Mom, You Are Beautiful

Growing up, my mom would tell us kids the story of how she and my dad met in college. She said he smiled his charming smile when they encountered one another on campus--or perhaps my dad's smile can be better described as a mischievous grin--and that's how he captured her attention. Always she tells the story as if she was an unattractive girl who somehow managed to snag this dashing young man's admiration.

As I've grown older and she describes me as "pretty" or "beautiful," she insists that I haven't inherited her appearance. But when my mom worked at TJ Maxx and I met her manager, the woman said immediately, "You're Lisa's daughter, aren't you? You look just like her." My mom denied this and said I took after my dad, as if this was the preferable option, which made him laugh and ask her what daughter wanted to look like her father. What she didn't realize is that her boss complimented me in one of the best possible ways.

What daughter--at least one that has a good relationship with her mom--doesn't want to grow up and be like her mother?

My mom sees beauty in others but she doesn't see it in herself.

Even as she ages and the colors in her hair fade into silver highlights, wrinkles begin to crease her skin where her eyes squint when she smiles or laughs, and her body retains more weight than she would like--she is beautiful.

She is beautiful because she loves. Because from an early age she knew she wanted to have a family and be a mother, and she held that dream close to her heart and prepared herself for that day. She shows the hard work, forbearance, strength, kindness, and gentleness of love in her daily life and labor.

She is beautiful because she is strong. She endured pregnancy and days of labor and the pain and slow recovery of a C-section to deliver me, and then two more pregnancies and natural births to bring my brothers into the world. She's beautiful because she worried for my health even before I was born until she dreamed of a healthy, happy child and knew I was safe. She wouldn't listen to the doctors tell her to consider an abortion because my brother would supposedly be born with a heart condition.

She's beautiful because she was willing to give up and go without to be a mother and care for her children. Choosing to be a stay-at-home mom when it was and is unpopular, she was shunned or treated with condescension by my dad's coworker's working wives because she didn't "have a real job." She worked long hours with grumpy, unwilling, ungrateful children, teaching them everything from math and science to a love of books, from patriotism to the attributes that make up a strong moral character.

She's beautiful because she is caring. She prepares meals and cleans up after her family, as children, as teens, as adults. Over the years she has ran errands, tackled a household budget, cleaned a home, ensured regular meals were made, washed and folded laundry, taught life lessons, soothed illnesses, worried about safety, provided educations, drove kids to practices and games, and countless other "expected" responsibilities that probably, more often than not, went un-thanked and maybe even unnoticed.

She's beautiful because she dedicated her life to Christ and taught her children to love Him, too. She has rejoiced in His love and grows in faith and trust ever since the day she and her husband chose to follow Him. She shared her faith with her children and respected their individuality, patiently explaining God's love to them so that they could choose if they wanted to accept it, too. She prayed with them and for them and watched them grow.

She's beautiful because she trusts and believes. Not only does she put her trust in God, but she has faith in her children to do what is right and obey Him now that they are His. She embraces her children's dreams and sees the best in them and refuses to let them give up on their goals. She encourages them when they are discouraged and is their cheerleader, their friend, when it seems the rest of the world doesn't believe in them. She sees talent and good and intelligence in them and it opens their eyes for them to see it, too. Yes, she's beautiful because she sees beauty in others.

She's beautiful for the love, the patience, the dedication, she shows. She's beautiful for the time she sacrifices and the pain she endures. She's beautiful because she gives. Even when she doesn't always receive.

Do I look like you, Mom? I'd tend to think I take after you, physically, in more ways than you realize. But do I act like you? You've taught me well; it's up to me to embrace the lessons. The best compliment a daughter can receive is that she is like her mom, and I want to be like mine. Because, Mom, you are beautiful.

Complacency

Writing is therapeutic and therapy sounds great right about now. So does a chocolate bar, and a hot tub, and a day to sleep in ridiculously late, but that's a little off-topic. ...Well, it would be assuming I had a topic at the moment. Which I'm not entirely sure about.

Lately I feel like I've been a huge failure as a Christian. It's nothing that I'm doing--my life looks pretty dang sparkly and clean on the outside--but more what I am failing to do. I consistently put myself and my desires ahead of God and spending time with Him. I forget to talk with Him, to listen to Him, to live for Him, to seek what He wants me to do. I wake up every morning focusing on my agenda for the day: what I have to accomplish, what I should accomplish, and (to be completely honest) what I want to avoid accomplishing. Everything is going so well in my life that I've sunk into a cozy little pit of annoying complacency. It's just sickening enough to make me uncomfortable, as if I overate at a Thanksgiving dinner; but it doesn't bother me enough to keep me from jumping up and cutting myself a slice of pumpkin pie when it comes time for dessert. (Actually, I'm still thinking about that chocolate bar.) In other words, it must not bother me enough yet. Or maybe I'm just not sure how to change.

Habits are hard to form and even harder to break. And I guess I'm starting to realize that I don't know how to talk to God as well as I once thought I did. Maybe I learned all the wrong ways to pray and formed some bad habits. I don't want to continuously go to Him every day with the same list of problems, concerns, and desires--my relationship with Him shouldn't be all about what I can get out of it. Yes, we're supposed to take our problems to him, but when it's emphasized too much it's easy to then sink into a ritual of reciting the same supplications day in and day out. I know God sure doesn't care much about hearing the same things every night and I sure don't feel like being a broken record. "Pray until something happens" sounds great until you are trapped in such monotony that you forget why you even started praying for a particular situation, or you repeat the words only because you feel like you're supposed to. It's lost all meaning. It's almost like we think that God isn't powerful enough to answer our one-time prayers; that He needs our help. Maybe if we religiously say the same things over and over, He will finally answer our prayers on our terms in our time. Maybe.

With that sort of attitude, no wonder I have such a bad prayer life now. Of course I do. I got bored.

Here's my other problem. Focus is so often put on what we are supposed to say but little emphasis is placed on how we are supposed to listen. I don't know about you, but I'm seriously craving some personal words from God. I don't want prayer time to be all about what I have to say to God. In fact, being a writer and a "words person," I need to hear from Him desperately. I need to be reminded of His love. I need encouragement and advice and reassurance. I'd be a lot more comfortable sitting at His feet and listening to Him about what He thinks about my life and where He wants me to go, who He wants me to be, and what He wants me to do than I would talking about it. Because I don't have a clue.

I want to try to break my old bad habits and form new ones. I want my relationship with God to be more like a relationship. I want my prayers to be more like conversations. Since I'm a "words" person and a writer, I think I want to try writing out my prayers and then the words I feel God is answering me with. It's a lot easier than trying to speak (aloud or otherwise). There's a deeper connection there and I think that's what I need to pursue.

