How to Love the Black Sheep

     

 I have a cousin who has screwed-up big time, according to his relationships with our family members.  Making choices that are not wise, nor healthy, as well as detrimental, the closeness he once had no longer exists.  At least, for the moment.  I mention that, because as much as my cousin is running away from God and all that He may have for him, we pray that he will return.  But that return may be hard.  To say he screwed-up is only slightly an understatement.      I have since learned to tread lightly and make a point to not get into detailed conversations with my uncle on the subject of my cousin.  Frankly, my uncle (my cousin’s grandfather) has admitted that there is a wall.  “But the doorknob is on his side.” My uncle implores that he loves his grandson, but that he is a disappointment.  The wall can only be taken down by my cousin, and to set anything up, my cousin needs to set up the details.  My cousin is no longer welcome at the house, and no longer can ask for monetary support.  I know that my uncle loves the Lord, but the tone for which is used hinted at a sense of unforgiveness.  Was I just assuming?  Or was there a reason for such an extreme case of excommunication?     The worst that my cousin ever did to me was not talking with me for four years.  Actually, it was a miracle that I got to see him in August of this year, because I don’t think he would have contacted me, otherwise.  However, his offenses toward other family members are more substantial.  He has stolen.  Lied.  Been verbally abusive.  Not just with my aunt and uncle, but also with my cousin’s mother and sister, as well.  There is much strain.  And though sometimes I have questions (or news), I wonder if I should say anything at all.  I risk bringing anger forth.      My uncle last month noticed how uncomfortable I was about how he talked about my cousin.  (After all, he called him “a disappointment”.  A noun.  There’s the danger of an identity.  He refuses to welcome my cousin or shake his hand at church.)  In response, my uncle stated, “Shouldn’t I protect my family?  I hope when you are married, that your husband does the same thing for you.”     I was at a standstill.  I know that there must be boundaries when it comes to people with unhealthy behaviors.  However, to what extent do our boundaries just become armor for our unforgiveness?  In my own journey toward forgiveness, I found that distance was a huge indicator of unforgiveness.  And yet, I was not hurt by my cousin as my uncle had been.  But I couldn’t understand the hint of hostility (??) that I seemed to rise when my cousin came into the conversation.     Immediately, I was reminded of 1 Corinthians 5.  After talking with a mama from church for counsel, I studied the chapter.  Paul found himself needing to address the Corinthian church in the context of people in the church who habitually sinned.  Key verses that stood out to me were 1 Corinthians 5:5-7,11.  The text is as follows:

 

“You are to hand over this man to Satan for the destruction of his body, so that his spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord Jesus.  Your boasting [over the supposed spirituality of your church] is not good [indeed, it is vulgar and inappropriate].  Do you not know that [just] a little leaven ferments the whole batch [of dough, just as sin corrupts a person or an entire church]?  Clean out the whole leaven so that you may be a new batch, just as you are, still unleavened.  For Christ our Passover Lamb has been sacrificed...But actually, I have written to you not to associate with any so-called [Christian] brother if he is sexually immoral or greedy, or is an idolator [devoted to anything that takes the place of God], or is a reviler [who insults or slanders or otherwise verbally abuses others], or is a drunkard or a swindler - you must not so much as eat with another person (AMP translation).”

     According to this reference, my cousin is guilty of them all.  He has slept around, gotten drunk, swindled, verbally abusive, and therefore, also an idolator.  Much of the confusion that surrounds him is that back in high school, he had an “experience” of meeting Jesus.  He prayed the prayer; got saved, baptized.  He went to YWAM.  So, at what point did he turn from God?  (Or the thought that runs in my head - was he ever a son of God to begin with?)  Furthermore, being a grace-filled Body of Christ, aren’t we supposed to show compassion to my cousin - that in the efforts of showing goodness, my cousin would come to repentance?
    Nevertheless, through my study and communication with God, some things came to light.  My cousin has interacted with family members as an addict, not as himself.  Because of the abuse he has committed, they no longer can trust that my cousin is only the family member.  He has to prove himself trustworthy before being asked back into a place of hospitality.  My confliction of emotion is apparent that I have never been personally hurt by my cousin.  The hurt that my uncle feels is real, but I don’t share it, because I don’t share the experience. 
    The form of excommunication seems foreign to me, although it is a New Testament concept (there were forms of it in the Old Testament, as well).  Frankly, it is because I have never seen anyone do it, nor a church.  Most of the time, if someone is convicted of their sin, but becomes offensive, they do not have to wait to be kicked out.  They leave on their own.  However, there may be times when someone is boasting of their life and yet will need conviction.  I think this occurs on levels.  First, someone has their sin addressed.  Secondly, they may be removed from their position of leadership.  If there are areas of further injury or negative impact can be incurred, then removal of the person altogether may be required.
      While questioning the validity of excommunication...or rather, it was understanding excommunication in the context of my cousin, I tried to figure out where I should find myself in this.  Additionally, I found myself judging some of the members of my family who were doing the excommunicating.  If you had held boundaries and not given monetary support or a bed to someone whom you know is an addict, you wouldn’t have been burned.  And if you weren’t burned, you could love [my cousin] from a distance, and not be hurt.  I love my cousin very much.  We grew up together, but anyone who is related to an addict knows how dangerous it is to rescue them when they like the hell they are in.  I am not angry.  I’m not bitter.  For the betterment of the person, I will let Satan have at them so that they may repent sooner. 
    But that isn’t what some of my family members did.  They poured out assistance.  They opened their homes.  Gave cash.  Maybe it’s because they didn’t realize that my cousin is an addict. Or maybe they hoped their kindness would inspire my cousin to change. That is possible - and that is what was the key to helping me to stop judging.  (Moreover, judging doesn’t change the past and it certainly doesn’t bring a solution for which my cousin can truly benefit.)  I can make appropriate boundaries, because I see plainly the state of my cousin.  This may be another attribute to the different perspective and approach to my cousin.
      Where does this leave me?  How shall I love this black sheep cousin of mine?  First - realize that he needs Jesus more than anything.  I cannot be his savior.  Secondly, I do not need to have protective walls, as I have not had boundaries pushed.  It is okay for me to be more open but going into point three - I need to be fully aware of the situation and have boundaries.  For me, that means no bed and no cash for him.  Fourthly, be open with my cousin.  Just because he’s not in a good place doesn’t mean I have to hide my faith from him.  Fifth, pray for everyone in this family situation.  We all have a heart for my cousin to return.  We’re all trying to figure out how to do it best.
    Love is compassionate, but sometimes the most compassionate thing to do is to let someone feel the deepest depravity of their sin, so that they will no longer want it.  My grandfather’s generation called it “tough love”.  It is not heartless.  The sight is for long-term thriving rather than short-term pleasure.  I pray that my cousin may come to the Lord and change his life, sooner than later.

