30 before 30 – An Update

If you’ve known me for very long, you know I have a list of 30 things I wanted to do before I turned 30 years old. I wrote this list when I was 23 and my younger sister dared me to dream outside of the very small, comfortable life I had. It was a life spent taking care of other people and my only aspirations at the time were to continue caring for other people by fulfilling the expectations of (hetero) marriage and bearing children in a semi-small town, raising them in the same church and traditions I was in at the time. I remember when I wrote the list how daring it felt, how scared I was to dream that my life could be different, that it should be different.

I was on the cusp of leaving a cult I’d basically grown up in. Writing down that I wanted to order an actual drink at an actual bar felt like a dangerous admission. The fact that I hadn’t yet done that at 23 years old felt shameful. It’s only now at 29 that I finally feel some sense of confidence when approaching a bar to order a drink.

I dreamed about going to Europe, putting it on the list and never imagining it would actually happen. I certainly didn’t foresee living there for nearly 10 months and the ways my life would change for the better afterward. I went sledding in the Swiss Alps and tumbled and laughed until I was breathless. Small dreams are important to have and can bring the sweetest joy when we see them fulfilled. I was terrified to see a counselor, so I put it on the list as a challenge to myself. But I’m now in my 3rd round of therapy in 6 years and its the first one I feel I’m making significant progress with.

I didn’t complete everything on the list. There are still 6 things I haven’t done. My friends are going to take me out for karaoke this week to try to knock off the first thing on the list (sing in public). But, truth be told, I’m not terribly worried over the fact I have a few things left to cross off. Because I did so many of the things I thought would never happen. And I’m damn proud of myself.

A week from today I turn 30 years old. I can’t remember the last time I looked forward to something so much. I had some very wise co-workers in my mid-twenties who reassured me that the twenties are hard years. They are full of struggle, change, trial and error, lots of fun, but a lack of stability. They told me how much I had to look forward to in my 30’s and beyond. They showed me through examples in their own lives how life only improves with age and maturity. It was comforting to know that I wasn’t limping through “my best years” with growing pains. My best years are yet to be determined.

One day at 27 I woke up sobbing and wishing my 20’s to be over. I was in massage school, living with friends, sleeping on a twin bed, adjusting to anxiety medication, working/going to school over 12 hours each day… and I just wanted it to be over. Some days, I still feel that way. I know that hard days will not evaporate next week. But I know better now how resilient I am to them. Hard days, difficult seasons do pass.

I have evidence of this in the form of 4 sisters who are 10+years older. I’ve had a distant view of their years of struggle, growth, and in the last few years? I see them settling into so much health and beauty. They are proof that trauma does not limit you. Difficult things can be faced and worked through. Strong families can be built, in spite of the history of dysfunction. Their lives are evidence that the patterns set for me can be broken. There is so much to hope for.

In less than a month I’m going to relocate my life –again. I’m moving to an area of the country I’ve always wanted to live in. I’m getting out of Texas, out of the Deep South and headed to a place with 4 real seasons and mountains and friends and adventures I can’t even fathom yet. And I’m so excited. Turning 30 is turning into everything I hoped it would be.

Dare to dream, my friends. Some of those dreams may actually come true.



“We are going to get through this,” you said. And the tears I’d been trying to hold back tipped over the edge of my eyelids. I covered my face and cried, letting all of the stress and sadness spill out in the best way I know how.


The last couple of weeks on social media have been rough for survivors. Frankly, the last couple of years. It seems like every few days someone else is making headlines by sharing their story. Speaking up, speaking out against injustice, saying “me too” and so much more. They are holding the men who abused them accountable and setting a precedent that we will not stay silent. These crimes will not stay shrouded in shame that is not ours to bear.

