A Good Father Can Still Wound

      I know that I grew up with a good father.  Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but there wasn’t much to complain about.  I know that in my adulthood, emotional maturity has been stunted.  A sort of codependency that fails to rid itself.  Being attracted to men who really aren’t good for me.  It wasn’t until recently that I realized that what minor wounds from my dad I carried actually connected with my inability to be a healthy adult.  I had always put the fault of my past pains onto my mother and aunt.  They did things that actively hurt me.  But a passivity to act can wound just as much as an intentional arrow.  I’m finding I’ve been a victim of such hurt.     My father loved me.  He cherished me.  But he also had moments where he was silent.  When there was a family crisis, he often became absent.  Scared that his own rage may make the situation worse, he would walk out or drive off.  From his perspective, he was probably just trying to cool down steam, so he wouldn’t make the situation worse.  But from a daughter’s perspective, I often felt that I had emotional issues that were too much for him to handle.     My father was always your go-to fix it kind of man.  If there was a problem, he stepped up to find a viable solution.  But then, if the problem was unsolvable, or if a plan had to change, or someone disagreed with how it should be dealt with, then my father would become firmly agitated.  There was a hint of control, and it wasn’t okay unless we stuck to the plan.  Unfortunately, the world often doesn’t abide by our script.  It was hard for him to be flexible.     My father has been an example to me of living a real walk with Jesus.  He is down to earth but trusts God with all his heart.  He has been reading his Bible daily and is bolder about stepping up to pray for people’s situations when things arise.  I have always admired that he can share godly wisdom in a way that can be swallowed in a bar.  In some respects, I aim to be like him.  However, he didn’t always have this spiritual strength (and what strength he does have, sometimes, I’ve sensed a hint of straining, like he is trying to conjure something in his own ability).     Growing up, I was the head of the house.  I was the spiritual rock.  If there were biblical questions, my parents turned to me.  If my parents had concerns about raising kids, my father turned to me.  If my parents were fighting, they used me as a messenger between them.  Communication has never been a strong suit.  During high school, it became aptly clear that while I had my own emotional burdens, I couldn’t fully express them aloud; furthermore, I had to shoulder the rest of my family’s weight.  When my father was emotionally pressed, he would turn to me for comfort, not my mother.     My father was good at speaking wisdom.  There were many things concerning the secular parts of life that I could - and still- go to him for.  However, when it came to confrontation, he was quiet.  I have written about the words that were spoken to me by family members that had driven daggers into my heart.  I have failed to mention that my father (and my mother) never put a stop to it.  Maybe I didn’t say anything.  But I think I mentioned it here and there.  They didn’t tell them to stop.  They didn’t speak to my identity and worth in Christ, so I was left wandering in church legalism, wondering what God really wanted of me.     As I have become an adult, there were several negative effects.  My own speech was silenced.  I became a mumbler when there was anger in a conversation.  I lacked confidence that I could share my opinion.  And if I did become confident, and was angry, my words had a bite.  I have become easily defensive; if I was not spoken to or listened to, rage filled me to the point of violence.     I have felt a pressure to have all the answers for people.  I didn’t allow myself to not have a comment or solution, while in public.  And although I have had my own wrestlings concerning faith, I have failed to allow people to sit in silence so they can ponder on questions and come to their own answers.  I don’t let others struggle, and my instinct to jump up and help is an effort to take care of people.  I hide my own vulnerability, because I have believed it was selfish to be in need.  After all, I have believed that others can’t take care of me.     When it comes to romantic desires, I admit that I have fallen.  Maybe not physically, but certainly in the mind.  There is an ache in my heart that I just want to know I can have a safe place to be comforted, listened to, walked with, and protected.  So, I have imagined myself as a protagonist who finds a man who does all those things.  However, the catch is the man is often someone who doesn’t initially believe in Jesus, so the protagonist (me) has to encourage the man to love Jesus.  Why the elaborate scheme?  Because, having to bear the brunt of the spiritual weight growing up, I also have believed that no godly, healthy man would actually want me.  The only man that could possibly be interested in me is one I’m going to have to carry in faith.     There is a part of me that is bleeding out.  I know I need to grieve the reality of my pain.  But I also know I can’t stay wallowing.  I know that because of having been hurt, I too, have sinned.  Repentance and redemption are needed.  My heart still begs the question, “Who can I go to?”  I’m so used to taking care of things myself.  I don’t trust well, even though I know I have another Father who is actually perfect in every way.     I know that I need to go to Him.  He is a Father who won’t run away when the storm inside me refuses to be quenched.  He can comfort me.  I can depend on Him (if I would just allow myself to).  He won’t allow me to stay in my atrophied state; He will stretch me, encourage me, and will give me the words to speak.  I don’t have to remain voiceless.  Now if I could just learn that I can go to Him, instead of trying to carry everything. 

