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?

Rumi-On-Silence

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.

Love That Will Not Let Me Go

11254053_10153406434689261_7435853901037485899_nThe view from my balcony at Chalet Bellevue

When you come to L’Abri there are 4 questions you’ll have to answer over and over:

  • Where are you from?
  • How did you hear about L’Abri?
  • How long will you be here?
  • Why are you here?

The first few are fairly innocuous, but you find out very quickly that there is an expectation of honesty if not outright vulnerability in your response to the latter. It’s rarely one-sided, and it feels safer to speak the truth when you’re not the only one doing it.

After 11 weeks here my response to the last question is well rehearsed. I spent nearly 10 years in a christian cult which I left 3 years ago. I may have prettied up my reasons for coming here in previous writing, but the truth is that I came to L’Abri to immerse myself in community after being alienated from it for several years; to intentionally learn to live with people again and prove to myself that they are safe. I wanted to find a sure foundation to stand on. Those goals are being met, but it doesn’t look the way I thought it would.

Sharing my reason for being here dozens of times has made me reflect a lot on my time with Oikos Ministries. I didn’t see it as a cult until my friends started to leave, 6 months after I did. One of them googled the word and the similarities to our church were eerie. No one wants to believe themselves or their friends and family are deluded enough to be in a cult.

It was the habit of the “apostles” to cyber-stalk people who left the church, looking for clues of their demise. The struggles they confessed in pastoral counseling were made public and any misfortune they experienced subsequently was credited to the fact that they walked away from Jesus; walked away from us, because we represented Jesus in the earth. Tongues were clicked when families experienced trial or tragedy, people divorced or jobs were lost. We shook our heads and said, “That’s what happens…” the implication being that your life would implode when you left our church, when you left the truth.

This practice made me supremely uncomfortable and increasingly mistrusting. I knew that my own online presence was under scrutiny. I analyzed everything I posted from 10 different angles before putting it online, so fearful of a confrontation. When the final confrontation came I expressed to the “apostles” my discomfort with how the stories of those who left were handled. I was told, “If they leave the church, they’re fair game*.” When I confessed that I didn’t feel I could trust them I was summarily dismissed and they moved on to address my sister.

I didn’t leave for another 2 months after that. I was so afraid of losing my family, all of my friends, my apartment with my sister. I was afraid of being struck down by the disciplinary hand of God. I’d seen families torn apart because the loyalty in them was split between church leaders and one another. I didn’t want to take anyone down with me and see my own family destroyed. So I walked out as quietly as I could, holding my breath and waiting for things to blow up in my face.

But they didn’t. At least not for several more months and by that time the explosions were controlled and deliberate. I got my own apartment for the first time. I got a promotion and a raise in my job. I was flourishing in every external way. Inside, I was falling apart and having a massive identity crisis. Nevertheless, I did not fulfill all of the prophecies of destruction spoken over dissenters. I still haven’t.

I’m sure my old church members would read this and think I’ve gone soft, cruising my way along the wide path of love and grace. They might have a point, but I don’t take it as an insult. I am softer.

Finding freedom for me was like walking on ice. With each careful step I let go of legalistic rules about daily bible reading, drinking alcohol, cussing, going to church every Sunday, “regular fellowship”. Is it any wonder that as I unburdened myself of these heavy things I found my weight on the ice still supported?

I thought by coming to L’Abri I would somehow find greater ease in restoring the so-called “Christian disciplines” to my life and thereby experience the love of God to a greater degree, one that is acceptable to all my Christian friends. But love does not come through rules. Love comes from people. The christian cult I was in taught that Gods love is conditional. My experience of His love proved otherwise quite some time ago but it is difficult to make my heart believe.

Here at L’Abri I have encountered love that is not contingent on conditions of success or failure. No one cares what my job was. I can’t earn my way into affections through favors or exchange. This love is not trying to correct my behavior or my theology. It isn’t concerned by the things I believe or scared of the stories I tell. This love sits next to me when I ask pain-filled questions that have no easy answers. It cries the tears I can’t and tells me I am loved until I start to believe it. This love shows me my worth and makes no demands.

Love that does not want to change me, has changed me forever.

In learning to be loved, I am set free to love others in the same way, without condition. My heart is opening up. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, and I don’t want to try.