Lean In(to the Pain)

      Forgiveness is easy to preach.  It’s harder to live.  And when distance has amazingly protected the areas of the heart that were wounded years ago, one may question the need to get close to the flames that scorched.  So has been the case of my healing in this season.  God told me I was supposed to be in a season of rest and healing.  In my obedience, I moved back to my hometown, and for the first couple months, it was going well.  Spending time in God’s Word and studying what it meant to be a child of God was exactly what I needed.  But my aunt and uncle went to South Africa for a short-term mission trip, and since that moment, I have found that the form of rest is taking a different shape.     I never wanted to go back to Missoula, in the first place.  I settled in my heart that a season of rest was needed, but I begged God to allow me to move to another Rez.  Send me overseas.  Anywhere but Missoula.  And if I had to move to Missoula, I knew that the only place I could afford living was with my aunt and uncle.  This doesn’t sound so bad until one realizes that some of my childhood (and even adulthood) wounds came from them.  Leaning into the pain takes a whole new meaning.      As I mentioned before, things were going well the first couple of months.  I found that my aunt and I were talking in ways I could never talk with my mother.  I realized that our personalities are similar, and we try to be upfront about what we think.  It’s a positive attribute, but sometimes we can be a bit too bold.  Things were going good.     Nevertheless, when God has been pouring into you, it should never come as a surprise that things will happen to stir the water.  Call it an attack of the enemy or God purifying things - either way, sometimes the ugly comes to the surface when God’s been at work.  It started with the week of crazy - something intense occurred in my family and I had to make a decision that could mean life or death.  But I feared judgment from my aunt concerning how I addressed the circumstance.  Then came Halloween.  As I have gotten older, the comments from my aunt have generally ceased.  Except for one area.  My native people.  And on Halloween, she made another joke that was rooted in racism.     I found myself at a complexity.  On a spiritual plane, I knew that I could learn from my aunt, however, on a personal level, I experienced degradation.  What was this hypocrisy that I encountered?  How could a godly woman who stands firm on the Bible hurt me so much?  In processing her wounds (both past and present), I found that I had a soul tie.  Not all soul ties are romantic.  However, if one is guarded concerning how a person reacts and finds it extremely difficult to be transparent with them, it is probable there may be a soul tie.       The irony of the Halloween statement is that in response to her “joke”, I had an open reaction.  I turned around and whispered - but, apparently not so quietly, the essence of her joke.  I looked back, and she looked shocked.  She hasn’t told me, but something in me says she heard me.  This was the first time I actually addressed any of her wounds, directly.  Most of the time, I either became quiet or made a joke about it, myself.  But not this time.  I openly stated that her “joke” was not appropriate (“That’s not racist,” sarcastically).  But the fear came in immediately.  I thought I should prepare for a defense.  I wasn’t at all apologetic, as it was something that I believe needed to be addressed.  Nevertheless, I hesitated inwardly.  I didn’t want to go back to her place.  I thought about the idea of packing out and moving in with my parents.  They don’t have any room, but I could make it work.  I prepared for a detailed speech.     That soul tie was yanking my fear chain.  And at some level, I need to stop being afraid.     This doesn’t mean I don’t care about what people think, at all.  It is important to be humble enough to heed conviction.  But the fear I had was one that made me believe that my worth to my aunt was conditional, based on if I agreed with her 100%.  And obviously, that wasn’t the case.  Nevertheless the soul tie I needed to break with my aunt required forgiveness.  Forgiveness is a good message until an application comes up.  But in this comment, I knew that to break the subtle bitterness that could ensue, I needed to give this free gift.  I needed to completely pardon her.      She didn’t deserve it.  However, maybe she didn’t know that the things she said were inappropriate.  As much as she is a godly woman, maybe she, like myself, has blind spots.  I, too, am a repeat offender to God.  And I wish for forgiveness from Christ.  As Christian-cliché as it is to say, who am I to withhold what has been given me? Forgiveness doesn’t excuse the action.  God walked me through the grieving and the hurt.  “What did the joke communicate?”  Most offenses wouldn’t offend if the words themselves had not communicated something other.  In my case, the words communicated that my aunt didn’t care about me, or the people God put in my life to minister.      I saw areas of comparison and favoritism displayed in a simple sentence.  In a joke...that really wasn’t much of a joke to me.  Yet, holding on to the hurt was holding onto pride.  It was saying I was righteous in holding my grudge.  However, the process of forgiveness, for me, is to see that nobody is perfect, and where harm has been committed, lack of knowledge is prevailing.      So, after I grieved with God and understood why the words hurt so much, I was emotionally settled.  I knew I had forgiveness toward my aunt.  However, did I need to bring this up?  I waited a couple of days, and my aunt never mentioned anything.  I thought that I was good, therefore, I didn’t need to say something.  However, one of my unhealthy codependent habit was to feel the urge to bring up an offense only when I felt the sting.  But once I felt okay, I wouldn’t say anything.  Subsequently, I was set up to be hurt again, because the offender never came to the knowledge that what was done was hurtful.      It was more beneficial to be emotionally at peace and then bring up the concern.  Not to prove a point (as what would be the motive if I was emotionally charged), but to bring reconciliation.  I would bring up the wound in an effort to invite the person to right their wrong, and secondly, to allow for a deeper level of trust to result. It was three days after the offense happened, and I knew that I needed to say something.  The truth is, I wanted to be able to trust my aunt and be able to go to her, but this offense was the wall.  Furthermore, if I was scared of her reaction, then the negative soul tie that formed as a child would persist.     I had a short paragraph prepared.  I told my aunt how I felt, but I only got a couple sentences in.  There was nothing mentioned to make her feel like an idiot, though I informed her of the danger of her words and what they communicated.  She said that she wouldn’t make those comments again.  I told her I forgave her and loved her.  Nothing else was spoken.  And that night, we watched Big Bang Theory, as was our nightly tradition.      The soul tie is cracking, if not already completely broken. 