Irony of the Testimony

The power of the testimony is that I can declare Jesus’ work in my life in a very tangible way.  Growing up, I was told no one can refute my testimony.  There was power in it.  Over the years, I have seen how God has moved in this way or another.  And as a believer in Jesus, I wanted to share these stories in the hope that people will come to know Jesus.  That’s why I write my blogs.  That’s why I’ll tell stories to “random” strangers and friends.  That’s why I got the tattoo on my wrist.     I wanted to share how Jesus got me through depression, self-harm, and past suicidal idealizations.  Oh, what amazing freedom!  That is…until moments come reminding me that I have a past that periodically haunts my present.  Looking at my wrist, I remember how God got me through.  But I also carry the shame that my reality sometimes rears an ugly monster in secret.     “Should I even have gotten this tattoo,” I ask myself.  Why say Jesus has freed me if I still find myself falling into depression?  Why say I have been delivered when I had those familiar thoughts of death in the moments I make a mistake?  Why even think I am capable of leading others to Christ if my journal carries scars from tempers as well as my head is marked by hidden bruises that I forced upon my cranium in a frustrated response to the world?  I look at my tattoo- a ministry tool - and see a hypocrite instead.  The irony of a testimony is the pressure to never fail again.  If freed from oppression, then I should never struggle with the old things ever again.  Or so I tell myself.     It’s not like it happens all the time.  It’s not like there hasn’t been any growth since I was a teenager.  It’s just that there are certain things that make me regress, and I didn’t know it was an issue until the violent outburst was uncovered.  And the paradox of all of this is, even after the moment, I’m still at a loss as to why I react in such a manner, and I don’t know how to change; how to react to stress appropriately.  It’s like an instinctive response to become rageful.     I always felt like I understood the likes of Peter and Elijah.  Perhaps, because even in their anger and depression, God still used them.  Maybe that’s the true irony of a testimony.  It’s never done just because a chapter has been written.  We aren’t fallen humans, who when saved, become perfect beings.  The old adage, “Only by the grace of God, I am what I am” is still relevant.  The more I walk with Jesus, the more I realize how much I need Him.  I fall and I fall hard.  But Jesus is still carrying me through.     This doesn’t relieve me of accountability for my heart or my actions.  I know I still need freedom beyond what has been gained.  What line is to be drawn concerning continuing to minister through my brokenness, and when is it time to step down to get deep heart wounds healed?  Honestly, I don’t know, because my mind is so wrapped up in perfectionism.  I inherently believe I should retract myself from God using me until I have no issues whatsoever.  Yet, even that mentality is rooted in works, not grace.  Even as I write, the pain of my secret being known scares the heck out of me.  Will I be condemned for what I confess?     I don’t want to play the victim, but I also know I can’t walk this alone.  I may need friends to walk with me through this.  Nevertheless, the hope I have is Jesus willing to keep walking with me even when I fall.  When my heart has become a wretched mess once again, He picks me up, cleans me, and carries me onward.  Even in this hypocritical state, I’m not done.  He won’t let me be done.  His grace day by day, moment by moment is at work in my life.  In my successes; in my failures.  When I gain the victory and when I lose it all.  In my strengths and while I’m weak, His grace is doing its work.  That’s the testimony. 