I plan to spend another term at L’Abri next year. I want to study theodicy and keep asking questions about the nature of God. But when I return home for a few weeks this December, and even when I eventually leave L’Abri on a more permanent basis, it will be with the assurance of a love that has been made real through people – tangibly. Love that isn’t composed of fancy lighting, moving music, an emotional altar call and warm fuzzies. It’s real in shared wine and long conversations, freshly baked bread, kitchen crew choruses, cups of tea and mountain views, touch without fear, tears shed and belly laughs.

This is love that will not let me go. Not ever.

Oh love that will not let me go, I rest my weary soul in thee; I give thee back the life I owe that in thine ocean depths it’s flow, may richer, fuller be.

Oh joy that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to thee; I trace the rainbow through the rain and feel the promise is not vain that morn shall tearless be.

* I have a witness to this statement.

Finding my Hinds Feet – The Shore of Decision

I am sitting at a writing desk right now in a little closet office adjoining the guest room I am occupying for nearly two weeks. I’ve been here for three nights already and it’s only just starting to feel real. So I am here to tell the story of how I got here. Because our God is too faithful not to document His goodness.

Writing Nook

Just over six weeks ago I was riding down I-10 with my sister at midnight, listening to the latest album from Jonathan David and Melissa Helser. At the beginning of “Cageless Birds” Melissa recites a poem that grabbed my heart and would not let go.

Standing on the shore of decision

looking into the face of adventure

desire to abandon all I know

what pushes me is rooted somewhere between misunderstanding and knowing

knowing that what I want to understand is not within my reach

so I ponder my escape

not knowing what lies ahead

adventure in theory is full of excitement and bleeds with passion for life

but adventure in reality is full of breathless moments

silent nights, and wounds that leave scars of memory on a heart

can I go the distance?

can I give all my mind to get what the messenger is saying?

can I surrender my knowing?

will I survive the humility of ignorance to obtain a treasure that earthly gold cannot buy?

will I ask the question honestly

even if the answer convicts my soul and sends me to the land of repentance?

All of these thoughts flood my mind…

as I stand on the shore of choosing

in the distance of my wondering I see with clear eyes a flock of wild, beautiful birds

swooping in my direction

as if they see me and are coming for me

how strange it is that their eyes are full of clarity…

Song birds wake up

you’re not in your cage anymore

bound by your shame anymore

the walls that held you in prison

the gate is flung wide open

start singing, start singing, start singing, start singing

cageless birds

I’ve felt for several months like I am in a state of transition, but I wasn’t sure of the exact direction I was to go. All the doors I pushed on seemed firmly shut. I wasn’t sure what to do next, but the restlessness in me was relentless. That night on I-10 a moment of clarity came swiftly. I decided to try to apply for the Helser’s 18 Inch Journey program even though they’d stopped accepting applications months before. My age will disqualify me to apply next year and I at least had to ask if there was any shadow of possibility that would allow me to attend.

Unfortunately, the answer was no, the 18 Inch Journey was not accepting applications. But that moment of clarity was not fruitless. Asking the question was a proving ground, a test to determine if I would seriously consider leaving behind my comfortable life for a period of time before stepping into the next stage of my life, site unseen. There were other options.

I’d read about L’Abri several years ago from a blogger who attended. Studying theology in the shadow of the Swiss Alps seemed too far fetched a dream for anyone without a trust fund. But I visited the site again and after a few quick calculations realized that spending a couple of months there wasn’t as far out of my reach as I assumed. It was comparable to what I was prepared to spend with the 18 Inch Journey. So, after just a week of thinking about it and talking it out with my sister, I sent off an inquiry to L’Abri, just to see if they had a spot available for the dates I was considering. I didn’t want to dream or plan any further until I knew if it was possible. I didn’t want to want it too much.

And this is where the story gets more interesting. To be continued

Melting Steel Magnolias

There’s a magnolia tree I pass on my evening walks that you can smell from half a block away. The other night I tip-toed up to the low hanging branches to savor the fragrance. The leaves were heavy from afternoon thunderstorms. I pulled my phone out to take a picture of a saturated bloom, hunting for a postcard worthy image–the mascot of southern charm, a large blossom with curled ivory petals dusted by rain drops. But the only thing I could find were completely unfurled blooms, sagging and bruised under the weight of the rain.