Woman Who Was Born Dead

      They say that once an individual suffers a stroke, it is an emergency.  “A typical patient loses 1.9 million neurons per minute after a stroke occurs.” (Stroke. 2006 Jan;37(1):263-6. doi: 10.1161/01.STR.0000196957.55928.ab. Epub 2005 Dec 8.)  That is millions.  Per minute.  What is incredible in all of my musings and writings concerning living with a disability, it has for the most part been in the context of how God hasn’t healed me, and moreover, the frustration with failed expectations.  However, when I took a trauma-informed class for my SPED endorsement, I realized that God was at work more than I first knew. I’ve always had a chip on my shoulder, living with a disability.  I never wanted to be short-changed concerning what I was capable of, so I pushed myself.  I pushed myself beyond expectation.  I pushed myself beyond my boundaries.  If there was a physical challenge, I stepped up.  If someone told me they thought I couldn’t do something, I made a point to prove them wrong.  Even if I failed, I had much rather show that I wasn’t one meant to stay on the bench.      Truth is...despite all my “exploits”, I still couldn’t shake off the anxiety that I was still the “handicapped” one of the group.  It would rise and fall with every challenge that revealed itself wanting of both sides of my body.  I played softball, and though I knew my team didn’t doubt how well of a player I could be, I wondered if the other teams would feel sorry for me.  When I dared to swim across open water independently, I worried my family (or at least, the adults.  I was seen as really cool by the kids).  I always wanted to summit mountains, but waited until I was 31 years old, because I was afraid that if I found a mountain too hard, then I would burden friends in assisting me to make the top.  When I lined up for the Spartan Race in 2018, I wondered how many murmurings I would receive for being one not “physically apt” for such a feat.     Some may comment on the actual physicality of certain things.  Maybe some of it is worth noting.  Nevertheless, the issue wasn’t really whether or not I could do something, but rather my approach to things.  Even in the situations where I was physically apt, I still had a mindset to prove to the individuals in front of me that I wasn’t lacking in my worth.  Living with a disability wasn’t a physical problem as it was an identity crisis.     I refused to join any kind of support that I could use.  I quit physical therapy, because it felt too much like a doctor’s office.  In college, as much as I had empathized with other disabled friends, I never joined their club, because I didn’t want to be one of them.  You know...The ones who are different, and whose worth is somehow diminished, because of what they couldn’t do.  Maybe it was my junior high experience of a PE who made me run when my right hip was extremely hurting.  When I got a doctor’s note saying to not push me, the teacher made me stop running altogether (the goal was to allow me to run until I knew my body couldn’t push any more, not to have me quit physical sports altogether…)  Whatever the reason, I grew up hating myself, and honestly, my body, because of the fear of what I could not do.  And I would be damned if I had to ask for help.     I hid my right arm from pictures.  I never showed my right foot which has a bunion, due to an imbalance in my step.  I hated videos, because I saw my limp gait and my limp fist. Furthermore, I found ways to strengthen my left side in such a way where it didn’t matter if I had my right side or not.  I used my teeth to open things.  Taught myself to type one-handed, as fast as any two-handed individual.  When I worked out, I only strengthened my left side.  Because if I could become the titan that I wanted to believe I was, then I was convinced that no one else could question my worth.     But I was still neurologically dead.  Okay.  Maybe not all of me.  However, I suffered a stroke before I was born (we don’t know when), and didn’t find out until after I was born.  So, we don’t know how long I went without treatment.  How many minutes I went without help.  How many millions of nerves died. Maybe I am slightly exaggerating (I hope not), but understanding how time and stroke work.  The atrophy my body endured was a sign that not everything was alright.  That being said,  I received speech therapy and can walk.  There was some level of rescue in my situation.      Nevertheless, going into my adulthood, I was stuck in my pride and offended, because God had not healed me.  Or so I thought.  By the time I was nearing my 30s, I loved the strength that I was exemplifying muscularly, however, I was greatly cognitive of the fact that the joints and tendons on the left side of my body were being stretched more than what may be healthy.  My left knee could get sore after an intense workout.  All these years of beefing up one side of my body left that one side in danger of being disabled itself, if I didn’t take any care.     The problem wasn’t the physical activities I participated in.  Rather, it was the absence of inviting the other side of my body to participate.  By the time I took my trauma-informed class, there was NO WAY anyone would catch me in a brace to help the weaker parts of me.  But what I read about neurology started my journey to soul healing.  One point nine million nerves die every minute.  The synapses are cut off.  Yet, if the body is treated, and put through therapy, the nerves can - wait for it, this is the actual neurological term - resurrect.     They can resurrect.  Raise from the dead.  What was once gone can come back again, if just given the chance.  And I failed to give my right body the chance to heal...to resurrect, because I let my worth be defined by my ability.  It took some time after taking the class, but slowly, I realized where God’s glory still could be manifested in my situation.     God was not absent in healing me.  The manner for which He chose to heal just wasn’t instant.  In today’s society, we want miracles.  The sign within the moment.  But often, God likes to weave His handwork in the subtleties of life.  He showed me in June of 2020 that I needed to let go of the pride of being strong.  I had to be honest where I was weak, in order for His strength to come through.  All the while I was on a track of disarming my body (pun may be intended) of what strength I needed, but God has challenged me that what strength I need to be equipped for the work that He gives me must include the parts of me that I had previously wanted to stay hidden and forgotten.    

