Now, is Bleeding into Eternity

As I sit here, my littlest sister is laboring to bring Henry Jordan Martin into the big wide world. I was just there, just visiting Texas, hoping against realism that Henry would come while I was there, but alas, he was simply waiting for me to leave.

This brings me full circle, to ponder the chapter I read in C.S. Lewis' book, The Great Divorce, last night. At the same time, it highlights a recent Facebook post by a man I have admired for most of my life.

Just a brief background:
Harold Ray Wells, is the father of two of my best friends growing up. What time wasn't spent in our home around the school desk was often enjoyed in their living room eating breadsticks and homemade cheese sauce, in the backyard harvesting honeysuckle and stalking slugs, at church with them or on vacation with them at Grand Lake.

Mr. Wells was my parents' Sunday school teacher. He exuded a poise that comes only from being inhabited by the Holy Spirit. He was quiet, intentional, relaxed, happy and peaceful. He was almost an enigma to me as a child, How does he do that?

My heart was crushed when I learned a few years back that he had been falsely accused of a crime. As a police officer nearing retirement and with a stellar reputation, the charges seemed rubber, ridiculous and contrived as they were, we prayed that the lies would bounce off of him and shatter on the floor at the feet of his accusers. God hasn't seen fit to let that happen. So Mr. Wells is now in prison, awaiting response to his appeal.

Frequently, those of us who pray for him are privy to pieces of his journals and letters that he sends out to encourage us - imagine - him encouraging us. Reminds you of Paul, right?

"Waiting for the love of my life to visit and listening to 'interludes'. I was thinking that just as I am unworthy of prison, to a much greater reality I'm unfit for paradise. How can I ever complain when both are gifts and both must be received with thanksgiving? Knowing both are divine appointments, designed that God might be glorified. One is temporary and one is eternal. When does 'eternal' take place? Before today, before yesterday? If eternal life with God (as Charles Stanley points out) happens the moment we trust God - then could it be that our resurrected life begins at that time and what does that mean? This life, with all it involves, has no power, ownership, or control over us. We are buried with Him in baptism, raised/resurrected with Him to walk in newness of life - a glorified life in a fallen world. The evidence of Christ in you - NOW. How do I do this? Through the crucible of life. I feel as if I am in the 4th quarter of the life testing. What am I made of? Who am I? Who is God? I am experiencing the overwhelming, surrounding knowledge of God's blessings."

I added the bolding, because that's the question I want to address.

When does 'eternal' take place?

Consider Lewis' reference to those on a trial run to Heaven as "ghosts". And when he treads upon the terra firma of that land, he finds it's foliage more solid than himself.

The grass, hard as diamonds to my unsubstantial feel, made me feel as if I were walking on wrinkled rock, and I suffered pains like those of the mermaid in Hans Andersen. A bird ran across in front of me and I envied it. It belonged to that country and was as real a the grass.

Most of the time, most people press through this atmosphere, feel the rush of it against their skin and believe that they are real, that where they are and what they do is real. And, even most Christians act as if we won't live forever. Our habits and decisions are refined to exploit today, and fend off the ultimate end of our personal worlds.

But what if eternal has already begun? What if we will only become more real over time, through long walks with God, through intimate conversations with Jesus and solemn attentiveness to the Holy Spirit? What if we don't need to squeeze every drop of pleasure out of this moment, because we anticipate endless moments, ever better,  stretched through the expanse of eternity?

What if?

First published at Predatory Lies, June 2013

Sowing Tears and Reaping Joy, Chapter 2

Ed and I were on-again-off-again through college1.  Then, after I married an Army officer at age 22, he stalked me like a jealous boyfriend.

He showed up in our bedroom when dying sunlight seeped through the blinds and illuminated our naked bodies. “Remember what you ate for dinner? You look like you have a food baby.” Ed was vicious.

He showed up in the bedroom every single weekend morning. “Get out of bed, lazy fool. You’re better off going for a run than cuddling with your husband.”

He showed up in the kitchen, leaning over my shoulder. “Why don’t you serve him a double portion, then you can just eat a tiny bit. Or better yet, just make yourself a salad.”