It’s bolstering to see so many publicly stand with survivors. But this cycle of #metoo headlines is hitting me harder than others have. I’ve been reading “The Body Keeps the Score” by Bessel van de Kolk. It is a summary of research studies and treatment methods for trauma impacted individuals. It’s fascinating and validating and painful to read, all at once. More than once I have closed the book feeling raw, exposed. Recognizing that I’ve come so far in my healing but still have so much work to do. Perhaps that awareness is contributing to my short fuse of tolerance to minor reminders of sexual abuse.

I deleted the Facebook app from my phone several days ago after a CSA advocacy group posted a quote from a perpetrator that hit me between the eyes and made me sick to my stomach. They were making a relevant point with the quote and I’m glad they are doing it. But I recognized I was feeling my capacity for triggers dwindle. I deleted the app, telling myself it would be temporary, until the senate confirmation process for Kavanaugh is completed, one way or another.


As I scrolled Instagram this morning I saw so much support for survivors from names big and small. I scrolled past them quickly, avoiding the details. I don’t want to know or hear. I don’t want to take the hands I can’t hold in person, though I know they are offered sincerely. I am tired. So very tired of the daily reminders that I am a survivor; that the stories being told are mine, too; that the decisions being weighed in our judicial system will impact me, no matter what I do.

I am tired, perhaps this is why my internal alarm system is on high-alert, moreso than usual. I was writing a letter in the cooler weather on the patio this afternoon when a nearby neighbor roared up his muscle car with a muffler that made it sound like a gunshot. I jumped out of my skin, streaking the page with ink. My heart skipped a beat and surged with anger. Immediately the internal dialogue I have conditioned into my mind played on a loop:

“You are safe. It was just a noise. Don’t panic. You’re fine. Calm down. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The engine eventually turned off, my heart rate settled quickly back into a more normal rhythm. But the anger? The anger remained.


It’s easier for me to be angry with a neighbor who is unknown to me than it is for me to be angry with the man who is responsible for my internal alarm systems over-sensitivity. I recognize that anger is misplaced. Another close friend I reached out to this afternoon reminded me that I am allowed to feel angry. She suggested this is perhaps the next uncomfortable step towards healing. It needs to be felt.


I know my state Senator. I have met him and interacted with him on a professional level many times. Perhaps I will email his office and make my voice heard. Maybe he will remember me. Maybe he won’t. But maybe he will put one more face to all the nameless women who plead with him to do the right thing, to cast the right vote.


I wanted to bury myself under the blankets this afternoon and shut the world out. But the beauty of the first day that feels like fall beckoned me out to revel in it. I went to get groceries for soup and kitchen therapy. I drove with the windows down and the radio up. I chose a complex recipe I knew would keep me fully engaged. I grounded myself in an activity that required all my senses. And I survived the day. I might’ve even thrived a little bit.


After my shower, I started a video chat and we both knew I had something on my mind. I was talking before I could talk myself out of it, but numb in the re-telling. I couldn’t look you in the eye. And as my speech faded, I worried I would stay numb. But then you responded, showing you heard me. You didn’t just listen. You engaged. You reminded me of the things that are hard to believe when my headspace is occupied by unpleasant memories.

You agreed that yes, perhaps I should delete Instagram also, for a season. Free up more headspace for other things to aid my healing. So I did. And suddenly I have more room to breathe.

Thank you. For letting me know I am not alone. For turning “me” into “we.” It’s the best two-letter word I’ve ever heard.

Already Home

A few days ago I received a well-meaning message from an old friend, claiming they had a missive from god: Come Home. After some time in reflection, this was my response.


Hey There,

I’ve spent the last couple of days contemplating how to respond. I don’t think you are a weirdo, I don’t think this message is bizarre. This is precisely the kind of thing I used to think or do, with regret now. It is, however, not something I would have expected from you. So I find myself feeling a deep sense of hurt and disappointment.