Objectified Even in the Church

      “There are four girlish dreams that most girls have when they are little,” wrote Beth Moore in the Breaking Free Bible study I’m working through with my mentor. “They are: to be a bride, to be beautiful, to have children, and to have a happily ever after.”  And just with that statement, all the healing I gained up until now suddenly was lost.  Not again.  What is it with church women saying that girls want to be married and have kids?  Is that still the expectation?  Frankly, I am OVER it.  Among the Christian community, we constantly put out information about how the world is sexualizing our children, objectifying our girls and women with provocative clothing - and I would agree.  Nevertheless, from my observation and experience, I have found that the church wants to point fingers at the world, but frankly, we have committed the same error.     Beauty.  Things are changing now.  The focus is now on being healthy, not skinny.  But it hasn’t always been that way.  Since Twiggy broke the cover of modeling, skinny became the standard.  I remember growing up - I always met that standard.  “You’re skinny,” as if it was a compliment.  “You got a great figure.  You could wear a two-piece swimsuit if you wanted.”  Christian family members were telling me these things.  Maybe I did grow up in a legalistic environment, but I was taught that my body was precious, and it was important to guard it and not just let anyone have a gander at my beauty in its full display.  So, why all of a sudden is the message okay for me to show more?  “You have great legs.  You can show them off.”     Yeah…my dad didn’t earn any points when he said that to me.  Most dads are telling their daughters to stay covered up.  They dread the day their little girls mature, knowing they will catch the eye of the male species and no longer will need them (just kidding on the species comment).  They employ the assistance of brothers to spy and protect the innocence of their girls.  So, being told that it was okay for me to show myself off - especially a component of my body that keeps a man’s gaze downward doesn’t seem uplifting.      And I get it!  All these people were trying to say was that I look great.  But, why didn’t they just say so?  Why was the size of my waist commented on more than just complimented on that I am beautiful.  My mother has told me that she has told me I look gorgeous and beautiful; I just don’t remember.  And frankly, maybe she’s right.  But this is something I can say with confidence (though that would be an awkward description to use in light of the topic being written): I was told I was skinny more than I was told I was beautiful.  And thereby, led into a continuing pressure to stay skinny, or else…Or else, I believed, I would cease to be beautiful.  Beauty was not explored so much about my character or personality.  It was substantiated by the form of my body and by what I wore.  It was also defined by what I did or refrained from doing.     I believe the church culture has idolized marriage.  It has claimed that there is a purpose to every season of life, but then single adults are continually asked if they have met someone.  Ironically, there is an expectation that singleness is just for a season.  As if it will be temporary.  And if someone is still single, then they are looked at as not moving along in life, or able to step into the callings of God sufficiently until they get a life-long partner.     From a woman's perspective, the requirements become more narrow.  Ministries cater to wives and mothers.  It’s not just enough to be a wife.  I have to be attractive.  Wearing dresses will show my femininity more so.  If I want to impress a man, helping on a construction site isn’t the way to go; I should cook a fancy meal.  Cause, that’s the way to win a man’s heart!     Please.  Don’t make me gag.     Oh wait.  I’ve been holding my indigestion from this mess.  That’s why I’m writing about it.     Sure, being objectified in the church doesn’t look exactly like the world’s manifestation.  No pastor would advocate that women should suddenly start stripping completely in the name of finding one’s confidence (at least, I sure hope not).  But there is an expectation of how a godly woman should look and behave, to be considered blessed, and be able to bless others.  A wife and mother.     Right…those are two of the four girlish dreams girls have.  So, what happens if a girl didn’t grow up wanting to be either of those things?  Was she lacking something?  Is she being selfish?  Instead of begging me to get hitched, why don’t I try having healthy friendships instead?  Instead of reminding me about my biological clock, why not equip me to step confidently in the spheres of influence that God does have for me, in my life at this moment?     Because…if I’m supposed to be a wife and mother- and if, by remaining single and failing to do “elegant” things is holding me back from my purpose, then I think I’m in trouble.  And yet, there is something in me that tells me that the objectification in church is just as damaging as the sexualization of Hollywood.     I have believed that I am not feminine enough.  In the world of gender confusion, I have found myself confused on my worth and dignity as a woman, even as a Christian.  I have believed that no godly man would ever really want me, if they got to know me.  “I would be too much like a man for him.”  The alternative is not helpful.  What attention I did receive from men was majority negative.     In high school, a boy wanted to date me, and he had a fetish with porn and death.  When I was 26 years old, an unknown man messaged me on social media, asking if he could have sex with me, video it, and he would pay me $100 for it.  The irony is that I seem to get along with guys just fine - I actually seem to make more male friends than female - but in the sphere of romance, even if I thought a man was cute, I would double check myself, because I wonder if the guy is just a pig, anyway.  And if he wasn’t…he would find out that I’m not his kind of girl, because…well, I don’t fit the image the church has declared to be fitting of a woman.     What does it mean to be a woman, beyond that of my XX chromosomes?  I don’t think it’s limited to my marital status or lineage, but it’s also not about exhibiting my body in its full glory.  In my searching, I have found some Christians say there really isn’t much of a difference between masculinity and femininity.  That actually doesn’t help, because although I know there is a spectrum, I also know there is a division between the male and female.     Yesterday, my internship had a class with Niko Kapoor**, a pastor from Edinburgh, Scotland.  We looked at the biblical definitions of masculinity and femininity from the perspective of Genesis 1-3.  Niko pointed out that gender is more than skin deep or wearing clothes: “You were told that you needed to wear more dresses, but if a man wears a dress, it doesn’t make him a woman. So, gender is more than what you wear.”  The following details this discussion:

Worldly Masculinity	Worldly Femininity	Biblical Masculinity	Biblical Femininity
Pay (material worth) Power (societal worth) Physicality (physical strength)	Liberty (sexual freedom) Independence (overcoming patriarchy) Recognition (shifting power)	Precedence (going before and looking after) Provision Protection	Complimentary Nurture Beauty ~The biblical perspective of masc. and feminine. is done through submitting to model of servanthood, love, and courage displayed wholly and perfectly in Christ.

I couldn’t believe the freedom I was gaining just from a 2.5 hour class!  I finally had a definition of femininity - that wasn’t built on what kind of object I could become, but rather on the design God has for me, since the moment of creation.  There was direction, but it wasn’t limited.  As a woman, I can join what work God is commissioning.  I can nurture relationships with friends, students, and other people I meet.  I can bring beauty through my writing and photography.  There was no explicit statement that to be a godly woman I had to wear tons of dresses, measure my waistline or prove to be the perfect housewife.  The only object I have to become more like is in the image of the Father who made me.  I do hold a femininity that can glorify God, but it is not like other women around me. 
      After all, not every woman has the same calling, nor will minister to the same kinds of people.  Just as with men, God has designed each woman for a specific purpose that they only can fill.  If we were all the same, then only certain groups would be reached with the gospel.  The differences in our character, personality, and the spectrum of our femininity allows for our work, as women, to flourish in different parts of the world, so that the beauty of Jesus can be nurtured in the hearts of everyone.  It wasn’t good for man to be alone; somehow, I have a feeling that it is okay that we have our differences, as women.  It is more than okay.  It is good. **Niko Kapoour, Purposed Zoom Class. June 8, 2023.

What Mercy to be Gained

Your mercy birthed
Compassion
The moment You saw me.
How great the chasm
Of Your love;
I fail to fathom its depth.

The intricacies of Your work
Subtle yet divinely glorious.
Why do You call me as Your own;
Why when I am clothed
In wretched rags, You still say
I am Your beloved?
Your mercy knows no boundaries
As it is woven within grace and love.