He showed up in the living room when we wanted to watch a movie. “How can you sit there and let calories slowly turn to fat? At least do some sit-ups while you watch TV.”

Ed spent so many years badgering me, that I’d forgotten what it feels like to be hungry, what a genuine craving is, how to cut a pie at Thanksgiving, scoop ice cream for birthday cake or share a Papa John’s pizza with my husband. I turned to Ed with every choice, “Am I good or bad if I eat this?”

My husband, Patrick, hardly knows it, but he is my knight in shining armor. He is my God-sent hero, consistently coming between Ed and me, severing that fatal attraction. Patrick first took me out in college. Despite my selfishness, confusion and divided loyalty, he never criticized or left me. Much like Jesus, he quietly, patiently loved me, capturing my heart piece by piece until there was nothing left for Ed.

The Army moved us to Fort Lewis, Washington, in 2008. From there, Patrick deployed to Afghanistan for a year. Ed visited occasionally. I tried to resist him, enlisting the aid of a therapist and a dietician. I limped along, above the dangerous line on the doctors’ weight charts, but far below what my body needed to stay warm in Washington.

Alone one afternoon, I ventured down to Percival Port. The Olympia Farmers’ Market on the edge of the Puget Sound is renowned. I parked blocks away behind a used furniture store then followed the calls of vendors and the flocks of hippies toting their recyclable bags. Rounding the final corner, I stopped, awed by the spectrum of colors and the vibrations of life emanating from the market.

A red, three-sided barn crouched over rows of rough wooden tables. Like a huge umbrella it defied the gray, wet skies of western Washington. Craftsmen and farmers’ booths spilled into the bulging parking lot. On one end was a seller of herbs. Lavender, basil and dill mingled on the breeze. I ducked beneath a low hanging fuchsia plant.

The apple man at the far end of the market’s breadth became my favorite by season’s end. He stacked apples and mushrooms three crates high in a large square around himself and his gray haired father. Once in a while, his young son helped on a Saturday afternoon.

“You’ve never tried a Honeycrisp apple? That’s a crime! Oh, and did you see this mushroom? It sells for $35 per lb. You can’t buy them anywhere else in Washington!”

Between the apple man and the herbs were cinnamon roasted nuts, Emu lotion, tables toppling beneath the weight of bountiful harvests. Beets, broccoli, cucumbers, squash and vegetables I’d never heard of. A crabber set up his booth when he was in port.

I watched the crowds around me milling, smiling and tasting. Hippies in their tie-dyed scarves and dreadlocks held an air of life-hunger mingled with indifference toward social expectations.

I peered inquisitively at the sellers, faces round and rosy with contentment, satisfaction and pride. Food, bounty and harvest were the source of this joy. There was gratification in dirty fingernails and well-fed waists, smudged cheeks and tired backs. Happiness found in the fruits of hard labor; in sharing flavors and nourishment. Sharing life. And this was good.

My fingers tingled with excitement. I felt invited into the community that began with seeds and soil and culminated in a colorful feast. My cell phone vibrated against my thigh.

“Hello?”

“Hey Abby, it’s Megan.”

Megan and her husband were the only two people I knew in the whole state of Washington. I have no idea why she called, I plowed over her words in my enthusiasm.

“Can you come over for dinner?” I could feel the market’s energy seeping into my pores, suddenly I would burst if I failed to release it. “I’m at the market and I am going to buy oysters and red wine. Please, please come join me?”

Life is a two-step, an organic thing. It must be received and it must be re-gifted. Held too long in tight-fists, it will die.

Life cannot be controlled, manipulated or malnourished. Life cannot be lived alone, but Ed’s greatest ally is solitude. Life will not tolerate Ed.

Ed, anorexia, began to withdraw when my husband bravely entered my life. As friends encircled me, I felt the pulse and freshness of life. The more I pressed what little life I had into the hands of others, and hungrily accepted the relationship they offered, I reaped joy a hundred fold.

Things were changing, a harvest was coming. But what of the famine years? What of the starved intimacy of marriage, the languishing closeness of sisterhood, the wilted camaraderie of mother and daughter and the shallow, neglected friendships?

God was about to show me that He can restore even ruined relationships. Redemption was only beginning.