Coming down a mountain I summited this year.
  Note the ankle brace I wore to support my balance.

  I eventually began wearing a hand brace.  I found that my right arm has some strength, but the wrist was weak and needed to be supported in order for my arm to be strengthened as it should.  I also began wearing a brace on my right ankle.  It is amazing what a resurrection can do.  Now, I can hold a bowl with my right hand.  I can open certain bags of chips.  (My fine motor skills are finally coming back!!!!)  I don’t have to resort to using my teeth all the time.  I can carry more on my right arm.  The muscle tone in my right biceps and triceps are growing.  My balance has improved, and the other day, I was even able to stand on my right tippy toes...even if it was just for two seconds.  It is more than zero.      Subsequently, I am learning to strengthen my entire body, and my left side isn’t as worn out as it might have been.  My entire body is being trained to be healthy and carry me through whatever the day may bring.  And yet, I would have missed it, if I remained stubborn that my identity was grounded in my ability.  There are moments I still am guarded (such as if there is mention that people with disabilities should be aborted or left out of activities), but I’m slowly learning to put my stake on what God has told me, rather than what people perceive me, or what I fear they may perceive.  God is active.  He still heals.  And He does it in such a way that will glorify Him most.     A little more than a week ago, I attended an Encounter Weekend.  A woman prayed for my right hand, and said, “Do not look at this as a hindrance.  May [you] not even notice when God heals you.”  I had to laugh to myself.  With all the grave digging that God has been doing in my neurological pathways, it wouldn’t surprise me if how my hand is opened little by little.  That no longer bothers me, though.  Seeing the gradual growth of what my right side is able to do...it’s almost like surprise Christmas gifts.

Whose Kingdom Being Built?