To be quite honest I am more Home than I have ever been. There is nothing that would entice me to return to a “father” who is alternately as penal and neglectful as he is attentive and loving. My “family” is no longer hyper critical, judgmental or emotionally manipulative in the name of god. I have found a home in people who love me for who I am right now without attempting to impose their moral code onto my life. And I am more free, more happy, more at peace than I ever was inside of Christianity; something you would have discovered for yourself had you taken the time to catch up and engage with me BEFORE delivering your arbitrary judgment. (I know it was not intended as a judgment but you cannot deny it is implicit in the message.)

I know you have the best intentions in reaching out and it is nice to know you thought of me. But I am afraid your words did not have the intended effect of enticement back to Christianity. In fact they had the opposite effect of further pain inflicted in the name of your so-called-god. And because I no longer believe in god, I’m left with the disappointment of holding you responsible for your actions. I can’t just blame “him” or hope you misheard.

I would love to continue this dialogue, to make you dinner and talk on it. I know you have good intentions and it’s your heart to love people. I’d like to try to explain why this feels less than loving.

Hope y’all are well. Stay safe out there.


I come from a charismatic evangelical background where “words” of this nature were commonplace. I was known to give them as often as I received them. Some of those occurrences appeared to have eerie timing that fit my circumstances exactly when I felt I needed my certainty reinforced. Some of them are even documented in the archives of this blog. You may ask how I reconcile those seemingly “supernatural” experiences now?

For a while I didn’t know how to fit old stories into my current beliefs. I didn’t know how to make sense of “words of knowledge” or “prophecies” or the like. But, as is the case with so many things, the passage of time brings clarity. I now recognize the sensations of “discernment” as truly hyper-toned perception, awareness and intuition. The ability to “discern” things about people around me has actually played a large role in making me a great massage therapist. I’m repurposing those human skills of intuition that were once used to make moral judgments, channeling them now with empathy for the benefit of my friends, clients and perhaps most importantly, myself. The super-spirituality that once gave me traction in religious circles turned out to be a skill set I’m grateful for now that I can pair it with self-awareness and critical thinking. As it turns out I can trust in myself and lean on my own understanding. I was doing it all along!

Naturally this changes how I receive so-called “prophetic words,” post-Christianity. I see them for what they are: emotional manipulation on an expert level. The empath in me recognizes that manipulation is not the intent, but that does not negate that it is often the result, and the results are what matter. In the case of the message from my old friend I recognize the disappointment ontheir part that I have left the faith and the earnest hope that I will return to their interpretation of the truth. I sense their sadness over the “state of my soul.” But I no longer feel responsible to mitigate those negative emotions for them. I am sad that implied expectations will necessarily change the way we relate to one another going forward. My boundaries do not permit these type of interactions to persist.


So, for anyone else who may be considering sending that “word” my way, I hope it’s clear you’d be better off keeping your thoughts and prayers to yourself. If the display of my life now grieves you too deeply, allow me to invite you to unfollow or unfriend me on social media. I promise I won’t even notice.

Scars of Hope

Hope scarred me.

I was scrolling a worship leaders Instagram account tonight and saw a post where he was pleading his followers prayers for a little boy. He was “speaking life” over this child whose kidneys are failing. I clicked away to a post where another worship artist spoke confidently of this child’s healing. She said they would rest and let god work.

I hope the boy recovers. Truly, I do.

But I don’t hope for it the way I used to. I remembered tonight the way I used to hope. I would pray with a certainty that left me soaring in confidence that god would act. That full restoration would come. I would pray with certainty but also desperation as though the doors of heaven required my pounding. That kind of prayer, that kind of hope, always made my stomach drop.

For a brief moment tonight that feeling visited me. I’m often slow to recognize a flashback when I have one. As I began writing this narrative I felt myself drifting out of my body, dissociating, staring at my hands like they are some kind of alien life form. I’m writing to stay grounded.