But I want some help and accountability, dear friends. Please pray for me (and no, that doesn't mean you have to repeat the same words to God over and over for a certain number of nights!) and take this journey with me if you feel that you need to do so. Find a new way to communicate with God that you haven't tried before, one that opens the doors to talk to Him more freely and naturally and helps you listen to Him. And please, if you remember, take a chance to talk to me about it. Ask how I'm doing. I'll check in with you. Forgive all my rambling tonight...but thank you for reading. Let's try to pursue our relationships with God on a deeper level and avoid these pits of complacency. Because I'm sick of it...and I think I'm finally sick enough to find a way to change.

In the Background: The Life of the Stereotypical Lone Writer/Editor

One of the most hated and sometimes even painful aspects of my career as an English major in college was the constant “Oh, so you’re going to be a teacher?” question. “No,” I’d respond in annoyance. With enthusiasm in my voice (at least at first), I would explain to them my dream of becoming an editor and writer. More than once I’d watch the questioner’s eyes glaze over or see the blank look that clearly echoed their thoughts: “Wow, what a boring career choice,” “I know nothing about editing,” “You’ll be living on Ramen noodles the rest of your life or working at Meijer with that kind of dream,” or “I don’t know of any great editors who have made a big impact on people’s lives.” It was rare to get an interested reaction from someone who actually understood.

We writers and editors often find ourselves pushed back out of the limelight. Maybe we’re even misunderstood. Others don’t always point to us and say, “He’s going to change people’s lives someday with the words he writes” or “She’s going to edit a book and help a great writer achieve renown and spread an important message.” We’re the loners: stereotyped as always cooped up in our bedrooms pounding away at a keyboard or scribbling upon page after page of manuscripts with the dreaded red pen. Everyone has a favorite teacher who influenced their lives in some way, modeled great character, or assisted them with finding their career path.

Who has a favorite editor? And even favorite writers are generally loved for what they produce versus who they are. For instance, I love Jane Austen’s work. But I’ve never met her. I can only imagine that she had the type of witty, clever personality that radiates throughout her work, but maybe in person she was awkward, stuttering, and shy. Who can say?

Basically, writers and editors live in the background. We may know writer’s names but we don’t consider their career choice as practical or even, necessarily, important. In a world where everyone Tweets about the latest wins of their favorite football teams, updates their Facebook statuses to ask about the most recent movie release, and goes home every night to their prerecorded episodes of their favorite TV shows, why is a writer important? Everyone needs a teacher on their path to finding that job they’ll make a living from. But do we need editors that much? Writers? Who really thinks about that?

And how people perceive us isn’t our only struggle in the literary world. What if that book you edit doesn’t make the bestseller list? Or maybe you pour blood, sweat, and tears into a book only to publish it to an enthralled and moved audience of a handful of people. You felt compelled to share something that tugs at your heartstrings, but your book is left to collect dust on shelves and be forgotten while others talks about the other things or people around them that changed their life, their minds, and their attitude. Do we strive to produce good literature for nothing?

The answer, for me, is to remember why I chose writing and editing in the first place, outside of my love for the two. Our motives can’t revolve around making a name for ourselves, if we want to experience success and satisfaction in our pursuits. We have to have a passion about what we’re sharing. We have to believe it’s worth it, no matter if one person or millions read the words we spread.

I remember the books that have influenced my life, my thoughts, and my perspective. A teacher or doctor or engineer might make more tangible differences in the world, but we writers and editors are there in the background giving them a hand. We’re there in the textbooks we write or edit for the teachers. We’re there in the guidebooks that offer direction. We’re there in the books parents read to children at bedtime. We’re there in the dictionaries that make communication clearer and more effective. We’re there in the fictional novels and the literature others discuss and draw ideas from or pick “role model” characters to look up to. We’re there in the thoughts and ideas and agendas we put into words.

It’s not about us. In fact, sometimes it may be best if we remain in the background, less “known,” for the sake of promoting our words all the more. We like J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, and even J.K. Rowling and Susan Collins (whether you consider The Hunger Games “literary” or not), rarely because we know their names or read news or biographies about them, but usually because we know their messages. Their books contain ideas that inspire us or make us think, or characters and morals that motivate us to be better. In some way, what they wrote has influenced us.

It may not be in a very tangible way (how can you measure the impact you have on someone’s mind or heart?), it may bear some loneliness or bad stereotypes, it may keep us “in the background,” but language is influential. Whether he actually said them or not, Abraham Lincoln’s alleged words during the Civil War to Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, serve as a rallying cry to authors: “So this is the little lady who started this big war.” Who is to say that your book, whether it makes an impact on the world, a nation, or just a handful of people, isn’t important? If it’s important to you, someone else is bound to glean something valuable from it.

So maybe coping with this “lone writer” syndrome involves in changing our perspectives and priorities. Maybe our definition of success shouldn’t be founded in what others think or say about us or even what we write. Our success lies not in who knows our names or how many people know our works, but in whether or not we share our messages.

Will I Ever Learn?

Lately a group of friends and I read through a book on finding our confidence in God to conquer self-doubts, worry, and inner self-esteem battles, etc. To grow in His grace to have the strength to live for Him, rather than be crippled with fear. We've all noticed progress over the past few months and have learned to have each other's backs and go to one another for prayer and encouragement in our daily battles and attempts to grow closer to God.

Sometimes, it feels like it's a one step forward, two steps backwards kind of process.

Especially today.

Today I woke up early to get in some extra time for my stay-at-home part-time job because I had to squeeze in 8 hours and schedule a last-minute doctor appointment. I got a hold of the receptionist to set my appointment for that day. On my way, I noticed that my car's temperature was registering unusually high...the needle continued to move until it buried itself into the red "danger zone." Fortunately, I had reached the doctor's office by then so I pulled my car into a parking spot and decided to worry about it later. First thing was to get to my appointment on time!

Afterward I turned on my car to check the temperature and found that it had cooled enough in that time for me to be able to start the drive home. I was already in pain and frustrated about having my work "momentum"/schedule out of whack, so I was in a hurry to get home and finish. After the doctor had touched my toe (red, painful, and swollen for three days and the reason for my visit), driving was making it feel as if the pain was shooting up into my leg and if I accidentally brushed it while driving I wanted to cry out miserably. I was trapped behind a slow car; my engine temperature was rapidly gaining speed; I just wanted to make it home.

Halfway home the needle was nearly on red and I was near a gas station, so I pulled in to turn off the engine and let the car cool. I popped the hood to check my coolant level and sure enough, it was empty. If I was going to be delayed from work further anyway, I might as well solve the problem now, so I went in to purchase a bottle of coolant. I already felt self-conscious--I figured a young girl (who looks more like 18 or even 15 than 23, as I'm always so very kindly reminded) standing beside a 2-door Ford Focus with the hood open, surveying the blazing hot furnace that was her engine had to make a pathetic scene. However, I navigated the gas station quickly and made it back outside to open the bottle without any pestering men condescending to ask if I needed help.