Magnolia from my neighbors tree

Magnolia from my neighbor’s tree

I thought about those flowers for the rest of my walk. Magnolia trees are common here and several on my route are blooming now. None of the others smell as heavenly as that first tree, even with the humid summer air. The open blossoms set it apart, filling the air with its fragrance. By fully opening its petals the tree gained in attraction what it lost in beauty. Rather than just observe it from a distance I was drawn in by the intoxicating fragrance to bury my nose in the blooms and drink deeply.

If I were that tree, I would want steel magnolias, the picture of perpetual perfection. I could see myself telling the buds to stay closed, straining to keep my petals from unfurling too far. As a woman, the threat of fading beauty scares me. In the timeless words of Ms. Truvy, “Time marches on and eventually you realize it is marchin’ across your face.”  But that tree taught me something about surrender. It’s not afraid to trade one kind of beauty for another. It’s blooms fall open without fear that they will be the last. They offer their beauty and then their fragrance, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, because it is.

The word “open” has been a theme for me this week. In poetry, long phone calls, on my evening walks and in emails. I think it’s called “synchronicity” but I call it love notes from the Lover of my Soul. One of them came in an email from a friend with a Brene’ Brown quote.

“We cultivate love when we allow our most vulnerable and powerful selves to be seen and known, and when we honor the spiritual connection that grows from that offering with trust, respect, kindness and affection… true belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance.”

A magnolia tree convicted me to be open, vulnerable, seen and known. I hide the imperfect parts far too often from those who would most benefit from knowing I am human. Some might smile or click the “like” button from a distance when I share the lovely parts of my life, but the magnolia challenged me to melt the steel, and dare to let my imperfections be seen. It dared me to draw people in, to connect, to drink deeply together of the incense of openness.

The Rescuer

The Lord gave me this vision ten years ago. Over time it’s come to have much more meaning than it did when I first saw it, ministering to me in countless ways. Today I share it here, with the prayer that the Rescuer of our souls would visit you with healing in His wings.  

I was kneeling on my bed, my head curled to my knees, trembling. My arms were wrapped tightly across my chest as though that would ease the pain and protect me from further harm. Tears poured down my face while I gently cried from fear I couldn’t explain, and couldn’t get rid of.

Gradually, the room around me faded and I was transported to the edge of a small clearing surrounded by thick, dark woods. There was commotion in the center of the clearing. I heard loud shouting and evil laughter. I crept through the trees, closer to the clearing to get a better view. Creatures I could only describe as demons were huddled around something throwing stones and beating it. I looked closely to see who or what it was, gasping in astonishment when I recognized the object of their torture. It was me. I saw myself there, huddled with my face to the ground in the dirt, weeping. I had chains around my wrists and bloodied dirt all over the rags I wore. The demons surrounded me on every side kicking my figure in the dirt and screaming curses that only made me wither further. Watching from the perimeter, I was paralyzed. I willed my limbs to move. I prayed that the form in the dirt would rise up and fight back. But I didn’t move an inch. And my form in the dirt was nearing unconsciousness.

Suddenly, the sound of a great sword leaving its sheath split the air. The demons looked around for the source of the sound and in that moment a clear domed shield miraculously descended over my form in the dirt, deflecting their weapons and effectively shutting them out.

RohirrimAttackOrcsFangorn

In unison, an army on horseback emerged from the trees completely surrounding the clearing. With a great cry they descended on the camp, swords drawn. The startled demons scrambled for their weapons and began to defend themselves, leaving their prisoner forgotten. While everyone was engaged in combat the commander of the army came riding through the camp on a great horse. The pathway cleared by His warriors, He rode straight towards my limp body. He paused only a moment to secure me onto His horse, held in front of him between  his arms and the reigns. Without crossing swords with a single demon, He rode out of the clearing and back into the shelter of the woods. I was no longer watching from the outside. Somewhere along the way, I became the wounded version of myself. With the change in my surroundings I became more alert, triggering the instinct to fight or fly. I tried to wrench free from him with all the strength I could muster. I pleaded with him, “Please let me go! Where are you taking me? Let me go,” I sobbed, defeated and weak. There was no chance for escape. We rode swiftly through the woods and the noise of the battle quickly faded, but the commander never spoke a word.