My middle name is Hope. It’s something I have struggled to own for many years of my life. I often find myself hoping against my better judgment. I’m a romantic, an optimist, I want things to work out. The strain of charismatic evangelicalism I was a part of for over 20 years cultivated that propensity toward hope to an extreme. I would pray and focus and meditate on certain outcomes: healings, relationships restored, salvation for others, destruction of others, financial gains, demonic exorcisms… and in these prayers there was no room for doubt. As a woman my examples were Hannah, pray with persistence, Rachel, give me what I ask lest I die, Mary, let it be unto me as you will. For some things I prayed for years, faithfully.

If ever those prayers and hopes were not fulfilled my focus always turned inward. If I was not to blame for gods inaction then what was I to learn? What grand lesson would he teach me that I would be compelled to share with others as a consolation prize for their shattered hearts?

It felt false. But I had to believe. I despised anything and anyone that felt false, so to compensate for that I put my heart and soul in to believing. There was no choice. This was the only truth. I was in too deep.

There was no space for grief or pain when you were perpetually hoping and desperately praying for miraculous healing from negative and non-Christian emotions. Grief was only allowed when grieving for lost souls. Pain was only allowed when identifying with Christ on the cross. Resurrection already occurred and that was the goal. There was an unspoken 3 day limit on any kind of sorrow. You don’t need medication. Come out of the tomb. He is risen and what kind of witness are you if you haven’t? It doesn’t matter if it’s true. Come out and testify and our praise will make it feel true. It worked. Until it didn’t anymore.

It wasn’t until after I left the cult that the veil of certainty began to unravel. For the first time my prayers became self-focused. I begged god for healing for my heart and mind that were ravaged by Complex Post Traumatic Stress. My symptoms were largely held at bay by the regimented prayer routines I followed for decades. I allowed myself to grieve. I faced and embraced the pain I’d piously held off. I worked, hard, to heal. And I prayed. Still. Desperately, for the pain to cease. I prayed when I woke up covered in sweat from nightmares of horrors I was loathe to remember. I prayed when panic threatened to drown me. When I couldn’t face it any longer on my own I reached out to friends and asked them to pray, privately. I told a friend that I was clinging to god with every shred of hope in my body.

After over 2 years post-cult that pain was still raw. There’s a Proverb that says hope deferred makes the heart sick. I was hoping for healing as my heart sank into depression I tried to ignore. I dragged myself out of bed one February night and stood in the rain to attend a worship night with the aforementioned leaders. I watched them pray over members of the audience. I heard stories of supposed healings that took place that night. I felt hope and disappointment at war within me. I was tired of fighting for my healing when others were handed theirs on a platter. The veil was tearing from the bottom up. Within 6 months I left for L’abri as a final attempt to repair the damage done.

Nine months later I prayed for the last time to that god I’d given everything to. And I felt a weight thrown off. Instead of always feeling as though I was falling short of the glory of god by not grasping the healing promised, I accepted my pain for what it was. I stopped hoping it would go away by some miracle and then I made tangible strides in healing. I began telling my story instead of covering it over with sticky sweet hopeful platitudes meant to convert the unfaithful.

These days I’m much more practical about the things I hope for. If someone I care for is sick, I hope for the best outcome but I also prepare myself for the worst and plan ways to be present for the people who will need support the most. I will not be the person who “speaks life”… I will be the person who asks if you are sad or scared and holds you while we cry.

It’s been two years since I stopped praying. In the time since I’ve learned that prayer requests can be replaced by vulnerability. Telling your friends you are struggling and asking for their support is so much more difficult than asking for prayer ever was. And I’ve grown so much from learning to do it. Having my friend reach for my hand and cry for me when I didn’t even have tears was more meaningful than the most earnest prayer offered on my behalf.

I’m learning to hope again. It’s hard for me to admit I want something I have no control over bringing to bear. Hope was hollow for me for so long that I’m skittish of getting close to it. But if there’s anything I’ve learned it’s that I can survive the deepest heartbreak and learn to live well again. I may no longer be able to pray but hope…

Hope is still my middle name. And it will never be cliche for me.