“Most laws condemn the soul and pronounce sentence. The result of the law of my God is perfect. It condemns but forgives. It restores - more than abundantly - what it takes away.” Jim Elliot

First published at Haven Journal, March 28, 2013

Breaking Up With Anorexia, Social Changes, Chapter One

Few women want to wait tables on Valentine’s Day. Warm fuzzy feelings aren’t usually kindled by pouring red wine into other lovers’ glasses. It’s no fun watching a young man spoon feed his girlfriend a bite of his favorite bourbon glazed chicken, as she scooches closer to him on one side of the booth. Most women swoon to split a sundae with their beau, or pop one of his chocolate gifts between his puckered lips.

Whatever you do, please don’t ask me out. Please do not invite me.

In college I had a steady companion. He literally went with me everywhere. This guy was clingy and demanding and controlling. I tried to dump him dozens of times. My parents hated him, my friends thought he was nuts.

“He is way too controlling!”

“You can do better than him.”

His full name was anorexia nervosa, but I didn’t really want anyone to know about him, so I called him Ed.

Every single morning Ed told me he loved me. That’s hard for a girl to resist. First thing every day we went to the gym together or on a run. I felt thin, strong, capable and self-disciplined. Often, by the time we finished working out, Ed convinced me that it was too late to meet my friends for breakfast at the student union. So, I’d shake the dregs from my coffee pot and head to class.

Everyone has their own idiosyncrasies. Ed’s most obvious quirk was that he hated to eat socially, and he didn’t think I should dine with others either. “I just don’t like people to see you stuffing your face,” he would tell me. “It’s for your own benefit, I promise. If you go out with people you’re likely to eat junk food or drink too much. When you get home, we can have a salad together.”

Beth was my best girlfriend and a marvelous cook, or so I’m told. Many afternoons we met at her house and went to the nearby lake for a three mile walk. She knew a little about Ed, and knew that it made me uncomfortable to talk about him. Usually, we talked about school and Bible study and her boyfriend, Scott. Once in a while, she broached the subject of Ed, wondering if he was still around.

“Hey, I was just curious how you’re doing with Ed. I’m kind of worried about your weight, you’re looking really thin and tired. What did you have for lunch? Do you want to come over and share dinner with me and watch Friends?”

Then, she would invite me to try her newest kitchen success. Masterful lasagna, tiny cute cookies, or homemade hummus. “That’s OK, really. I just put a piece of cinnamon Trident in my mouth.”

A few years later I had my first Christmas as the lonely wife of a deployed soldier. Numerous families from church invited me to celebrate with them.

“Come have dinner with us on Christmas Eve.”

“We always have coffeecake and cider on Christmas morning, please come be with us.”

Eternally more entertaining, I politely declined in order to paint my bedroom. While friends and family surrounded spreads of ham, stuffing and pumpkin pie, I spent the day painting my room chocolate brown with a buttercream accent wall. It was a good workout, I’m sure. I capped the day with a holiday-worthy dinner of microwaved eggplant.

In September 2004, Hurricane Ivan screamed up the east coast. My husband was still deployed. I worked at GNC with two girls who had been friends for years and whose husbands were also overseas. Chrissy and April tried for months to draw me into their fellowship.

“We will probably lose power tomorrow,” April warned. Having grown up in Florida she knew what to expect from a hurricane. “You don’t want to be alone, it will be boring and cold and maybe dangerous. Why don’t you hangout with us? We are going to buy craft stuff and spend the night at Chrissy’s house. I plan to make cookies before the power goes out, too.”

“No thanks.” I’m pretty sure April expected me to say that. I had been refusing their invitations to lunch, slumber parties and other events - any event that might require me to eat scary foods in their presence.

Eating in public was the most debilitating fear of my entire eating disorder. Even if I could manage to choke down a peanut butter sandwich by myself, I simply couldn’t bear the thought of someone watching me eat a cookie, a drumstick or a twisted, gooey,
butter-drenched cinnamon roll.