      As a 21 year veteran to the Christian faith, you would think I get this “building God’s kingdom” thing.  And if someone were to ask me if I had it down a few years ago, I would have agreed.  “Yeah, I know what it means to build God’s kingdom.”  But the funny thing about God is that as much as He looks at the efforts of the hands, He weighs the motives of the heart, more so.  So, within the last couple years, I have been forced to look at the mirror of my life and ask the question, “Why do I do what I do?”  Is it really for God?  I would often say so, but the truth of the matter is, there is a very real, selfish, and therefore, sinister reason.  I puff myself up.      I want the accolades.  I want the praise.  I want to know that I am making a positive impact in someone’s life. I want to know that I found worth in someone’s life.  I want to be the hero.      Wait.  But isn’t this supposed to be about Jesus?  Absolutely, yes.  Of course, I want people to be saved from their sins.  Of course, I want them to have a relationship with our Father in heaven.  But I also want it to be known that it was me who led them to Christ.  Sheesh.  The truth oozes with pride.  My very cursed pride (appropriate time for a specific cuss word?).  So, even though it’s by Jesus’ name, it is duly noted that it is my own kingdom that I seek to build.     It is no secret that I have struggled with self-esteem.  I’ve blogged about it before, but seeing it’s long-awaited result can make me sick concerning the reality of what might be.  As long as I have deemed it necessary to rebuttal the verbal or written attacks on my identity, I can only focus on my own worth, rather than on the worth of God.  And because I am guilty of seeking my own glory, I fail to glorify God.      I wonder how often I have shared a testimony, and it overemphasizes what I have done, but, “Oh Jesus stepped in at this one moment, and helped it along…”  Yeah, sure.  Honestly, it is very easy to forget to give any credit to Him at all.  Sheesh.  I’m not as clean as I think I am.  There really isn’t too much to wonder why there was a need for a season of rest.  How am I to share the love of God if all I am concerned about is how people care about me?      I can’t.  Luckily, I’m catching it now.  However, sooner or later, if undeterred, the motives of my heart would muddle the very notion of why ministry is conducted.  I would focus on works, again.  I would have a hopeful heart, at first, but burn out. My unconditional love would reveal itself to be conditional.  Friendships would be dependent, and not mutually caring.  I would get jealous if someone else received affirmation, whereas I hadn’t.  I know that this would happen, because it started happening.      Even before I officially moved into my season of rest, I began recognizing that something was amiss, and perhaps, I needed to step down from ministry.  Whether or not I was going to stay in Browning.  There are wounds in my heart that need to be healed; mindsets that need to be realigned with God’s Word.  There are lies about myself and my life that I have believed.  While buried under a rug, I had been proclaiming truths that I now wonder how deeply (or shallow, as the case may reveal) I honestly trusted and believed.     I am finding that in my wounds, I have sought for a safe place to share my faith.  I’ll be bold in my writings and among my friends, but ask me to talk to someone beyond my immediate circle; ask me to pray for healing; ask me to do something out of the ordinary, because God directed me to - I will refuse.  My boldness has waned.  And it’s because I’ve believed the lies of the enemy.  I have failed to be assured in my mind what my spirit knows to be true.     I have believed that I’m not worth anything.  I have believed that I’m someone’s second choice.  I have believed that God won’t answer prayer in a timely fashion.  I have believed that the results of a supernatural encounter are dependent on my ability and faith, not on the work of the Holy Spirit.  I have believed that I need to prove God real.  I have believed that salvation needs to look appetizing to the senses before Jesus can be shared.     The truth is, while I’m wanting people to accept Jesus, I’m REALLY wanting people to accept me.  Because I have feared my entire life that I wouldn’t be.  That I could be thrown away.  And being thrown away means more to me than if someone fails to have a relationship with Jesus, and subsequently, spends eternity in hell.  Sheesh.  Quite a narcissistic desire.  But it’s my kingdom I’m building.     Unless something changes.  And the truth is - I DO want it to change.  I want to stop worrying about what people think about me.  Furthermore, I want to know how to love God beyond what He can do for me.  The failure to chase after His heart is because there has been a desire in me for others to chase after mine.  I have become convinced of the world’s promises, and found where my convictions have been compromised.      It sucks.  All this time, I thought I was close to my heavenly Father and doing great things for Him, only to find out it wasn’t 100% for His glory.  What.  The.  Heck.  Was I thinking???  Didn’t I see how God wasn’t at the center of it all?  To say that I made some mistakes is an understatement.  There is some regret.      There is a part of me that wants to just jump back in the waters of ministry.  When can I go back to a reservation somewhere, or overseas?  Maybe I should get involved in the youth or children’s ministry here.  Yet, I’m hesitant to do so.  For good reason, too.  I have come to realize that I lost sight of my Father’s heart, and I want to get back.  And I want to go deeper.  I’m sure there is a danger to becoming comfortable spending extensive time with God on an almost daily basis.  But it would be far more dangerous to go back sharing the Word of God without His heart or His kingdom in mind.  As long as I’m afraid of what others think of me, I’ll be too dang focused on me, rather than on Him.  So, it is high time to till the soil, fix the broken things in me...but more importantly, fix my eyes on Jesus, lifting up His kingdom instead of my own.     He is to increase.  I am to decrease.     Let it be so.  

So, What's the Plan?

