Peroxide God

"I mean, we can say no. We don't have to do this," I heard Daniel's voice say on the other end of the line.

"I don't want you to say no. I think... I think it will be an adventure."

Looking back, that was really what I focused on. In some ways, we were way too busy with preparing for the move and walking with Mama during the final months of her life that we rarely paused to let ourselves consider what moving to a foreign country might mean for us.

When I looked to our future living arrangements, I romanticized a lot of it. I saw rich history and a new culture. I saw mind expansion in seeing another side of the world. I saw cobblestones and bakeries with fresh bread and leisurely bike rides. I saw a new house to decorate and the possibility of my eyes taking in the sights of Europe.

While we have experienced all that and more, what I never expected was the loneliness. I never expected to feel isolated and confused most of the time. I didn't expect to grieve the life I knew, the life filled with the safety of community and the ease of the everyday tasks. I didn't expect to bury my Mama just 60 days after moving 4500 miles away. I didn't expect that a treasured friendship would end shortly after, and I didn't expect to say goodbye to yet another baby in early miscarriage.

But that's what happened.

I thought it would be an adventure. No, that's not exactly correct. I thought it would be a fun adventure. If I'm honest - no holding back, gut-wrenching, face-palm worthy honest: It has been mostly difficult and I've hated probably 75% of the past 10 months.

We said yes to the opportunity to come here, believing it would be good. Believing it would make us stronger and more sanctified. Believing it was a gift from God. It's felt more like a burden than a gift. More like "have to" instead of  "get to."

But the truth? No holding back, gut-wrenching truth?

Life's hellish circumstances don't dictate the character of God.

I fight daily to believe that. My emotions say that I've been led to the desert, wounded, thirsty, and alone. That I've been tossed around like a rag doll, given a promise that's been broken. That my life has been put on hold and I'm stuck out here. That faithful obedience brings me pain, loneliness, isolation. That grief will get the best of me and I won't survive this furnace that's getting hotter by the minute.

But my heart, the heart that's been loved by God screams louder that my emotions. His voice, speaking softly, reminds me of the truth.

My only fight is to believe that God is who He says He is: faithful, loving, steadfast, strong. Honest, perfect, holder of all things. He tells me that He's led me to a desert where I'll be thirsty so I can learn to drink from Him. He tells  me He is with me. He reminds me that promises are never more important than the One who gives them. He says that I am in motion, being shaped and molded by His hands that hold me. That the process is dirty and sometimes painful. That I must go into the refining fire, but that the flame will never overtake me. That faithful obedience will ultimately yield eternal perfection.

When I was six years old, I fell on our long gravel driveway and scraped my knee. My Mama pulled out the peroxide and ointment and went right to scrubbing my wound, taking care to remove the tiny bits of stone and dirt that were mixed into my exposed skin. It hurt. I screamed, cried, and tried my best to fight her. But she continued, speaking softly and calmly as she did, reminding me that it would only sting for a moment. It would begin to heal and before I knew it, the scrape would be gone and fresh skin would take it's place. My wound would be healed.

A life lived with Jesus is never perfect. Living out of obedience to Him doesn't always bring blessing and comfort and joy right away. It's quite the opposite. The process of sanctification is rarely without pain. The dirt must be cleaned and blemish stripped away.

The wound must be scrubbed in order for healing to take place.

Like peroxide on a fresh cut, bubbling and stinging, God cleanses our souls.

He cleanses my soul.


Thank you, Jesus, for the work You are doing. We praise You!