I was relieved. That's the last thing I wanted. For some reason, that stubborn, independent streak in me was really strong today. I didn't want to be the 5'3", 100-something pound, 18-year-old-looking blonde girl who "must need help." Eager to prove I was fully capable, I strode up to my engine and used what resource I had readily available--the receipt for my purchase--to serve as a barrier between the coolant reservoir cap and my hand as I began to unscrew it.

Unscrew the cap, don't mind the heat, pour the coolant, screw the cap back on...go home. No big deal. Except...the cap wouldn't budge. I tried. And tried. And tried.

I started to feel humiliated. "You can't do anything right on your own," "You're not capable," "You can't make it on your own," "You can't be independent because you're not strong enough," "Look--a cap has defeated you; you're pathetic." The thoughts flew so fast that they didn't even register as clear, distinct sentences but a general feeling of inadequacy, shame, frustration, bitterness, pain, and finally anger.

At this point, I was way too obstinate to walk up to a man on the premises and ask for help. I'm trying to prove to the world that I don't need a man, was my repeated thought. I didn't want to need anyone or be dependent on anyone. After years of singleness and a nagging (but loving) mother prodding me on and hosts of other reasons to make me want to shy away or get nauseous at the mere thought of romance, the last thing I wanted was another reason why being alone and lonely with no way to solve that problem sucks.

I don't want to be a damsel in distress. I don't want to admit that the pain has been digging deeper and deeper over years, like a thorn sinking into the skin until the area affected with pain has grown far larger than the original wound ever was and an infection spreads throughout the body. And I don't want to be stereotyped and pre-judged anymore as the small, nearly-invisible, inadequate, "dumb blonde." But how could I prove myself as strong and capable to anyone when I couldn't even open a cap? Struggles that had been plaguing me for a lifetime sprang out at me immediately, like a monster stalking me in the shadows just waiting the right moment.

Instead, I slammed the hood and rushed to the sanctuary of my car (limping a bit in pain--just to add to the overall look of ineptitude), letting a few pathetic tears slip down my cheeks. My mother was texting me not-very-helpful advice until finally she asked if she and my dad should come down to help.

Then she called. I tried to re-explain the situation to my dad when she passed him the phone, but my dad and I have major communication issues. He grew impatient with my attempts at answering his questions and told me to "wait for a boy to ask" and that "anyone could do it."

Anyone but me. His words were sharpening my thoughts: I was incompetent. Great. I couldn't take it anymore. The last thing I wanted now was their help, or anyone's.

Tearfully I told both my parents that I was just going to drive home, and hung up the phone before my mom could protest. Now I wasn't just frustrated. I was furious. Pulling out of the gas station, I cursed to myself, not caring about finding confidence in God, not caring about being encouraged or being an encouragement. I was too busy writhing in my own self-pity and disgust.

As I look back on it I see a ridiculous failure. My behavior was embarrassing. I let any semblances of godly peace, confidence, joy, trust, and love all depart from me. Will I ever learn?

What gives me hope is the fact that, though perhaps today was a "two steps back" kind of day, I also have the ability to take a step forward with God. Because I'm seeing my failures. Because I'm recognizing them for what they are. Because I know that they don't make me a failure. He gives grace.

He is enough.

"God can't open caps for me, so how can He be everything?" is a bitter thought that sprang to mind more than once today. It echoes speeches I've heard a single friend tell me dozens of times after living alone for years, attempting to do everything on her own even when she isn't physically capable to do some of it. She has tasted the same despair and frustration I felt today tenfold. We don't want to be dependent on others, but we feel like we're forced to be. My parents came down to my apartment this afternoon after I made it home to look at my car and fill it with coolant...because I needed them even when I didn't want to need them.

I can't do everything on my own.

Maybe I should find peace in that instead of despair. Is it frustrating at times when I so often am on my own these days?

Oh, yes.

But God provided for me today. He sent me loving parents who apologized for saying things that hurt me, who came in spite of my angry, "don't-you-dare-help-me" attitude displayed by hanging up on them. He surrounds me with friends who encouraged and prayed for me today when I didn't feel well, when I found fear and worry consuming me instead of trusting God to take care of my problems, to allow me to make it home and finish a day's work and do it well so I can continue to pay for food and rent.

Will we ever learn that we don't need to be stubborn and independent? That it's OK to be vulnerable at times? That it's OK to need Someone when we are struggling or lonely or incapable...because we need God.

You See Me

You saw me when I was invisible, new and awkward and shy. When the full force of the teen years came crashing down on me, opening my eyes to the subtle, vicious world of girls with their silent competitions, their quiet jabs, and their outward smiles with inward put-downs and pride. When I was the outsider who was too quiet, too reserved, too different to fit in and match their airy confidence and effortless grace. When they plunged their energy into makeup and boys, and I lost myself in daydreams and books. You were whispering to my heart then, but I wasn’t listening. You saw me but I didn’t see You, because I was too busy studying the way they dressed, the way they acted, the way they looked—and then looking at myself and seeing that I did not compare.

You knew me when I knew everything (nothing), when I strove to prove myself to a world that seemed to pre-judge me every day of my life. When I proudly focused on the intellect and determination You had given me, and chose to use them to make myself seen and heard. When I soaked up praise from friends and family and professors and employers and coworkers like it was all that mattered, and when I worked and overworked myself just to taste it again. I told myself that I knew who I was and what I wanted and what You wanted, and if I only worked hard enough and accomplished enough, I would continue to be liked and loved and respected and admired. I would be accepted, even by myself. I was someone I could be proud of; I could conquer my insecurities by masking them with good grades, awards, and success.

You were with me when I was angry and when I was hurting, sometimes angry with You, sometimes at others. When I carried the weight of my pain and others’ pain on my shoulders like it was my burden to manage, like I was strong enough to hold it up on my own, like I could touch and heal others’ hearts with my own sheer strength of love and will. You waited for me when I stormed to my room to cry and ask You why You would let my grandmother be diagnosed with breast cancer so advanced it had spread into other areas of her body. You were there when I was scared, uncertain. You whispered soft words to answer my shouts and remind me that You were holding her hand and mine and that we didn’t have to be afraid. You stood next to me when I visited my mom in the hospital and nearly broke down to see her so sick and frail-looking, as if it was some strange reminder that I was now an adult and the mother who had cared for me all those years now needed me to care for her. I wanted to cry when I brushed her hair because she was too weak. You stayed by my side when I was abandoned by various “friends,” when my friend turned her back on You, when hurtful words and actions began to stack up in my heart and break it, to pile up in my mind and define me. When college guys only noticed me for my body or for what I could offer them, when my personality wasn’t enough because it was unnoticed, unappreciated, or forgotten—when my heart was played with, torn, crumpled up and left behind. You walked with me when I dragged my depressed brother around, fiercely telling myself that I would carry his pain with him, that I wouldn’t leave his side. You said, “Let go,” and forced us to spend time apart, and then met him with glorious healing. You gave me a chance to face my own sorrow, sitting with me in my car when I finally crumpled down in sobs that racked my body and almost made me sick. You said You had everything under control. Not me, not me.