A Manifesto from Myself

I wrote this letter to myself a year ago. I’d completely forgotten it in an old mostly used up spiral notebook that still has notes in it from high school. I came across it a few days ago and it left me breathless and bolstered. If you need a little bolstering, this is for you, too. 

Oh, Hey Love.

A year from now you won’t recognize yourself. This year will be one of wild unencumberment. You are going to let go of so many things you never knew you didn’t need. You will learn how to stop praying and worry will disappear from your life. You will learn that you don’t need many material things to be happy. You just need people where mutual love is deep. You will let go of the god you have always known and dive into the deep unknown. You will learn how to stop treading water, float, and trust whatever current is carrying you. Because that which is beautiful is often trustworthy.

You will let go of your dreams for marriage and family and learn things about your own sexuality that make your whole life make sense. Don’t fight it. You know how fluid these dreams can be. Even if they leave, they may one day come back to you reimagined in beauty that takes your breath away.

You will watch your plans vanish and it will be the most freeing feeling. For the first time in your life you believe that you can go anywhere and do anything. You are surrounded by people who believe in you. They will make you know that you are worthy. Their love will give you wings to pursue your wildest dreams.

You will lose your hair. Not from stress this time. By choice, taken into your own hands and removed bit by bit. It will be a slow letting go of who you used to be and the dreams you used to have. Others will help you celebrate this transformation. In the absence of your lifelong security blanket you will grow secure in the fact that you are loved for who you are, not for any outward feature.

You will let go of your home, of the city you once called your own. You will know that the place that sheltered you for a time has edged you out of the nest. It will never feel the same again and you wouldn’t want it to. You’ve outgrown Baton Rouge, and it’s okay.

You will learn how to stand on your own but also how to reach out for help when you need it. You will need help. It’s okay. Reach your hand forward. But also reach it back and to either side for those friends who will need your support as much as you need theirs.

This year will be one of as many heartaches as triumphs, often precipitated by the same events. Lean in. Find the joy. Because it’s there. In abundant measures that will propel you forward.

You will become so much more yourself. And baby, you will shine.


The day that I graduated from Massage Therapy school

A Time to Keep Silence

I’m not sure if the news on racial divides these days is really worse than it was before, or if I’m just paying more attention because it’s happening in my hometown. It’s possible that I just can’t ignore it now because my newsfeed is full of it. I’m ashamed to admit having publicly ignored it before. Beginning with Ferguson, whenever #blacklivesmatter, #bluelivesmatter and #alllivesmatter came across my newsfeed during the last couple of years I just went on a facebook hiding spree of those I found particularly distasteful (sometimes outright racist), hit the “like” button on a few posts or articles I “supported” and moved on. I didn’t want to engage. The thought of posting something of my own and having to talk to someone I disagreed with was too overwhelming. If you are not already aware, this is a prime example of my own white privilege.

But this time… this time it was too close to home. I returned to Baton Rouge after 10 months out of the country on the day Alton Sterling was executed. I sat in front of the television most of the day, tears streaming down my face during every news break. I wept, and I watched as my Facebook newsfeed filled with passion and compassion from friends and writers all over the country… I decided to “like” and “share” without thought to who may disagree. The time for me to keep silent has come to an end. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help noticing that many of my Baton Rouge friends, both black and white, remained silent on the front of racial reconciliation. I engaged with more friends out of state than I did here. And I was so encouraged to see others, like myself, who’d previously been quiet come out in public support of Black Lives. I started a screenshot collection of their posts. I desperately wanted to see a silver lining.