April, Chrissy and I worked in a small mall, and our store was directly across the isle from Cinnabon. Every day I drank copious amounts of Cinnabon’s decaf, carmel pecan flavored coffee, enough to kill a small animal. With each gulp, I imagined that the flavor was every bit as indulgent as a sticky bun. I was simply smart enough to enjoy my treats without the calories.

Eating meant losing control. Starvation became my signature. Everyone knew that I only ate carrots, peaches and non-fat yogurt. In my imagination, they admired my resolve; my unequaled ability to resist the temptation of fattening foods.

Occasionally someone would say, “I wish I could be anorexic for a day. How on earth do you turn down cheese enchiladas?” With that they would dish up seconds, and walk off to join the rest of the normal, social group.

I wondered, “How on earth can you laugh like that? Where does your joy come from?” More precisely, “Where has my life gone?”

For a time, I tried to have the best of both worlds: Blissful indulgence and unmatched resolve. I told Ed that I was busy on Saturdays and that he would have to find something else to do. I spent the summer of 2005 casually dating a new diet.

This arrangement gave me some leverage over Ed. He didn’t want to lose me, but he could also see that I needed some space. I was desperately lonely. So, for a time, he agreed to let me have a “free day” every Saturday; a day when I could eat in the company of others and share their food choices.

One specific weekend my sister was visiting from Kansas. I was so excited to be able to go out to lunch with her! Kelsey had a craving for French fries. At McDonalds, she ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Oh the expanse of that menu! For so many years I had diverted my eyes. Ed always accused me of flirting with disaster, a blimp-sized waist line, if I so much as perused the options.

“Can I have a large order of fries and a large vanilla shake?” It was strange to hear those words in my own voice.

I thought Kelsey was going to pass out. How long had it been since we had fellowshipped over food? While we ate, I explained my new plan to her.

“Ed and I are still going out,” I promised. “He cooks all my meals six days a week. But on Saturdays, I have a free day and I can eat anything I want.”

What I didn’t tell her was that my new beau was abusive, too. On free days, I often consumed dozens of cookies, two or three flavors of pie, half of a sheet cake. Every Saturday night, I went to bed miserably sick, with a trash can six inches away. Every Sunday morning, Ed woke me with breakfast of black coffee.

“Wake up. You have a six mile run ahead of you.”

I couldn’t figure this out why was joy so evasive? Watching my sister finish all but three French fries, I knew I had not experienced even a measure of freedom. I was more hungry for her emotional indifference toward food than I was for any sweet concoction.

There is no sweet success in starving. I marveled at others’ knowledge of satiety, satisfaction. That was the difference. My sister’s joy came from experiencing pleasure so deeply that it quenched her momentary longing. She looked for joy, grateful for abundance, which left her free to set her own limits. A victim of Ed’s arbitrary limits, I lost all true self-control. I could consume everything or nothing, but I had no concept of fulfillment.

I wasted 15 years on Ed. Because of that loser, I don’t have memories of parties with friends, summer barbecues or ice cream dates. However, I finally found the strength in Christ to breakup with him. It was a breakthrough but it lead me to my next crisis - intimacy.

 First Published at Haven Journal, March 19, 2013

What the Scale Told Me

What the Scale Told Me

As I battled my way through the Valley of the Shadow of Death that is anorexia, I got pretty used to believing that I don’t weigh enough. And somehow, even though I was stumbling through the steps of recovery so that statement would no longer be true, on some level, I clung to “skinny” as part of my identity.

The chains of an eating disorder have begun to finally fall away. And I am happy. Every single morning it feels brand new to behold my own body in the mirror. My little niece laughs when she rediscovers her belly button for the millionth time. That’s how I feel.

When I pull my favorite waffled blue t-shirt over my head, I wonder: This is me? Are those really my own strong legs? Are my own hands that gentle on my husband’s cheek? Can I really feel my puppy’s satin coat beneath my fingers? Are those really my own blue eyes?

Almost like a distanced observer, I have seen myself rediscover my own taste and style. I am not a fancy girl. There isn’t a single pair of heels in my closet. For me, dressed up is a lavender, fitted shirt that complements my eyes and dark blue jeans. Oh, and I swap the tennis shoes for a cute pair of flats. I have learned that I my natural hair color is soft brown, not strawberry blond. And I am happy. I am learning that I have enough within my own body to explore and relish all the goodness of my life.