You had a firm grip on me when I lost myself. When all-nighters and long days of work and classes and interning and homework and socializing and an unknown sickness all piled up and stole who I was. When I escaped to my car to take long drives because the stress and the uncontrollable emotions and the exhaustion drove me to be alone so I could think, so I could cry. You were with me when it seemed like all I did was find places to hide and cry alone. When I was lonely. When I escaped to a bathroom stall to hide my tears, when I bottled up the pain because I was ashamed of it and didn’t want my parents to worry. When I snapped at my friends in fits of anger, when I felt like I couldn’t function without extra sleep, when my mother told me something was wrong and I denied it. When I was diagnosed and told I’d be on a pill all my life, when I finally, tiredly accepted that something was wrong, and opened myself up to feel the resulting depression for what it was. You sat with me on my bed as I curled up and refused to face the world. You knew that I’d been sick all along, that my sickness ran deeper than vitamin deficiencies or thyroid conditions.

And You were there when I let the fear take control, when I once again submitted to the need to impress others, when I let go of my dreams and who I was and tried to make myself someone else. You were there when I tried to sleep away my day because I hurt too much to face it. You were there when I couldn’t eat because my heart was making me sick. You were there when I ran into dead ends, watched my dreams crack and break and fall through my hands. You were there when I couldn’t see You anymore, couldn’t hear You. You were there when I didn’t know who I was and didn’t know who You were. You were there when I was sure no one else would accept me because I didn’t have my accomplishments anymore, because I had been abandoned before and every expectation and thought screamed that I had failed and wasn’t good enough anymore. You stayed with me when I blamed You; You loved me and You held on.

You’ve been here all along and even now I get distracted. Sometimes I focus on my sicknesses with despair and wonder how they can ever be healed. How can You see me when I spend so much time making You invisible? How are you still the One who sees me, who loves me, who defines me, who accepts me, who comforts me, who finds me, who heals me, who saves me? Your grace has carried me this far and takes my breath away when I see now, as I look back, how You have worked. You have always been here, always whispering, always holding on, even when I nearly let go. You are my confidence. You make me loved and good enough. You are my grace. Though my words are insufficient, they are for You, my feeble offering of praise. Help me to see You, just as You have seen me all my life.

God Is Personal

And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being.

~Genesis 2:7~

When I was little and read verses about God creating the earth, I basically took it all for granted. "Yeah, yeah, God created the world, animals, and people, duh," was my attitude. "He's God." However, as I look back on the way I subconsciously imagined the creation process as I read the words, I realize I had a tendency to think of God in impersonal terms. The God of Genesis was more like the God I grew up thinking of whenever I actually did take a moment to think about God (which wasn't often). He was good and caring and wanted me to do good things, but He wasn't personable, not the kind of guy you'd sit and chat with for a long time. A quick, "Hey, I'll listen to your prayers and make sure you're OK, but I have a lot of other things to do," from Him was more of the attitude I pictured receiving from Him. 

Whenever I thought of God creating the world, I thought of "that Big Guy in space" hovering over the Earth and speaking things into existence. When He "formed man of the dust of the ground," I'd picture one of His giant hands reaching down from far above the ground and making a human. 

Still, though I thought of God creating the world in a "hands-off" fashion, it bothered me when Christians would argue that perhaps God had used evolution to create the world. For one, I thought "That's not what the Bible says, and if you can't believe one part, how can you believe the rest?" But the other reason I hated that idea was the fact that it made my God so...impersonal! 

"Jesus isn't like that. He's involved in every aspect of our lives. He came to earth to live and die for us; He physically spoke to and touched people as He healed and interacted with them. He wants a personal relationship with each of us. He's not 'hands off.'" 

So...why in the world did I let my "Genesis God" picture stay glued in my brain when my New Testament God was nothing like this? It didn't really strike me until today... creation is personal. Creation means God was there. Speaking. Touching. Physically. 

Genesis says that God walked in Eden with Adam. If He walked on Earth, He wasn't just some "Big Guy in the sky" for Adam. He was right there beside Him. Accessible. Personable. A friend. I like to picture Him walking alongside Adam like Jesus walked alongside the disciples. 

That made me rethink my idea of His creation of man, too. Sure, He used His voice. He is the Living Word. But...why this giant hand reaching out as if God is "too important" to get too close to us? Maybe He was standing on Earth as He did it, stooping to scoop up dust into His hands. Kind of like how Jesus stooped to write in the sand when He told the accusers of the woman caught in adultery that the one without sin should cast the first stone. Or like when Jesus formed clay in the dirt and used His hands to apply it to a blind man's eyes. He was hands-on there; He wasn't afraid to get "too close" or get His hands dirty. 

And He physically breathed the breath of life into Adam's nostrils, too. That's a personal creation. That's a God who cares enough to get close to us and be involved in our life. No careless tossing around of words or arms-length creation or involvement. That's a God who cares about every little detail of who we are. That's Jesus, and that's the God of Genesis. 

Creation shows the character of God. Watering it down to a distant creation or  a process of initiating evolution makes God distant. It doesn't do His character or His love and care for us justice at all. That's what bothers me about evolution and my "old way" of viewing creation, and I don't want to ever, even subconsciously, let myself think of God that way. I believe in a God who cares about every little detail of His creation...the God the Bible describes.

You See Me

You saw me when I was invisible, new and awkward and shy. When the full force of the teen years came crashing down on me, opening my eyes to the subtle, vicious world of girls with their silent competitions, their quiet jabs, and their outward smiles with inward put-downs and pride. When I was the outsider who was too quiet, too reserved, too different to fit in and match their airy confidence and effortless grace. When they plunged their energy into makeup and boys, and I lost myself in daydreams and books. You were whispering to my heart then, but I wasn’t listening. You saw me but I didn’t see You, because I was too busy studying the way they dressed, the way they acted, the way they looked—and then looking at myself and seeing that I did not compare.