      I had a plan.  I knew what I was going to do come this Fall.  Or I thought I knew.  Making plans can be a funny thing, because sometimes things happen as one detail, but there are other times when what was envisioned is not so.  This Fall is one such instance when the plans I made fell through completely. I already knew the timeline for YWAM shifted.  But I was supposed to be going to Israel at the end of August.  Then that got delayed to the Spring.  It was confirmed that this is supposed to be a season of rest.  But what does that even mean?  I’m not working, and to the outsider’s mind, I’m just chilling and freeloading off my family.  This rest isn’t meant to be permanent, nevertheless, it is amazing how quickly the questions came as to what the plan is for me moving back to Missoula.     “Are you going to sub?”     “Are you going to teach at DeSmet? (We need tutors.)”     “What about Valley Christian?”     “Are you going to reapply to YWAM?  Maybe you should try another base.”      “You should go to Rhema.  I feel it in my spirit.”      “I heard you’re interested in YWAM.  Here’s a contact for Ronan.  They are looking for students.”     Are you, are you, are you?     You should, you should, you should…     It can be a bit maddening if I ponder on the expectations that I have felt inwardly pressured.  Truth is, however, no one is telling me I have to do something.  Most of the questions coming are from people whom I haven’t talked to in a long time, and so they see a new chapter and wonder what’s being written.  Nevertheless, when God has revealed to me in a number of ways that I should be sitting tight, it is anxious to see the open doors, when I have been directed to shut them, for the time being.     I grew up believing that if there is an open door, I should (there’s that word, again…) walk through it.  However, I am finding that when God gives a directive to stop doing, then open doors become a test. Am I going to listen to Him, or am I going to do what I want to do (which is being involved)?  Truth is - so much of my maturity in my faith has relied on what I do for God, more than in who I am.  And when I told God that I should be about my Father’s business, He then retorted, “What if being about My business is sitting at My feet?”     Dang.  There it is.  I’m so comfortable at being busy than being, in and of itself.  So, what’s the plan?  For now, just sit at His feet.  Learn to address the hidden things in my heart that I have learned to bury over the years.  Seek His face and His heart over my personal motivations.  The plan is to rest.      Rest seems lazy.  It can look immature.  But there is a purpose in it, when done right.  I’m not vegetating.  I’m addressing the things that for so long were neglected.  I, also, see areas where God is going to stretch me.  That is, if I am willing to follow through on the exercises that He gives me.  Rest is meant to be active, not dull.  But more on that for another time.     As for now, I see that there has been a reason for my plans falling through.  There is personal growth, but I have also been able to reconnect with family I haven’t seen in years; and am a needed help in other ways.  I don’t know what the plans will be come November or December.  Will this rest thing only be a couple months, or the length of the school year?  Only God knows.  But I am in no rush.  Maybe that’s a bad thing.  Although, maybe it isn’t.  Our society pressures us to have a plan and follow a timeclock for certain goals and events in life.  But God is the one who writes the story, ultimately.  Maybe...instead of writing my own script, it’s time to read His.

I Remember...9/11 (20th Anniversary)

    
  I remember 9/11...I was getting ready for school, and heading out to the bus stop.  As I was opening the door, my dad had just turned on the TV, and at the sight of emergency news, he said, “Oh ----!”  I didn’t know what happened, but I knew it was bad.  When I arrived at school, I learned about the World Trade Center, and it was the first time I heard of Al Qaeda.  I heard about the Pentagon.  I learned of Flight 98 and the heroic sacrifice those passengers made. In subsequent days, words of Muslim extremists, terrorism and Osama bin Laden became frequent.  I remember the religion of Islam no longer being mentioned as a religion of peace.  I also remember that the United States started banding together.  We started praying again.  On the news, I also remember hearing word that violent acts were being committed as a reaction to the loss of 3,000 lives.  Shops owned by American Muslims were vandalized.  President George W. Bush reminded the people that we are not to fight our own.  The terrorists were our enemy, and that is who we would fight.  I was warned that my classmates may fight in this war.  There was fear.  There was hurt.  There was hope.  There was unity. I also remember a thought that came along.  It became more prevalent to my heart, however, I wasn’t hearing anyone else utter the same conviction (until a couple years later).  Would it be...could it be...is it okay to ask God to pray for bin Laden’s salvation?  In a time of war, was it odd to pray that the enemy could find mercy long enough to come to know Jesus?  I knew that justice needed to be made.  I knew life-long imprisonment, in the least; death at most would be required.  But...could God hold off long enough to see our enemies become our brothers?  Even if only on a spiritual aspect.  But maybe I was just being naïve. After all, I was only an 11-year-old girl.

 

   I remember May 2, 2011… Well, the news came a day after, for us, Americans.  Osama bin Laden was found in Pakistan and the Navy Seal charged into his home, killing him and shooting one of his wives in the leg.  President Obama was announcing the victory we had wanted since September 11, 2001.  The man who supported the attack on America ten years prior was dead.  On Facebook, the newsfeed was filled with praises for the dead terrorist.  My heart felt a mixture of emotions.  On one hand, I knew there was a relief; a sense of justice was achieved.  However, my heart also felt heavy.  But why?  As an American, I should be happy. 
    Right?
    I asked God why I felt this heaviness.  His reply:  “I lost a son.”  In that moment, I remembered my prayer when I was a child.  I had wanted Osama bin Laden to meet Jesus on this side of death.  But he didn’t.  Now Osama bin Laden was burning in hell.  And that is for eternity.  How could I relish in his death when it meant that he would never get another chance to know God as a heavenly Father?  I could not.
   
Two blasts blew at the Kabul airport in Afghanistan on August 26, 2021...Thirteen US soldiers were killed, up to 90 other Afghan citizens were killed, and 120 others injured as there was a plan in place to evacuate American citizens and Afghan allies after the Taliban took over the governing forces in the country.  We had been fighting in a war for 20 years.  Even two weeks later, the news has ongoing updates on how there are still American citizens stranded in Afghanistan.  There is fear.  There is hurt.  There is not much hope or unity discussed.