Then, today the scale told me that I weigh enough. And it rattled me. Just a little bit. You see, for the last 19 years, the people who love me have told me that I am too thin. Their constant prodding to put on a few pounds became a part of my identity. Even though I have become healthier, some tiny part of me has rested in the thought that I am just slightly under weight.

Better too thin than too heavy right? The thought lay hidden just below my consciousness. That small deficit between my weight and the doctor’s chart gave me some padding and made me feel safe. Until today.

Today, the scale told me that I am enough.

I don’t weigh myself. I don’t own a scale. I never bought another one after one therapist had me enact a dramatic scale murder by throwing it out the window. But once or twice a year there is that obligatory doctor’s visit. The nurse takes my blood pressure, asks if I drink or smoke, taps my knees and elbows and then cavalierly tells me to step on the scale. Doesn’t she know what a dangerous piece of equipment that is? But she has already turned her back and is making notes.

I told myself that when this moment came, I would calmly ask her to weigh me backward like they did in the treatment center. But suddenly, the moment came and without a clear thought, I found myself standing on the little metal box. For a few seconds, I bravely bored a hole in the wall with my stare. The nurse took her time documenting my blood pressure, just a few seconds too long. And I looked. Oh.

The next time I saw that number, the number I weighed before I ever got sick, I expected my heart to fall through my chest and shatter on the floor at my feet. I expected to burst into hysteric tears, like those only my mother has seen. But my mind just registered, Oh.

The nurse placed my purse back in my hands, slightly irritated that I had suddenly retreated into the twilight zone and was unable to collect myself enough to pick up my things and follow her down the hall. Finally, she pushed open the heavy door to my doctor’s office and told me it would only be a few minutes.

What if that was a few minutes too long? What if in those few minutes, that three digit number registered in my healing mind and suddenly I couldn’t handle it? What if my recovery wasn’t strong enough to know my own weight? How did I let my eyes fall upon those numbers?

I waited for the agony to hit. The doctor finished her exam, checked her last box, nodded politely and left the room. Slightly dazed, I floated through the sun-dappled parking lot. I felt God wrap His arms around me in the unseasonable 60 degree February afternoon.

I weigh enough. I am enough. I am well enough to trust God’s design of my very own perfect body. I am strong enough to be a life-giver. I have grown enough to put the memories behind me. My healthy body and testimony of hope bear witness of the safety of recovery. And I am happy.

First published on SheLoves Magazine, March 23, 2013

Outside the Fence

Outside the Fence

Thank you for being a listening ear when I just have to explode with the goodness and truth about my Savior Jesus Christ. He has more than saved my soul, He has more than removed the dread of death, He has more than rescued me from the pit of hell - Jesus daily saves me from my personal hell.

Everyone has it. A personal hell. A circular thought pattern of anxiety on an endless loop. Like a hamster on a wheel, the cogs churn all night in your mind, working, twisting, writhing to find some answer you missed before.

A personal hell. A habit you hate that nips at your heels like a rabid dog. It's breath is death. If you're lucky, for now, you're one step ahead of it.

A personal hell. A never fading memory. Faces or words that lurk in your quiet moments, feasting on your peace.

A personal hell. Impending possibilities of unemployment, illness, danger, financial collapse. Everyone has a personal hell.

As most of you know, my hell was born in the form of anorexia. But the habit of starving and compulsive exercise fed on my peace and grew into anxious, relentless thoughts of calories and laziness and bulging body parts. Then, anxiety swelled until it infected my mind with fear of poverty, fear of loneliness, fear of change and of course an every growing fear of food. And finally, even when recovery began blinking sporadically on the horizon, and I began plunging toward it in blind, uncoordinated desperation; then my hell bloomed like licking flames behind me. Memories.

Bless the Lord Oh My Soul! Who becomes my vision and my only thought!

Two weeks ago, I learned that I now weigh as much as I did before I ever dueled with anorexia. That in itself is enough of a change to fan the flames of fear. Then, this weekend, my husband and I attended a marriage retreat in Staunton, VA. It was a chaplain's event called Strong Bonds. 