You knew me when I knew everything (nothing), when I strove to prove myself to a world that seemed to pre-judge me every day of my life. When I proudly focused on the intellect and determination You had given me, and chose to use them to make myself seen and heard. When I soaked up praise from friends and family and professors and employers and coworkers like it was all that mattered, and when I worked and overworked myself just to taste it again. I told myself that I knew who I was and what I wanted and what You wanted, and if I only worked hard enough and accomplished enough, I would continue to be liked and loved and respected and admired. I would be accepted, even by myself. I was someone I could be proud of; I could conquer my insecurities by masking them with good grades, awards, and success.

You were with me when I was angry and when I was hurting, sometimes angry with You, sometimes at others. When I carried the weight of my pain and others’ pain on my shoulders like it was my burden to manage, like I was strong enough to hold it up on my own, like I could touch and heal others’ hearts with my own sheer strength of love and will. You waited for me when I stormed to my room to cry and ask You why You would let my grandmother be diagnosed with breast cancer so advanced it had spread into other areas of her body. You were there when I was scared, uncertain. You whispered soft words to answer my shouts and remind me that You were holding her hand and mine and that we didn’t have to be afraid. You stood next to me when I visited my mom in the hospital and nearly broke down to see her so sick and frail-looking, as if it was some strange reminder that I was now an adult and the mother who had cared for me all those years now needed me to care for her. I wanted to cry when I brushed her hair because she was too weak. You stayed by my side when I was abandoned by various “friends,” when my friend turned her back on You, when hurtful words and actions began to stack up in my heart and break it, to pile up in my mind and define me. When college guys only noticed me for my body or for what I could offer them, when my personality wasn’t enough because it was unnoticed, unappreciated, or forgotten—when my heart was played with, torn, crumpled up and left behind. You walked with me when I dragged my depressed brother around, fiercely telling myself that I would carry his pain with him, that I wouldn’t leave his side. You said, “Let go,” and forced us to spend time apart, and then met him with glorious healing. You gave me a chance to face my own sorrow, sitting with me in my car when I finally crumpled down in sobs that racked my body and almost made me sick. You said You had everything under control. Not me, not me.

You had a firm grip on me when I lost myself. When all-nighters and long days of work and classes and interning and homework and socializing and an unknown sickness all piled up and stole who I was. When I escaped to my car to take long drives because the stress and the uncontrollable emotions and the exhaustion drove me to be alone so I could think, so I could cry. You were with me when it seemed like all I did was find places to hide and cry alone. When I was lonely. When I escaped to a bathroom stall to hide my tears, when I bottled up the pain because I was ashamed of it and didn’t want my parents to worry. When I snapped at my friends in fits of anger, when I felt like I couldn’t function without extra sleep, when my mother told me something was wrong and I denied it. When I was diagnosed and told I’d be on a pill all my life, when I finally, tiredly accepted that something was wrong, and opened myself up to feel the resulting depression for what it was. You sat with me on my bed as I curled up and refused to face the world. You knew that I’d been sick all along, that my sickness ran deeper than vitamin deficiencies or thyroid conditions.

And You were there when I let the fear take control, when I once again submitted to the need to impress others, when I let go of my dreams and who I was and tried to make myself someone else. You were there when I tried to sleep away my day because I hurt too much to face it. You were there when I couldn’t eat because my heart was making me sick. You were there when I ran into dead ends, watched my dreams crack and smash and fall through my hands. You were there when I couldn’t see You anymore, couldn’t hear You. You were there when I didn’t know who I was and didn’t know who You were. You were there when I was sure no one else would accept me because I didn’t have my accomplishments anymore, because I had been abandoned before and every expectation and thought screamed that I had failed and wasn’t good enough anymore. You stayed with me when I blamed You; You loved me and You held on.

You’ve been here all along and even now I get distracted. Sometimes I focus on my sicknesses with despair and wonder how they can ever be healed. How can You see me when I spend so much time making You invisible? How are you still the One who sees me, who loves me, who defines me, who accepts me, who comforts me, who finds me, who heals me, who saves me? Your grace has carried me this far and takes my breath away when I see now, as I look back, how You have worked. You have always been here, always whispering, always holding on, even when I nearly let go. You are my confidence. You make me loved and good enough. You are my grace. Though my words are insufficient, they are for You, my feeble offering of praise. Help me to see You, just as You have seen me all my life.

Maybe When the World's Upside Down, Our Perspectives Are Finally Right-Side Up

I was recently told to generate basic who, what, when, why, where, and how questions to come up with writing ideas for my editorial internship assignments. However, these seem to apply really well to my entire life right now...

WHO am I? WHO am I meant to be on earth...both now, and later? WHO does God see?

WHAT am I meant to do? WHAT am I supposed to do right now, in the meantime? WHAT am I doing wrong? WHAT am I (if anything) doing right?

WHEN will I reach that calling? WHEN will I know I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing? WHEN will I feel peace?

WHY am I here? WHY have these things happened, or not happened? WHY does God so often seem silent? WHY is this so ridiculously complicated? WHY does it hurt?

WHERE am I honestly headed anyway? WHERE do I start? WHERE should I go, or not go?

HOW do I actually get there? HOW do I know I'm on the right path? HOW do I know what to pursue, and what to avoid? HOW do I keep my own feelings and desires from clouding my judgment as I listen to discern the will of God?

Maybe I could type a million more questions. I don't know. But I take comfort in many things; I feel more peace even here, where I am, than I did before. And I know it's possible to find peace in God now, for He is the source of peace, a peace that surpasses all understanding. He also wants me to be content and provides the means to find contentment no matter what my circumstances. He is my source of strength when I am weak.

Today, in another bout of despair, I thought, "My self-esteem is plummeting daily." The rejections seem to pile up. Life is...mean. I don't have thick skin. I'm not strong. My spirit is wearing down with the wait and the "deferred hope" that breaks the heart. But...I don't need self-esteem, do I?

I thought maybe my dreams--my writing aspirations, my accomplishments, my talents--defined who I am. After all, I breathe and eat and live words. I write words, I read words, I think words, I adore words, I fear words, I use words, I work words, I dream words. Seriously. My brain doesn't shut off. I always have something to say; my heart might burst if I didn't form words for my ideas and thoughts. I can't imagine life without them. I can't remember a time in my life when I wasn't sharing stories. Even when I couldn't read or write.

But do my dreams reflect who I am, or have I just formed them out of things I've loved and learned and known? I trust with all my heart that God gave me words. I believe, deep down, that there are words in my heart He means for me to share. I don't know when. Or how. Or to whom. A huge crowd of readers? Or a small group of friends? I don't know the span of my life...what if I died tomorrow? What then? What have I left behind? Words that outlive me? Words that encourage? Words that uplift? Words that strengthen?