He obviously knew the forest well, for it wasn’t long before we reached a well-lit cabin that had no obvious path leading to it. The horse came to a swift halt and my new captor swung from the saddle in one quick, efficient motion. There seemed to be urgency in his movements. The commander reached to lift me off of the horse and carry me inside. But I grew hysterical, screaming and shoving his hands away, “No! NO! Get away from me! Don’t touch me! Let me go! Please!” He simply looked into my eyes, his full of compassion, and held his arms up to me, without touching me. Looking back at his steady gaze, I calmed down. I knew I couldn’t jump from the horse, so I let him lower me from the high saddle.

In silence He carried me inside and lowered my weary body to a small bed in a corner of the warm, one room cabin. The commander seated himself on the edge of the bed. I wedged myself against the pillows in the corner, knowing that attempting to get past him would only cause further damage to the wounds that filled my consciousness with more pain every passing second.

Another man was in the cabin. He was older than the commander with white hair and beard, but the same gentle eyes that spoke to his son upon our entrance. The two obviously had a close bond for they did not seem to need words. I sat there trembling, fearing what they would do to me. The older man left the woodstove where he was pouring hot water into a basin with clean towels. He came to the bed, sat down and looking into my eyes, he pulled away the blood-drenched rags hanging from my frame that covered the deepest cuts. Slowly and gently he washed away the dried blood and dirt that covered my wounds. I cried out in pain and tried to pull free but the commander held me with steadying hands and spoke gently, trying to calm me. I was too weak to fight any longer so I leaned back, spent and exhausted. My tears finally subdued and I slept.

I woke to find all my wounds cleaned and bandaged. The chains were removed from my wrists. My rags were gone and I wore a clean, white robe. The old man approached the bed where his son supported my beaten body. He instructed that my wounds would have to be kept clean and re-bandaged. But this time there was no protest. I knew that I was safe. Safe in the arms of my rescuer.

For When You Feel Like a Mess

An open letter for all my single sisters… 

Dearheart,

I could’ve written your letter. In fact, I wrote another version of it a few years ago. It’s part of a collection I have to my some-day husband (which are now in line to be burned, but that’s another story). I know well the longing mixed with anxiety. You want companionship but you know the timing isn’t right. And in many ways that’s a healthy place to be. To be self-aware enough to recognize that you have some heart-healing to do is so, so good.

But may I tell you somethin’ you probably already know? There’s never going to be a time when you feel completely “ready” to fall in love. Husband or no husband, we may always feel like we’re a mess. It seems like the universal plight of women to perpetually feel as though we are not enough. So I’m gonna tell you somethin’ maybe you don’t know…

You. are. enough.

Right here. Right now. In this moment. There is nothing lacking in you. You are beautiful, whole, complete. Perfect. The one who formed you in the womb smiles on you. He loves you so completely just as you are. He is not withholding anything from you – not even a husband. Your single status is not a punishment for not desiring Him, serving Him, or loving Him – enough. The fact that you love Him is so evident! And guess what? He delights in your love! 

So rest in Him. Don’t worry that your desire for a husband is a betrayal of your desire for God. It’s not. God created you with that desire and to deny it would be to deny your humanity. If someone tries to tell you that you just need to lose yourself in Jesus before He will bring you a husband? Don’t listen. That’s an unsubstantiated load of crap. Yes, love Jesus. Yes, seek to serve Him. There’s nothing wrong with losing yourself in worship of Him. But He isn’t in the trading business and no amount of praying or reading your bible or church attendance will earn you bargaining chips. He’s a good Father who will withhold no good gift from you. The very nature of a gift is that it is given without expectation of return.

My advice? Start looking for the gifts. He gives them every day. It might take the form of a hug from a friend, a delicious thunderstorm, or the wind in your hair on a lonely country road. Every day, in these small ways, He is showering His love on you. He’s telling you that you are enough.

You are worthy of each gift simply because you are His.

#HowHeLovesMe

#HowHeLovesMe

And one day, who can say when, He may give you a husband. But it won’t be because you’ve earned it, or because you’re finally “ready” or because you’ve prayed enough or served enough and He’s gotten all He can out of your singleness. It will be simply because He loves you. No more or less than all the other days when He gave you sunsets, and snowflakes and stars. Just because you are His child.

It’s my prayer that the truth of His boundless love begins to heal your heart, the way it’s been healing mine.

All my love,

Rebekah Hope

I keep track of His everyday gifts to me with a hashtag on instagram – #HowHeLovesMe
Please follow me there, use the hashtag and share with me how you see His love?