Let Love In

I had a daydream this morning, out of nowhere. I was sitting on the couch, laptop open, researching sights to see while we are in Italy on our cruise next month. It was a fleeting picture, but my heart is still halfway there, hours later.

In the vision, Camden was patting my rounded belly, saying "Bebe."

I would have been nearly 19 weeks pregnant today. I would have been almost halfway finished. We would know the gender of our little love.

And then I was back on the couch. Kind of stuck. One foot in my reality, one foot in how I wish things could be.

Kind of how I've felt the past year.

If I'm honest, I'm pretty pissed. I'm pretty pissed at my God, whom I cried out to from the bench at the edge of our bed, begging Him not to take another baby. Willing my body to hold it in, not to fail me again, for the blood to stop flowing. I'm pretty pissed at my God who keeps giving only to take away. Why? Why give at all if I'm only allowed to hold it for what feels like a millisecond?

I haven't been talking to Him much lately other than to yell at Him. I haven't thought much of my faith other than to question if it's all a crock of shit. If the constant seeking truth really amounts to freedom. If the following Him to deserts is worth the dry heat searing my exposed flesh. 

But then I listen to these words:

Halleluhjah

You have won the victory

Hallelujah

You have won it all for me

Death could not hold you down

You are the risen King

Seated in majesty

You are the risen King

I watch the band as they sing, study the faces in the crowd of worshippers. What have they overcome? What hell on Earth have they endured, what path have they walked to end up here: choosing to praise and honor the name of Jesus, joyful expressions on faces upturned?

I suddenly realize I have a choice: Keep looking around me and what I've lost, at what's been taken. Keep living in my anger that is acting as a prison, chaining down my arms so that I can't lift them to praise. Leaving marks on my wrists, the wounds fresh and stinging and reminding me of my circumstance. Soul blackened by the poisoned thoughts. Keep living in the angry, bitter place.

Or I can look up.

I can look at Him. I can leave the questions behind, let the anger fall away. Because I know this place... where the light of His face is, darkness has no room. When I fix my eyes on Him, choosing to let everything else go, I'll be overcome by the glory of Him. The love that flows freely despite my selfish wandering, my choice to stay imprisoned for far too long. The grace that is new each time I look up after looking down for so long.

I realize I've known it all along, that I have this choice. That God won't force anything on me. That He gives me the freedom to be angry with Him, to question my circumstances. To fear taking another step, not knowing if it will lead to more loss. But I also know that He loves me all the same. 

I'm not without my burdens, my questions, or my anger. But despite that, in the deepest part of my soul, I know the truth: 

He HAS won it all. 

Our anger, our questions, our hurts are not too much for Him. They might be too much for our religion, our laws, even our church culture. But they are not too much for Him. When we push him away, His love moves toward us. We are never outside of His vision. We are never left alone, never forsaken.

So I sing along:

Our God is risen

He is alive

He won the victory

He reigns on High

Our God is risen

He is alive

He won the victory 

He reigns on high

Our God is risen

He is alive

He won the victory

He reigns on high

Hallelujah

You have won the victory

Hallelujah

You have won it all for me

Death could not hold you down

You are the risen King

Seated in majesty

You are the risen King

And as I sing, I let room in for Hope. I hope that my questions, my doubts, my fears, will be overcome by Him who beat even the finality of death. 

And in the meantime? I let love in. For the first time in months, I let His love wash over me. Let it run like a river down my arms in chains, healing my wounds. Let it flood my heart, taking over the darkness. 

Let love in. Let love in. 

Let His love in.

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!