What if I never publish a book? What if the words were taken away? What if I never wrote again? Would I still be me? Well, of course. God has plans I don't even know about; plans that go deeper than my own. He says so...doesn't He?

I can't seem to separate myself from my definition of a writer. Take it away, remove the dreams, and I'm not sure where I belong. God gave Adam and Eve work; I trust He has a task for me too. One only I can accomplish. Right?

But I am so much more than an imperfect writer. I am His. And that's a perfect place to be. The closest to perfection I have ever been, only because of His perfection covering me.

So what if I never wrote again? What if I never shared the words in my heart? What if I spent my entire life, separated irrevocably from humanity, and only lived to praise God?

Then, wouldn't that be enough?

Steadfast Love

"All the paths of the LORD are steadfast love and faithfulness." ~Psalm 25:10

Reading through the psalms means reading much praise from the psalmists about the Lord's steadfast love, but I'm not sure I've ever appreciated those words more than I have lately. There is something unbelievably comforting when you read the word "steadfast" before "love." When I think of steadfast, I think of something unshakable and unmovable. "Steadfast" means more to me than "eternal" because, to me, it speaks of more than just the effects of time; it speaks about the effects of the chaos of life, of the ugly, dirty side that no one really likes to talk about. It says that not only will God keep loving regardless of how much time has past, but also He will keep loving me even when I am unlovable, unclean, despicable. Even when I'm angry, even when I don't listen, even when I turn my back on Him. 

It brings to my mind Peter's failure to fulfill his promise to Jesus that he would never deny Him. He didn't just deny Jesus; he abandoned Him and left Him to be tried and crucified alone. All his boasting, all his promises...were just empty words. Yet when Jesus stepped out of His tomb, when He found Peter and spoke to him, He did not say, "I am done with you. You did not love me and you have chosen to be apart from me. Sorry." No...he just asked Peter to reaffirm his love, and gave him a mission. He wanted Peter  to do His  work. The failure. The quick-tempered guy full of great words and few actions. The one who'd ran. The one who'd taken his eyes off Jesus. Yes, that guy. Jesus loved him still.

During this Easter season, I'm also blown away once again as I stop to think about a God whose love is so deep that He chose to create us even though He knew--before He ever created the first man and woman--that we would deny Him and cost Him His life. I'm so grateful for a God who humbled Himself enough to meet us in our ugly places and in our failures. Only the Jewish priests could enter the Holy of Holies, and only after they had cleansed themselves, so they never expected a God who would reach out and seek out the company of sinners or "unclean" people, the people that they avoided. 

But we have a God who didn't shudder at the touch of sinners, and for that I am thankful. I am thankful for a God who loved us even when we were unlovable and had rejected Him. For a God who chose to enter this world as a baby, born in a manger, in a town that was looked down upon, to be raised by a carpenter and his wife. For a God who probably had dirt under His fingernails as He reached out to heal a blind man, for a God who had a human voice, possibly choked with tears, as He called out to raise the dead to life. For a God who didn't turn away from the death, the brokenness, the tears, the pain--all that comprises the utter ruin of humanity and this earth. For a God who taught us--the masters of changing our minds, of thinking only of ourselves, of hurting and destroying the people we really care about--how to really love. 

This Easter, I've learned I can rely on nothing. Not even myself. Everything changes, everything wavers. My love for God is as broken as Peter's. I so easily screw up my relationship with Him. I get angry and I refuse to trust. I pout like a spoiled child because my heart has been broken over loss or things that I placed my hope in that He did not allow come to pass. But the beautiful thing is that Jesus still loves me and He still has work for me to do. He meets me in this dark, ugly place and shines light and hope into the cold night. And when my emotions and desires struggle and change, He is steadfast.

You Alone

A friend of mine recently strung song lyrics and Bible verses together to let the words speak for her, to let them explain what she was going through. Sometimes I find that songs and even the Psalms have a way of voicing what maybe we, in the midst of a trial or struggle or particular pain or fear, cannot find words to express. I decided I'd give it a try, as certain phrases, even, of songs seem to speak to me a lot lately, even if the meaning might be taken somewhat out of context to fit my particular situation. So here's my shot at this. The Bible verse in the middle of this is Psalm 25:10. The words are not my own, of course, so full credit goes to the artists who wrote the lyrics: Plumb, Red, Come Wind, and Spoken. The songs used here are "Need You Now," "Hold Me Now," "So Far Away," "Glass Houses," "As You Go," "Sleep," and "Through It All."

~.~.~

Standing on a road I didn't plan, wondering how I got to where I am. The past is dead, the life I had is gone.  Now the future has me, and I feel so far away, far away from everything, outside wondering when I got lost. 

I'm trying to hear Your still, small voice; I hear Your voice, but inside I’m lost. “The world, I know, will break you, but through it all, remember I’m by your side. All the paths of the LORD are steadfast love and faithfulness. I might need your heart again to feel the burden of another heart. The love within you will heal these tears that burn.” I want to believe there’s beauty here...

We've been thrown in the fire; we've been burned by the flame, but we will rise from the ashes again. You alone, You can take away the pain. Make us whole again. All our hearts have been broken. Make us whole.

Happiness

"The purpose of life is not happiness." I listened to these words in a sermon at a friend's church this past Sunday and these words hit me in a new way than perhaps they ever have before. The pastor reminded us all that Christ said His followers would have to take up their crosses daily. Jesus Himself is described as a "Man of Sorrows." 

I suppose for years I've always thought, "Well yeah, duh, the purpose of life is to glorify and love God and people. To show people His love. Simple." I guess I always assumed that happiness would come along as a packaged deal. Or maybe I didn't know enough of sorrow to imagine a life that didn't contain happiness, or that life could get that dark while serving a God of love. After all, as long as you have God, you have to be happy, right? I mean, you have HIS love!

However, this past year or so has really begun to make me look at life in a new way. What is MY purpose in life, specifically? What am I? Graduates are told to ask, "What do I want?" and, "What makes me happy?" I've found myself stumbling along in life, taking paths I never anticipated I'd follow, falling and crawling more than walking, questioning who I am and what I want and what I am meant for. I suppose this is the stage in life where we desperately thirst for identity--something perhaps we thought we'd begun to find for ourselves in high school or college, when we hit "adulthood" at 18 or even 21. We think we know so much about ourselves and about life back then. It's crazy to then graduate and realize...I am completely clueless. 

Sometimes my life feels a lot like being trapped in a stiflingly dark place, trying to push through to find clarity, contentment, meaning. I feel peace when I feel God near, but feelings are flimsy and I can't always rely on them. Sometimes, He feels so distant, so silent. Sometimes, even when I know He is there, when I feel His love close by, it still doesn't seem to influence me--it feels like the cold winter sun hitting the snow. The sun is there, but it is distant and not warm enough to melt the ice. It brings light and some comfort, but as of yet, it isn't doing much else. It is visible, but not felt. Present, but not close. 