My guilt was enough
To put me on the cross.
Yet, You denied me
To receive the consequence
For the recompense
Of this just cause;
Casting down Your head
As a goat readied for the slaughter.

I thought I was better 
Than Barabbas.  Now only mortified
To find his reflection
In my mirror.
He walked away in his sin,
And You died in his stead.
It was in Your death
I no longer am covered
In the blood of my shame.

Your mercy implores
My heart to know the One
Maimed on my behalf;
The One who gave to
The thief who stole from Christ.
The Offended saw the criminal
As a victim of their own fleshly demise.

How can I refuse 
Such a love
That calls me by a new name?
In repentance, I am not cast out
Because of my past,
But seated at the table
For now who I am and remain,
With a Father whose love
Birthed a mercy
Strong enough to move
The hardest of hearts
Such as mine.

Hillyard: The Next Chapter

     Two years since moving the Rez, I held onto this hope that I would be going back after my internship.  I helped out at my Spokane church, but if I was completely honest, I held my heart off, so that I wouldn’t become too attached.  I didn’t want to break any hearts if I was going to leave after the post-season closure.  After all, I was planning to go back to the Rez.  I didn’t know if that meant going back to the same reservation, but I at least wanted to go back to my Native people.     However, since my trip to Mexico in February, I have seen a shift in direction.  While in Mexico, I was reminded that there have been dreams from when I was a teenager that I have since laid dormant in the meantime.  I knew at that time; I would be traveling over the course of my life.  However, since living with my Blackfeet family, I wanted to stay there for the remainder of my life.  This internship was supposed to be just a season.  But it’s not looking like that.     Recently, the Regions Beyond church network had a conference.  I was planning on receiving a prophetic word to “thus saith the Lord'' what should be the next stage of my life.  Ironically, there weren’t many opportunities for me to receive prayer, and I received one word.  “I hear the word committed.  You will take a step and know which direction to go.”  Well, sheesh!  That wasn’t helpful at all!  Actually, it was.  Because the Sunday before the conference, during worship, I felt the Holy Spirit say, “Stay in Hillyard.  Be prepared to be sent out.”  There was a lack of fight in me, when I received the word.  It was a sense of, “Okay.”     This means one major thing.  A letting go of a requirement to move back to the Rez.  It may mean years before I come back or visit, and there is a question of will I come back at all?  If I will be moving to different places, this could mean overseas.  It means not being able to see friends as often as I used to.  However, what this doesn’t mean is a forsaking of my Native family.  The years I spent with them has changed me forever.  And whenever I hear news of what’s happening, I know I will continue to have a passion for what Jesus wants to do in their lives.  I will cry when they are broken; I will cheer when they have praise reports.  Though I am moving onto a new thing, I am not forgetting them.     Since I have moved, I have also seen a miracle beginning to form with my Native family.  In the place of my departure, I have witnessed Natives stepping up and into positions of influence, changing the atmosphere.  There are things being accomplished, that while I was on the Rez, I was unable to do, because of the condition of my own broken heart.  I LOVE that God is healing my Native people…and this is only the beginning.  I can’t wait to see what is in store! (Even at this moment, one of my Blackfeet sisters is on a mission trip to another country. Natives are being sent out, when for decades, they were the mission field!)     Moreover, staying in Hillyard means that this neighborhood is now my neighborhood.  Hillyard has had a reputation of being one of the worst neighborhoods in Spokane, but when I look and walk around… I see a beauty.  This neighborhood isn’t a project.  This is now my community.  A present question: “Can anything good come out of Hillyard?”  The same question was asked about Nazareth when Jesus was becoming public.   