But yesterday morning, something changed. At first, all I saw were postings of news reports on more violence and the deaths of Baton Rouge Police Officers. If I’m being honest, I fought numbness and forced myself to face the sadness of continued loss of life. I’ve grown weary of tragedy. But as the day progressed and I refreshed my newsfeed, I didn’t just feel sad. I started to get angry. People who have been largely silent in the face of tragedies the past few weeks suddenly found their voice, railing against “these people” in all caps. I saw profile pictures light up with blue flames and blue lines, one after another. I was reminded I had facebook connections I’d honestly forgotten were there, it’d been so long since they posted anything. I was annoyed at the convenience of their grief. How is it that they have only just had their hearts broken enough to publicly lament? How have they escaped this tearing, this wound, inflicted by injustice upon injustice, the kind that feels like torture, intended to make you scream?


In my disillusionment I briefly entertained the notion of deleting the facebook app from my phone and disengaging, just to curb my growing annoyance at people I otherwise know to be kind and reasonable. But then, among the local support from the silent ones I began to see support and prayers for Baton Rouge from my friends around the country, the same ones who’ve been defending black lives with vigor. I was reminded by them that standing for justice and fighting for love is not something we do only when it is convenient to our pet causes. Lament is worthy of being heard no matter where it’s coming from.

I have to confess that the most telling silence the last few weeks has been that of my black friends here in Baton Rouge. And I know because I’ve checked their pages just to be sure I haven’t missed something. Some of them are people I have had painful, halting conversations with about exactly how it’s different to grow up as a black American – particularly in the South. They are the ones who made my blind eyes see colors as they truly are, not how I wish them to be. And while the rest of the country seems in an uproar over the things taking place in our hometown, they grieve quietly. I know, because I’ve reached out to a few of them. While I want to wail, rend my garments and scream, I watch their eyes fill but refuse to spill, demonstrating a strength that comes from years of practice I have no concept of. I echo their fears. I want to say, “This isn’t my Baton Rouge. This isn’t my city.” But when I listen to them I know that isn’t true. This has been my city for years. I just didn’t want to see it.

I was talking to a black friend last week who said she wants to do something to bring change. Talking doesn’t seem to make enough of a difference. I told her that her story can make a difference. That people like me desperately need to hear voices like hers. I told her about my screenshot collection. I told her that her voice matters. She looked back at my tear filled eyes and said, “Bekah, how are you going to tell me my voice matters when my life doesn’t even matter?”

I felt my heart crack and later, it shattered. What could I say? I could tell her that her life matters, to me. I could start there. I could use my voice of privilege to try to make others see how much her life matters. But it doesn’t seem like enough. I alone cannot make her believe a truth she has seen disputed in the blood of her brothers all her life. That night, I sobbed in the arms of my father over the injustice. Coming to believe I have a voice worth hearing has been one of the most affirming experiences of my life. Knowing that she is unable to believe the same simply because her skin is a different color, broke me. It isn’t fair. It shouldn’t be that way. I want it to be different.

For my black friends I understand if now is a time to keep silence. I understand if the weight is too much. This is a grief you cannot count on all of humanity to share. I wish you could. Like Job, perhaps you must sit in silence. I want to sit with you. But, I want to learn better from the friends of Job. If you will permit me, I will lament for you… And when your time of silence is past, I will do whatever I can to be sure your voice is heard. Because your life matters.

But so does your voice.


Lines in the Sand

I drew a line in the sand today — with God.

In my Christian experience I have wrestled with the concepts of grace, love and forgiveness. I have found it difficult to consistently forgive myself and those who have wronged me with any sense of permanence. I have been consoled with the notion that I am imperfect until final redemption and that God is giving me time to “learn to forgive,” even while failure to forgive on my part would supposedly render me unforgiven.

I have spent years striving to fully obtain the grace of God, being careful to eliminate all “roots of bitterness” and any hunger for revenge. However, by following popular Christian teaching all I have really managed to do is defer the bitterness and desire for revenge with the reasoning that God will grant me justice after death. I have imagined redemption in the form of my adversaries getting what is coming to them (assuming they remain evil and unrepentant until the point of death). This so-called redemptive reservation has been used to motivate forgiveness to those who find it difficult.