[Side note, if you have an opportunity to go on one of these retreats - take it! Especially, if for some reason Chaplain Denning is leading it!]

Back to Jesus' valiant rescue...I always fret over these types of "fun" events. They are anything but fun for me. My regular workouts are threatened by pathetic hotel gyms and no space outside to go running; not to mention early morning obligations. And, nice as everyone seems to think free food is, for an anorexic, the idea of a prepared plate being set in front of you is terrifying.

Who knows how much butter some careless caterer used on the mashed potatoes? What if they serve dessert? How do I say no when everyone is watching and moaning over how sublime the cheesecake is? How am I going to find safe food to eat if these are my only options? On top of all that, a retreat is supposed to be relaxing and fun. For most people that means lingering over good conversation and dark beer. Or, swirling red wine while debating the merits of a restaurant's barbecue ribs. For me, that means sustained agony in a place of temptation while bound by a bunch of self-woven rules.

The first night there, we went down to dinner. I had told them that I am a vegetarian so the caterer brought me a plate of pasta, drizzled with olive oil and flecked with onions, mushrooms and green pepper. Yikes! Patrick was served chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans.

My darling hubby looked at my plate and asked, "Do you want my potatoes and green beans? I'll eat your pasta."

"Okay."

So we traded partial plates and I ate. I ate every delicious creamy swirl of potato and every green bean dripping with golden butter. And it was good! But the best part is that fear did not rise up in my throat. Anorexia did not loom behind me all night with a tightening grip on my neck. We finished the evening over  beers by the fireplace in the hotel bar.

But Day 2 was even more spectacular! At breakfast, I did not eat the special, safe food I had thrown into my duffle bag "just in case." Instead, I enjoyed fried potatoes and scrambled eggs! Then, I sat on my derrière for a three hour lecture! After the lecture, lunch was served. I tried to refuse it and Patrick agreed to take me to Subway later.

But when the waitress delivered a veggie wrap the size of a small torpedo, my tummy growled. The thin flour tortilla was crammed with broccoli, mushrooms, sprouts, full-fat cheese... and dressing. Some saucy, delicious, doubtlessly not-light dressing.

OK, OK. I'll eat half. Oh well, I'll eat all of it - it's so good!

I could go on and on about the excitement rumbling against residual fear in my belly. But the tantalizing hope of a different future - holidays not spent skulking in the kitchen to monitor the usage of oil. Date nights not wasted at Subway restaurant so that I can get a  50 calorie salad. What if.... it doesn't have to be that way forever?

Tiny Staunton is quaint, to be nice it's historic, but there's not much to do. So, we found ourselves sitting in a little bar a couple hours later, sampling beers with friends. So much for a low calorie afternoon! Then, of course, dinner time arrived. That merciless hour when every American is supposed to eat...again.

We landed at the Mill Street Grill. (Highly recommended by everyone, if you're in the area.) Just a salad, I told myself. Just the side salad.

Oh, but I love shrimp. I had lived through Friday night. I had lived through most of Saturday. What if, simply enjoying Saturday night too, isn't a crime? So I had shrimp and salad. And hot chocolate when we got back to our room.

If you have never argued with yourself about the merits of a certain food, or the innate evil of an extra calorie. If you have never run an extra mile to compensate for a delightful dessert or celebrating your own birthday, then maybe you don't have any idea the freedom that I enjoyed this weekend.

But, if you have ever skipped a meal so that you could go out to eat later. If you have ever run an extra mile (or two, or three) because you ate four extra crackers. If you have ever stayed awake counting calories instead of sheep - then you know exactly what I mean. You know exactly the type of freedom that we have not danced in for so many years. 

The truth is you may not be there yet. The truth is, I didn't think I was there. But Jesus knew I was. And Jesus is the one who saved me. And Jesus is the one who surprised me by throwing open the gates I have long hidden behind.

Oh the beauty of the view as I stand here in His arms surveying the landscape of blessing He has in store for me - and you. 