    Actually, unity has been long since forgotten in America, it seems.  And though the 20th anniversary of 9/11 is up and coming, even the Kabul attack seems to be an event which is only further dividing us; not bringing us together.  Emotions are running high. 
    In all that has happened in America, and that continues to unfold nationally and internationally, I am hesitant to jump on the “hate the enemy” bandwagon.  I’m reminded of my 11-year-old self, and how I was praying for salvation, rather than revenge.  When President Biden addressed the nation, he stated one phrase that was repeated across the newscasters: “We will not forgive.  We will hunt you down.  We will make you pay.”  Politics aside (TV is full of opinions on the events of the world; this post is meant to mention something not being discussed publicly), I cannot agree with my president on the notion that I won’t forgive.
    I am not going to apologize.  But I am not going to allow hate to stir in my heart based on what happened in Afghanistan.  Does what happened hurt?  Of course.  Should something be done.  I wouldn’t doubt it.  My uncle and I had a conversation last week about this.  He believes the death of innocents is close to God’s heart and that there is such a thing as godly killing.  In this context, it is okay to respond and bring forth justice to stop evil.  Perhaps he is correct.  Killing may be required as a form of self-defense.  I know that in the Bible and in contemporary times, judgment has come upon those who have done evil. 
    There is the physical perspective.  But there is also the eternal perspective.  As an American, I am leery to relish in the destruction of men (and women) who are acting on terrorist means to obtain their end.  I do not want to even desire for the demise of the Taliban, ISIS-K, Al Qaeda, or any other Muslim terrorist organization.  Even if I have to physically defend myself, I do not want to resort to hatred.
    Because as a Christian, I cannot be mindful of the physical realm alone.  There is an eternal realm that we must be aware of.  There is an enemy greater than the ones we see in planes.  And there is a far more sobering reality than dying on a battlefield. 
    We are trying to fight something with artillery that can only be fought with ideology, furthermore, spiritually.  Let’s face it.  Even if you kill 100 Muslim extremists, 1,000 may still rise up.  Because they believe in the theology of jihad.  Of a holy war.  They won’t be deterred from their beliefs, as many Christians are not deterred despite persecution.
    To beat something spiritually, you must have spiritual weapons.  And the prime weapon is prayer. 
    I feel sad for our nation, but I also feel sorry for these jihadists.  They are ensued in a war to bring about a righteousness that they themselves cannot maintain (based on Letters from Osama bin Laden, a book I had to read for my terrorism class, this fight is over Israel (Muslims believe that Ishmael was the promised son of Abraham), oil (which the Western world loved to be involved in), and the sin tolerated in Western societies (which, maybe we Christians should be careful not to call sins vices or tolerate things unbiblical)).  According to Muslim law and tradition, they have to pray certain times of day, in a certain language (not every Muslim speaks Arabic), have certain cleansing rituals, and obligations to attend to in life.  Even then!  When they still adhere to all the requirements Allah dictated according to the Quran, Muslims are at the mercy of their god’s choice.

    They do not have an assurance of salvation.  Jihad and killing oneself for Allah is the only way they know they are in.  And even so, their heavenly reward is 70 virgins.  (What a reward!  I know of rock stars who have had that and more and still not fulfilled!) They don’t know their god personally.  They are still required to prove their goodness.
    But Isaiah tells the hard truth that all of us need to come to terms with.  Every ‘righteous’ act we attempt to do is as filthy rags (see Isaiah 64:6). The only way we can be cleaned of our nastiness and become righteous is through the sacrifice of Jesus.  He died while we were still sinners (Romans 5:5), took our sin upon Himself that we may take up the righteousness of God (2 Corinthians 5:21).  I don’t care what religious background you have.  None of us can make it to God with our own efforts.  That is why we need Jesus.  And until we give Him our hearts, we will continue to “earn” our goodness, and attempt to purge the world of any evil and bring a counterfeit justice in our own strength.  It is futile.
    So back to 9/11’s memory.  Back to the Muslim extremists that we are still guarded within our negotiations.  We may have to fight.  We may have to defend ourselves. Nevertheless, I choose to forgive.  I choose to not allow any terrorists to gain my hate.  And I choose to pray.  Because at the end of it all, I would much rather see brothers than enemies.  I want to see those whom I may not know their face or name be able to have a relationship with the One who has known their name and face before time itself. 
    Am I so naïve?