Of course the command to love ones enemies is also a “motivator” toward forgiveness. But I have been unable to escape how that love feels false, if not impossible in these circumstances. How can I love someone while simultaneously anticipating retribution in the form of their demise? If the justice of God comes primarily in the future sense as many pastors scholars and laymen indicate then this is my only choice. I must live in the tension of already loving and forgiving my enemies and not-yet witnessing the judgment to come to evil in the world.

This is where I draw the line. I cannot serve a god who demands that I love and forgive my enemies while, by the very nature of his so-called sovereignty, he is not held to the same standard. Am I supposed to somehow surpass his goodness and god-ness by loving those who wound me while he reserves judgment and punishment for those who do not repent and confess him? If I am to forgive for my own good, at the least to make myself forgivable, how is it he reserves forgiveness until confession and repentance take place? Is this just a divine privilege we don’t have access to? Is this reservation somehow part of the mystery of his love? I do not understand any longer how this portrayal of God’s heart holds any positive appeal.

However… if God’s heart is truly portrayed from the cross in the suffering, choking words, “Father forgive them, they know not what they do.”… if His heart is portrayed in a man pleading forgiveness for those who are unrepentant, actively mocking and gambling for his garments… if this is the example we are meant to follow, extending forgiveness even before the sacrifice has been made… then my objections are silenced. In this portrayal of God’s heart there is a radical redefinition of justice, one that exposes evil and violence by the absorption of it, rather than eventual retaliation in apocalyptic fashion.

This portrait of gods heart of forgiveness is an embodiment of love that evaporates my bitterness and inexplicably compels me to drop the weapons of self-protection I have been clinging to. When beholding love like this I am inspired to free myself of every hope for revenge. I want to follow Jesus into death, extending love and forgiveness to those who least deserve it and have not even asked for it – because he first showed me how.

But I cannot serve a god who demands that I love and forgive my enemies while he punishes his eternally. I am finding glimpses of hope that I don’t have to.

As I have encountered various portrayals of god put forth in the current theodicy of consensus, I find myself drawing more lines. I cannot serve a god who will go to any length of coercion and manipulation in order to elicit some form of love from his creation. I cannot serve a god who will then challenge or test that love through the sanctioning of evil and suffering inflicted on those he intends to win. I cannot serve a god who uses my life as a means to fill heavenly trophy cases in his triumph over evil.

Drawing lines in the sand feels like a scary thing to do, but I can’t seem to stop myself from doing it. I fear that I will be accused of attempting to put god in a different box. Or perhaps I would be called arrogant for insisting that there must be more to him than we see. More than what we have been conditioned to see.

Then again I wonder if I am not the first to draw lines in the sand. The religious leaders of Jesus time dangled a broken woman in front of him, daring him to contradict their so-called god of justice. But instead of following the neatly boxed rules of the god they thought they understood, he challenged them to absorb the violence they were ready to inflict, thereby encountering the true heart of God in revolutionary justice. Jesus bent down and drew lines in the sand. Through these actions he broke out of the box they had constructed for him, for God. Is it possible that the lines he drew confronted their arrogance in assuming they knew how God would act? Is it possible that the lines I am drawing do the same for me?

Perhaps these lines point to the heart of a god who refuses to engage according to the rules of evil any longer. A god who came in flesh to show us how to overcome evil and sin in ways that centuries of prophetic voices could not. Perhaps the heart of God is portrayed in one who has the authority to judge but chooses instead to love and forgive, saying, “Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.”

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Mississippi River Lines in the Sand (photo taken by me in 2012)

This is a God I can serve. This is a God I can follow. Nothing he asked me to do, he has not already done. I don’t have to spend my life waiting for the other shoe of retribution to drop, hoping it doesn’t crush me on the way down. The lines in the sand have fallen for me in pleasant places.