But now, this is what the Lord says, He who created you Oh Jacob, He who formed you Oh Israel: 'Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have summoned you by name and you are mine.' Is. 43:1

Fear Not: 31 Days to Freedom from Fear

First published on February 25, 2013 on Predatory Lies

Born to Deliver, A Book Review

Born to Deliver, A Book Review

Maybe the most compelling story isn’t the one we identify with, but the one that breaks our hearts. It’s the story we pray never comes true.

The book, Born to Deliver, is the personal story of Kathy Brace and the slow, painful, permanent way that Jesus drew her to Himself. At the tender age of fifteen, Brace found herself pregnant and abandoned by her boyfriend. Her alcoholic father had deserted her, her mother and her brother Eric years before. Caught up in her own pain and the numbing mechanics of providing for a family as a single woman, Kathy’s mother was emotionally unavailable. Through a series of bad romantic relationships and illegitimate pregnancies, Kathy’s brother was her only reliable friend.

Loneliness echoes through the pages of this story. Though she has never experienced unconditional love, the structure of a family or the comfort of a committed husband, a longing resides deep in Kathy’s heart. More than anything she desires a happy life. But she has no idea where to find it, and no real understanding of what it looks like.

If only I knew what it actually looked like so that I would know when I found it.” (pg. 30)

From a stark home for unwed mothers or wives with unwanted pregnancies, to an empty, cold green delivery room, the reader’s heart sinks a little heavier with Kathy’s own heart in each chapter. I could almost feel the bruises and scrapes when she threw herself from a moving car, not caring what could happen. I shook with her when she held a gun to her head, and I shivered with her against the cold metal table in a back alley abortion clinic.

Every chapter of, Born to Deliver, has a new climax, a painful experience that seems a little sharper than before. However, a strand of hope winds its way through Kathy’s story. With a cliffhanger at the end of every chapter, there remains a conviction that light is just around the corner. With another page, another day, another year in her life, hope is coming. Jesus will rescue His daughter, His bride.

First published at Start Marriage Right, Feb. 7, 2013

Strength To Break the Mold

Strength to Break the Mold

Strength is definable. It is measured by goals met, challenges faced, races won. And we know who the winners are. It is always the last man standing, the one with the most gold stars. The strongest person is always the man on top.

But the steps to success have been trod for so long. The path to recognition is well marked and heavily traveled. What if it takes more strength, what if it is a greater test of fortitude to forge a new path? Perhaps it takes the greatest strength to break the mold.

STRONG ENOUGH TO BREAK THE MOLD: MOTHERHOOD

When my little sister and her husband moved to Dallas, Texas, she had no difficulty getting a job. Young, energetic and educated she quickly climbed to a supervisor role in the office. A window swallowed nearly one entire wall, spilling morning sunshine and vibrant sunsets across the floor. Peering down, she could see the sprawling city, a spectacular view.

Kelsey has always been good with money. Drawing two full-time salaries, they bought a new car, padded their savings account and enjoyed frequent dinners out with friends. But when she got pregnant with their first child, she hesitated.

How would they feed an extra mouth and pay for diapers if she quit her job? How could she just walk away from a good job and a dependable paycheck? But how could she place her precious daughter in the arms of a stranger? How could this tiny life flourish under the agreement of a contract instead within the non-negotiable love of her mother? So in a giant leap of faith, she quit her job.

Now, Kelsey’s eyes sparkle with pride when she tells me that she has seen Kylie every single day of her first year of life. For Kelsey, it would not have taken exceptional strength to step back into her high-heels and go back to work. With two incomes, she and her husband could confidently provide Kylie with everything she could ever desire.

Kelsey could have continued climbing the prescribed ladder to success. With each step, she would appear more powerful, a strong career woman to be admired. Likely, many people will question her decision to employ her college degree as a stay-at-home mom. They might even call her weak. But I think it took greater strength to break the mold.

STRONG ENOUGH TO BREAK THE MOLD: MARRIAGE

Several years ago, my marriage was on the rocks. Once, I had packed my bags, reserved a U-haul and given notice at work. I was leaving my husband, going home. Many things led us to this crisis. Many people advised me to leave. Even a Christian counselor told me, “Biblically, you have permission to leave. You don’t need to put up with this hurt anymore.”