"Harmless" Daydreaming

I bet you wouldn’t guess that I could be guilty of this sin.  I grew up in the church. I’m pretty clean-cut.  Would you believe that I have broken the seventh commandment?  It says, “Do not commit adultery (see Exodus 20:14).”  I’m a clean-cut Christian.  So, I’m good...Right? But Jesus said, “You have heard it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery’; but I say to you that everyone who [so much as] looks at a woman with lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart (Matthew 5:27-28).” Wait.  So adultery encompasses more than having sex outside of marriage?  Maybe I’m not as pure as I thought when I attended college. My journey into the interest of a romance took a belated approach.  Boys as a desire didn’t get introduced until I was 15 (any desire for a boy was to beat him at a sport, until then).  And when I had my first major crush at 16 years old, I freaked out, because I was of the opinion that if I wasn’t old enough to marry, why date?  I told God to take away the desire.  Fast forward 15 years, and I am still single.  Not even one date.  It is easy to be sexually pure if I haven’t been in a relationship. However, the truth is, there is a desire for romance.  Has been so since I moved away from my parents the first time.  It still persists.  It becomes more pronounced the more lonely I’m feeling.  However, what I must come to terms with, as a Christian, is why am I okay with the areas or in the manner in which I blur the lines of sin?  I don’t have sex.  And I know that once I’m in a relationship, I will want boundaries. After God revealed to me in the most practical way what masturbation was, there was an immediate stop.  I want to glorify God in this desire.  At least, I think so.  I say I do.  But I am coming to realize there is so much of me that I want to esteem, that I have cleverly found ways in which I can “honor” God, and still allow myself to relish in the hopes for the romantic. I daydream.  Primarily when I’m going to bed or waking up.  It doesn’t happen all the time, but if a related topic, movie scene or short clip has come up, my mind starts running.  I begin to imagine a storyline - I’m the main female protagonist.  Of course.  The ways in which the story lines vary; most often a readaptation of other romantic stories I have encountered.  They are clean.  Of course.  And by clean, I mean that I make sure there aren’t any sex scenes (I know not to envision myself having sex with someone that isn’t my husband).  The couple at most is just laying next to each other.  Okay.  Honesty here.  They are spooning.  The couple is either married or the romance leads to marriage.  Bed scenes NEVER include a couple not married (although, there was that one story line where the couple accidentally fell asleep on a couch, talking late at night...does that count?).  Story lines usually include that the protagonists run into each other and have a common goal. This is a summary of the themes found in these daydreams.  On paper, they seem harmless.  After all, don’t women watch chick flicks to feel good?  What’s wrong with that?  What could be lustful about that?  This was a common question I have had to ask myself, especially in the last couple years.  What is lust?  If looking at a person is going to get me in trouble for adultery, how do I navigate this thing called romance in a godly fashion?  I came to realize one major distinction.  If I am attracted to someone for something that they exhibit, it is okay.  However, if my attention is drawn to him, for what he can do for me, then it is lust.  After all, lust is self-seeking.  Sex is in the context of marriage is a man and woman giving themselves to one another to become one; but sex outside of marriage is giving yourself under the guise to get something.  I may have never given myself to anyone, however, I have used my imagination to gain something that wasn’t mine to have.  I have found that I am using these daydreams, as well as fixated crushes (let’s call them as they are: infatuations with real men) to meet a need I have.  In the last seven months, God has revealed that one of the identities I hold onto is my sexuality.  I believe that I must be in a relationship to be convinced that I am loved.  Nevertheless, that is only the beginning of the lies in this identity.  I have also believed that if there are other women as a choice, I would not be picked.  This would explain why in my stories, my protagonist is the only primary female lead in the story.  I believe that a man would only be attracted for what I do.  This explains why there is a bigger purpose for which the couple is connected (such as saving kids, participating in government).

There is a rape theme present, as well.  I wonder if I believe that is the only way in which I would have sex.  As if - I wonder if I believed that a man who would willingly take me, wouldn’t do so honorably.  This is an awkward lie to believe, as I would be outraged if one of my teens ever believed in this.  However, there is an overarching concern for girls (going into womanhood): what makes me attractive, and what do I have to do to be noticed?  I have believed that I either will have to drag a man who wants nothing to do with Jesus, or the hope that my faith will be encouragement enough for him to walk with Christ.  The latter being the more preferred.  This would explain why in every single story line, the man starts off as a nonChristian, but by the end, does come to Jesus.  I know missionary dating doesn’t work.  I know that I want to walk with a godly man.  But there is this thing in my head that believes it isn’t possible. That’s what these daydreams point to, don’t they?  I have certain desires - concerning romance - but I don’t believe they are possible.  And because I believe they aren’t possible, I will do something to get as close to it...even if it is counterfeit.  Because, the truth is, I am loved, even as a single person.  Intimacy can be found in Christ.  Nevertheless, if I am fixated on how men - real or imagined - can feel my needs, I won’t seek after Jesus. Furthermore, this morning I realized that these daydreams are not only a form of adultery, but also idolatry.  Lust serves the self.  And if I am esteeming myself, I am not esteeming Christ.  And if I am not esteeming Christ; if I am drawing strength from or giving my strength to something other than Jesus, then it is an idol.  Maybe that’s why so many of the Old Testament prophets equated the idolatry of Israel to spiritual adultery.  Often, the two are one in the same. 
Still...I find myself falling into this sin.  I don’t want to be a person of lust, but I get caught when I’m thinking of a story.  No more stories?  Maybe.  But my mind sometimes wanders, and how to make it stop?  In Psalms 28:7, it discusses that the wicked are wiped away, because they don’t regard the Lord.  Maybe that’s key.  In the moments that my mind wants to stir up love before it’s appointed time, I need to start reminding myself that God loves me already.  I need to start esteeming who He is.  Maybe if I am satisfied completely in Him, I won’t find myself in want for a man.  Real or imagined.