When you spend so much time questioning where you belong and who you are; when you find yourself exactly where you always said you didn't want to be; when you see your dreams crashing from your hands and shattering to the floor; there's bound to be some hurt. Depression creeps up on you until it starts to feel like sadness is your shadow. Fear sneaks inside when you wonder where you are headed, when you realize that the things you'd planned out, the goals you'd sought to attain, the dreams you'd immersed yourself in all your life, might very well fall apart. 

But don't get me wrong. Though I feel--almost literally--as if God is burning me up, trying me until I become like purified gold, I am not hopeless. Various circumstances in my life are bringing me pain and sadness, and sometimes I feel so broken that I must be useless for God, but I am not undone. Sometimes I feel incredibly alone, but I am not forsaken. I heard His voice as someone prayed for me, not long ago. My identity is in Him. He loves me. He has heard all my broken cries. He knows the hurt in my heart when it seems like no one else understands or even knows about it, when I'm too ashamed to try to even talk about it to see if someone can empathize. 

And in all of this, I begin to see how happiness is overrated. Even in brokenness, I can sense God's goodness and love deep in my soul. I feel cold and dark and alone. I feel shattered and lost. But I know I am not. I know there is peace somewhere for me. I know I am loved. I know there is hope. And it's in this that my meaning in life becomes so much deeper than the "Who will I be" and "What makes me happy" and "At this age or this time I will accomplish ____." It becomes more than to "be happy." Happiness is shallow. I've watched it fade and glow bright, come and go. It's like the ocean tide: it's beautiful and soothing but it's fickle. We can spend our whole lives chasing the waves but they will always draw back from us just as we reach them. Life is full of hurt and brokenness, but there is no need to be afraid. Peace and joy in God run so much deeper than all of that. Even in tears, even in darkness, there is light. 

Does this mean happiness is wrong? No. Does this mean sadness is wrong? No. Emotions are, after all, just emotions. They will come and go, even in the space of one day or a few hours. If we settle on "being happy" as our life goals, we are actually cheating ourselves. We will never find permanent happiness here on earth. Ever.

So what is the purpose of life? Maybe it is still as simple as I thought it was when I was younger, but it's also so much more. Happiness might not always come with glorifying and loving God. We might still be sad. Sometimes we need to worship Him when our hearts are breaking. Happiness won't necessarily be with us as we love others in His name. Sometimes they will reject us, wound us, break us. But it is the Presence of God that is our reward, our comfort, our joy, our peace. There will be pain, but we will heal. There will be nights, but there will be mornings. Our identity is Christ. Our happiness is heaven, when we are finally with Him. Our peace and our strength right now, is His Spirit.

Why I (Will) Raise My Children With God

This blog is my response to a woman's blog about her choice to raise her children without God: http://ireport.cnn.com/docs/DOC-910282?hpt=hp_c3. My intent here is not to speak out in anger or to ridicule her. No, I respect that not only does she choose to stand by her convictions, but also her convictions seem well thought-out. Her appeals are legitimate. Heart-wrenching, really. This woman speaks from the heart. She cares. She wants to see love, hope, and justice in the world. I respect that. I honor that. I admire it. That is beautiful. Not everyone, not even those who number themselves with people who believe in God or a god, would bother to care about other people the way this woman seems to care.

However, her words only reinforced my own beliefs. I realize that faith is not anything that can be explained or rationalized. It is an individual experience, a relationship that goes beyond the ability to convey in words. Our human brains can only begin to comprehend the magnitude of the glories of the creation of this world, let alone the wonders of the universe; so how much more is God incomprehensible, astounding, indescribable? I can't begin to try to argue to someone that God exists. I can point to Creation, point to actions of faith, point to the unexplained, invisible miracles of love and forgiveness; but I cannot use my own intellect, logic, knowledge, feelings, or experience to convince someone else to believe in an invisible, omnipotent, omnipresent Creator. It is something they have to come to themselves. In fact, to try to force someone into believing in God would be heretical, an oxymoron that goes against the very core of my faith and relationship with God. My relationship with God is beautiful because He does not force me to love or serve Him. He courted me and I accepted Him in faith; His love constrained me to serve Him, to love Him in return. My independent choice is beautiful because it is mine. It is possible because He gave me the faith and He knocked on my heart's door so that I could learn of Him and make that choice; I chose to accept that faith, that invitation to know Him more. If I ever have children, I want them to have this opportunity. I want them to know about God and the relationship I have with Him, the beautiful way He loves and forgives me, so that they have the opportunity to experience it firsthand. I want them to know that my love for them is purer, stronger, better, because of His love for me.

But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Here are my reasons:

God is beyond logic, but faith isn't.

I already said that God is indescribable and beyond human comprehension (even an atheist, if he takes a moment to think "What if" knows that if God does exist, He must be all-powerful, all-knowing, outside of time), but that does not mean that faith in Him is without reason. No, if it were completely unreasonable, it would be cast aside when children became adults, as children "grow out" of their belief in Santa Claus (a parallel the author of the blog used for belief in God). 

"Why do bad things happen?" Christians do seek out logical answers to this question. They are not blinded by faith; they instead explore their faith. Solid faith is one backed in reason. If someone does not have a reason for their beliefs, then their beliefs are flimsy, shallow; they are hardly able to be called something that makes up a "faith" at all, because there is no faith involved. There is nothing to believe. They have a thought, an idea, that will crumble with the first ounce of reason or thought applied. 

So, why do bad things happen? Genesis explains that, though the woman who wrote the blog and others may criticize this seemingly trite answer. However, it is true. Humans cause bad things to happen. They choose evil over good, wrong over right. It doesn't mean God condones it. We want to imagine that a loving God, an all-powerful one, is the type of God who would step in and stop the Sandy Hook massacre or the destruction of Hurricane Katrina. We close our eyes and dream up a world in which little children are not abused, where they do not starve. We long for a world of peace, where innocent people do not suffer abominable cruelty and horror, the stuff of nightmares, of evil. But we must realize that this world we live in is one of our own making; we are fully responsible for it. Every day that we choose wrong over right (and we all do), is a day in which we affect ourselves and others for worse. We also have to realize that God would be a tyrant if He forced us to do right. If He forced us to honor Him, to love Him, there would be no free will. There wouldn't even be any love. Isn't love, after all, a free choice? If we take away the choice behind love, can we really call it love? If we take away the choice behind our actions, can we humans call ourselves free? If God were a tyrant, then He would not be a loving God. He would, in fact, be far worse than this God others criticize for allowing atrocities to take place. 