My strut has changed when walking the various streets that make-up the neighborhood.     I know what people may think.  “Laura, you’re crazy.  Why would you stay there?”  And the honest answer is: because, there is a people in this district that Jesus loves and wants to reach.  There is a treasure worth chasing, and there is a Treasure inside of me worth sharing.  This sort of decision shouldn’t be so surprising.  Ever since I was in high school, I was kind of “ruined” to want to go to the forsaken places.      While I was a teen, many friends wanted to go to China and Africa (mind you, there are people who are INDEED called there, and should prepare to minister there), but I had compassion for a different group of people.  “God, give me the forgotten ones.  Give me the ones that nobody wants.”  While on mission trips, my youth pastor stretched us to see beyond the immediate feel-good sentiment that usually occurs.  While in New Orleans (after Hurricane Katrina), we learned to work beside hurting people wherever needed.  We also learned to talk to strangers (uh oh - trouble already brewing…).  While in San Francisco, we did ministry down the Tenderloin (i.e. the Red Light district), giving blankets to the homeless and praying for the city.  While in Portland, we learned to see the face of a homeless individual before smelling their clothes.  We even had lunch with them!  My youth pastor taught us how to value every person that was in front of us, no matter the background, because Jesus loves them too.  Is it any wonder why I would intentionally want to be in Hillyard?  Looking at my history - both in high school and while living on the Rez, it shouldn’t be too hard to guess. 
My church is at the corner of Queens and Market.  Across the street is a new bar; next to us, attached to an apartment building is a tattoo parlor with sometimes a peculiar smell coming through the doors and interesting art designs on their windows.  Our neighbors are small business owners, as well as friends who camp in the alley way.  We have a Marshallese church and an Irish dance class meeting in our building.  Walking across the Hillyard neighborhood complex, there is a wide variety of homes and families.  There is a school and plenty of children.  The population is multi-ethnic, multicultural, and the backgrounds in families vary, as much as the eclectic demographic of our own church Family.     And I absolutely love it!     I know what people may say, and yet, on some level, I don’t care.  Because I see a people worth loving.  And when that is acknowledged, what else can be said?  I know it won’t always be easy.  In fact, on a most recent prayer walk, I heard three sirens in an hour.  A familiar pain.  It was a reminder, “Hey, heads up.  Know what you’re signing up for.”  And yet, when God tells us to plant somewhere, I think that we can trust Him to care for the needs while we make ourselves available.  My local pastor brought up this note: “We are inexhaustible until God tells us otherwise.”  He is in control and will have us work for how long He means for us to be active.  This isn’t a disregard of safety or pain.  But I am learning, in the duration of my internship, that while counting the cost, I can say that in spite of what may come, it is still ALL worth it.  These people are worth it.  (Jesus thought so.)     I don’t know how long I will be in Hillyard.  It could be a short stay, or longer.  But at this moment, this neighborhood is going to be my home.  As for the preparation, I don’t know what I will be getting prepared for.  It may be back to the Rez; and if so, it may be in Montana or Washington.  But it could be for something else.  It could be a different state, a different church plant, or even overseas.  At this moment, I’m not concerning myself with that.  What I am focusing on is learning how to love the ones in front of me, for this chapter of my life, instead of yearning for another group from or for another season. What I am learning is how to be enraptured by my Savior, develop a heart that imitates God’s passion, and stir up the gifts He has put inside me to benefit the people and Family I am with. God’s story continues to be written; and it’s time to read what He has planned.  Here’s to the next turn of the page. 

