I rejoice, and mourn when I mourn. We all agreed that as we grow in Christ and learn to walk in His ways (some of us, through some serious sufferings) we are amazed at how slowly He works. My friend said that she is realizing that what happens is that she will learn one new truth about God, and then look around at her life and realize that everything else is exactly the same- but she just sees it all through the lens of that one truth. I almost fell off my seat laughing because nothing could be more true. His ways are not our ways. He is not as fast as I'd like Him to be. In fact, sometimes He doesn't do what I want Him to do at all. And yet, He is still the best Gift, the only Gift that will really satisfy the deepest longings of my heart.

After the shepherds saw the baby Jesus lying in the manger, they returned to their fields rejoicing and praising God. I think most Christmases, I've been so caught up in the angels and the baby and the star (not to even mention Santa and traditions and presents and parties) that I have ignored the "returned to their fields" part. The shepherds weren't upgraded to a better lifestyle, they weren't regarded with more esteem, they weren't better rested or more healthy because they laid eyes on the Christ child. They went back to their fields, looked at their flocks, and everything was the same...except for one truth that they had learned about God.

On this December 26th, I feel the same way. Praise God for His Son Jesus, who was born to Mary & Joseph, was laid down in a manger, lived a perfect life, died the death I should die, was buried and rose again- that I might be restored to my Father and my King. Hallelujah! And Merry December 26th.