Perhaps we should adjust our idea of love. Do good, loving parents force their children to always choose right, and never choose wrong? Do they make all their children's choices for them, even when they have reached an age to choose? Even when they are 18 or older? No! Parents let their kids mess up. Not because they don't love them, but because they love them enough that they want their children to decide for themselves. They love them enough to give them their freedom and trust them to make the right choice. They love them enough to not be tyrants to their children. But when they do mess up, they are always there for them. They are also there for advice, counsel, and guidance before and during a decision, if the children seek it. Isn't God the same way? Isn't this, truly, the most loving approach to both parenting and...well...being God? 

I want my children to see this example. I want to hold this example in front of them and myself, so I am reminded how to raise them, so they see how much I love them, so they see how much God loves them, so they know how to raise their children in love as well.

God is fair.

We cannot see how God answers prayer, but that is the beauty of it. Whenever I have seen prayers supposedly "not" answered, I have seen incredible beauty, because He has simply answered them in the way that is best...because He knows best. Not us. A child might complain that their parents are "not fair" for not letting her go to her friend's house on a school night, not realizing that they are doing it for her best interests. God is the same way. I have watched a mother and father pray and plead with God for the life of their 14-year-old son as he battles cancer, and I was there, praying, when he lost that battle. Did I say, "God did not answer their prayer?" Did the parents say, "God did not hear us?" No. Their faith was amazing; they felt comfort in this time. For, you see, God did answer their prayers. That boy was healed. He is with God. He is whole. He is loved. He is safer and happier and more complete than those parents are, or any of their other children are, here on earth. 

I want my children to see that "fairness" isn't about getting what you think you want or need. It's about getting what is best for you in the long run. I want them to learn from this to think in long-term conditions, not short-term. I want them to make their decisions based on what is best for them and for others over the course of years or even a lifetime, not what seems best or what they think they want right now. I want them to realize that I am fair, not because I always cater to their every whim, but because I love them enough to refuse what is bad for them. They might go through some pain (not being able to see their friends that night, not going to that party, etc.), but it is minimal, short-term, trivial, compared to the greater outcome of blessing, or joy, or good.

God protects the innocent.

We might not always see it on earth, because the evil actions of humans can victimize others, sending their lives into a spiral of despair and hurt, but God protects the innocent. Greater still, God protects the guilty. We are all guilty in His eyes--that's why Jesus came to die for us--yet He still chose to die. Jesus dispels the devil's accusations and our own accusations of guilt and shows His scarred hands, shows His blood, and declares us innocent in His eyes. He protects us from ourselves--from our damning choices by saving us and guiding us into His life. From the devil, by filling us with His Spirit and influencing us to choose life over death. From death, by conquering it and giving us not only a better life here on earth, but also eternal life with Him. Does this mean that on earth we will never have pain, never face danger? No, but it does make these trials pale in comparison. If we are saved from death, what harm can come to us in this life that will not be forgotten in the next? This life is fleeting and miserable, but He promises to be with us through it all. This hope, this trust in God, His very Presence and overpowering love, embraced the disciples and other early martyrs and made torture, imprisonment, and painful death not only bearable but even glorious. God endured so much more pain for us. He knows our pain. He is with us, if we but ask. Pain is temporary. His blood, His love, His saving grace, is forever.

God is present.

This is one of those times when experience comes into play. I have felt God's love shower over me so powerfully it is practically physical. I have heard His words spoken to me through the voice of one of His people. I have heard His message come to me in my heart. I have felt His peace seep into me, killing the poisonous thoughts I abused myself with, and bringing to me such a wondrous feeling that I can only describe as the absence of pain. It went beyond cheap contentment brought from the world or my own efforts, one that only covers or masks pain. It killed the pain. These are beautiful experiences that I cannot rationalize, that others cannot explain or believe in unless they have felt them themselves. I want my children to have the chance to feel this love, to know this wonder. It is a blessing I cannot selfishly keep to myself. 

God teaches children to be good.

I remember at the age of four, wondering how I could be "good enough" to get into heaven. I remember, a couple years later, feeling tormented with guilt because of a lie I had concealed from my parents for years. But more than that, I know the taste of ritualism, and the desire to be good for goodness' sake. I know what it's like to fight to prove myself, to be good for myself, to be good for others. I know what it's like to worry to be good so God will be pleased with me, so others will be pleased with me, so I will be pleased with myself. But in the end, these are torturous reasons to be good, and they begin to erode. Eventually, love of self conquers these and I want to do what I want to do. Unless, of course, I have something stronger than love of self, or the need to impress others or earn their love. If I have a love for God, then I have a desire to please Him. If I love God, I know how to love myself properly. If I love God, I love others. All of these things compel me to do good, to show Him my love for Him, to show others my love of them because of Him, and to treat myself with the dignity and respect of doing good because I love myself for the inherent value God bestows on me, not because of what I have or have not done. 

God teaches selflessness and true self-worth.

We live in a world flooded with this idea that people have "low self-esteem" or need "self-esteem" or to believe in themselves. The trouble is, this does nothing. I suppose this is the point that is the most personal for me, the one that I most treasure to pass on to my children. I have battled an often-agonizing, lifelong case of low self-esteem. I have abused myself with self-degrading thoughts, consumed myself with the worry that others might not care for or accept me and how that decreased my value, my worth. I have tortured myself with lies and hurt that leave scars on my very identity and my ability to love. Some might call this low self-esteem. I call it a skewed way to love myself. It is pride and love of self at its worst; perhaps it is a lack of respect and love as well. Only God has ever given me true self-worth. His love has never encouraged narcissism; no, the idea that God hears me, loves me, has a plan for me, values me--blows me away. I stand in awe because I do not deserve Him. I do not deserve love, or forgiveness. It is the simple truth. But He loves me anyway, and such love is something that spills over, making me love myself--not in pride, not in narcissism, but in a healthy way. I feel strong and confident because He made me that way and He will not forsake me. I feel special and worthy of respect because He loves me and created me the way I am and has a plan for me. I love others and want to serve them because He loves them and because the love He pours out to me overflows from my heart. Jesus' example, His glorious love, is powerful enough to not just cure the disease of a skewed self-image, to not just bring someone their true identity and meaning and purpose in life, but to also compel them to love and serve others. This is love. This is life. If my children can learn anything from me and my relationship with God, let it be this. 

If I ever have children, I cannot keep these experiences from them. I will not raise them in religion; I will teach them of my relationship with God, of who He is, and of their ability to pursue one with Him as well. Their choice, whether to follow Him or not, will be entirely their own. But I cannot ever raise children without giving them this beautiful knowledge, and this option.