We Worship Ourselves

We worship ourselves,
Though it is You
Who is sovereign;
Has everything in control.

We worship ourselves.
We seek to earn a place with You
But You are the One
Who extends Himself to us first.

We worship ourselves.
Searching for You as our comfort
When idols cease to satisfy.
We drink of Your water
Just enough to get us back
To the poisons that slowly
Deplete our souls without our knowing.

You are Lord
And everlasting.
Your existence is more 
Than I can fathom.
Can I rightly describe
The measure of Your majesty?

All I know is when I am before
You, a shift in the atmosphere 
Stirs inside my heart.
I lose the eloquent words;
My legs forget their strength.
What gifts I inherited 
Bow before the One 
Who bestowed them.

Maybe I fail to utter who You are, 
For my eyes have sought for my sake.
I admit
I can worship myself.

Bring me into the room
That I may know my First Love
Again.  Might I be enraptured
By your presence, obsessed
With the One who deserves all the praise.

Death Stirs Anger

I found out that a friend from church passed away yesterday.  Either in her late 60s to mid 70s, she had been fighting cancer for a while.  It even seemed like she was on the mend.  She recently had surgery to take out the cancer.  They thought they got it all.  But the cancer came back.  Aggressively.  Stage four.  I know she knew Jesus, so that should be a comfort to my heart.  But even after the reminder from my pastor, my tears dripped along my cheek, while my heart’s beat increased in its pulse.  I wasn’t just sad that a friend (not just a distant elder in my church) passed away.  I was angry.     Alone in my bedroom, I asked a question that most reverent worshippers wouldn’t dare, for fear that they are overstepping the sovereignty of their God: “Daddy, why didn’t you give her a miracle?”  I realize that healing is not always on this side of heaven, but…but when you have been to as many funerals as I have; when you have buried as many individuals who died in the prime of their lives; when the word cancer riddled your heart as a teen; even though knowing Jesus conquered death, there are moments that death still seems to have the victory.  “Daddy, why didn’t you give her a miracle?  Why didn’t you heal her?  Why did you have me pray with her for healing last fall, if she was going to die, anyway?”  There has been confusion with my sorrow.     In the past, I have been ashamed of the emotions I have felt in response to things that have happened. I have felt guilty for feeling sad over a Christian dying.  After all, if they are in heaven, shouldn’t I be in celebration for them being in the place where we would all want to be?  This morning, I was thankful that I found God didn’t tell me that I should stick with my Bible reading plan.  He didn’t deny me to process hidden emotions; rather, He welcomed the confrontation, so that I can see things from His perspective.     So, instead of reading the Gospels, I felt an impression.  “Read Psalms 45:7.”     “(Back up to 45:6) Your throne, O God, is forever and ever; a scepter of righteousness is the scepter of Your kingdom, You love righteousness and hate wickedness; therefore God, Your God, has anointed You with the oil of gladness more than Your companions.”  I still didn’t understand.  I don’t understand why My King - though I know He is good - chooses to work in some peoples’ lives, and others, He doesn’t.  Oh why in this world, do bones still have to break (thank you, The Chosen, for that line)?  And yet, I heard my Father say, “It’s not [too] sorrowful a day when I call one of My children home. Death does not win when Christ is (in someone’s heart).  Read the context of 1 Corinthians 15:57.”     Before I jumped to the 1 Corinthians chapter, I decided to read Psalms 45 in completion.  As I reached verses 10-15, I couldn’t but help but think that the “daughter” in the psalm could be similar to what my friend is going through at this moment.  She is desired by her King, and she is worshiping Him.  She is a royal daughter- all glorious within the palace, wearing clothing woven as with gold.  She shall be brought to her King; with gladness and rejoicing she shall be brought.     As I finally read 1 Corinthians 15 (the entire chapter), my heart suddenly opened to a revelation about the resurrection of Jesus in a way that I don’t think I had.  “Part of the promise of salvation is resurrection.  It is not eternal life in this body - and thank God for that!! Could you imagine being stuck with a body riddled with cancer? But there are new bodies in heaven (without pain and won’t break).  My first coming was to save the soul.  My second coming is to save the body (creation).”     I know that death will be swallowed in victory.  Still there is a wrestling…why not now?  Turns out that death is going to be the last enemy destroyed (see 1 Corinthians 15:26-27); nevertheless, Jesus indeed still has the victory.  When we believe in His sacrifice, though death may touch our bodies, it will not steal our souls.  That being said, I have become more aware how brittle my faith actually is.  It scares me how certain things can make me so bitter and doubt the goodness of God.  I am thankful for what God showed me, and I’m reminded of Mercy Me’s song, “I Can Only Imagine” as a song of comfort to draw on, during this time.  But I don’t want death to threaten my faith any more.  I don’t want to lose hope in the face of pain.  So with all this written, God, increase my faith!!