My mother flew in to help me load my things and begin the tedious 24 hour drive from Washington to Kansas. But when the Holy Spirit checked my spirit, I hesitated. How could I leave my husband when I still believed there was hope? But how could I stay when everyone who loved me was saying I should go? Would I not appear weak? Would not a strong woman stand up for herself, announce that she had had enough and leave? But in a giant leap of faith, I met my mom at the airport and told that I had changed my mind. I was staying with my husband.

It hasn’t been easy. That very evening, it remained hard and unfair. I cried myself to sleep. But last December, three years later, my husband and I proudly celebrated a decade of marriage.

It took greater strength to shut my ears to the well intentioned advice of friends and family and to listen to the voice of my Heavenly Father. I dug deep into hope in order to remain in my difficult marriage. I discovered my own strength to break the mold.

STRONG ENOUGH TO BREAK THE MOLD: BODY

Fitness is a popular pursuit. These days it seems like everyone is training for a half marathon, hiring a personal trainer, focusing on their diet and cinching up their belt. A brief scan of any poplar magazine’s headlines proves that physical strength and beauty are a cultural priority.

I rose to the challenge and proved that I can be an exceptional athlete. Shorter and shorter times at local races and longer and longer training runs boosted my ego. I basked in the admiration of my physical discipline.

But suddenly, I found myself sliding into old eating habits, losing weight rapidly and out of control of my health. Dangerously close to being hospitalized for low weight, I hesitated.

How could I stop exercising madly and eat to gain weight in a world that idolizes thinness? How could I stop running when everyone applauded my self-discipline and praised my race times? How could I abandon anorexia, when many people ignorantly commented that they wished they could be anorexic for a day? To stop running, to eat more, wouldn’t I appear to be growing weaker and less driven?

But in a giant leap of faith, I surrendered myself to the advice of a dietician and rational thought of a Christian counselor. Today, I am healthy, strong and running freely.

It required of me much greater strength to stop long distance running, swallow fist-fulls of almonds and learn to rest, than it ever did to run a marathon. Learning to care for and love my body strained every fiber of my mind.

I closed fashion and health magazines. I left my running club. I backed out of several races which were already registered and paid for. But I found a greater strength to break the mold.

Tenacity, endurance, resolve, strength are forged in the flames of adversity. Going against cultural norms, the opinions of others and personal compulsions not only requires, but also develops great strength.

“…God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong…so that no man may boast before God…LET HIM WHO BOASTS, BOAST IN THE LORD.” 
-1 Corinthians 1:27-31

First published at Haven Journal, Jan, 30, 2013

Jesus Never Gave Up On Me

Jesus Never Gave Up On Me

The prince was the end of Cinderella’s loneliness and despair. Prince Charming introduced Snow White to happily ever after.  I can’t think of a single fairy tale where the heroine ends up more alone than she was before.

But then, fairy tales don’t tell of pornography and eating disorders.

Life Tales

I slipped the ring on his finger and declared I would be with this one man more completely than I’d ever been with anyone before. It hardly fit the story line when my husband, whom I had been with under covenant for all of two months, deployed to Iraq for a year.

We never had a chance to learn to be together, to practice growing with and into oneness. Instead, we were catapulted into a dangerous scenario that led us each deeper into personal addictions.

Loneliness

For me, living alone exacerbated the lingering effects of an eight-year eating disorder. Selfishness crept in while he was away. Life seemed no different than two months before. My days were spent doing what I wanted. I worked as much as I wanted and spent as little time at home as I wanted. With no accountability, my meals dwindled and my runs got longer. Anorexia was a familiar friend and my method of coping with pain.

As a young, virile soldier, my husband was in a world that revived and encouraged an addiction he had sheltered for many years. Pornography ran rampant among the ranks of infantry soldiers separated from their wives for an unprecedented time.

In some ways, the deployment postponed a rude awakening to our troubles. Distance disguised our selfishness. While he was deployed, we wrote daily, each to our image of a perfect spouse. It was easy to say all the right things. When he came home, our mirage of happily ever after evaporated.

Regardless of individual issues, anorexia keeps all relationships at arm’s length. My heart screamed for my husband to love me, call me beautiful and scare away all my self-loathing. At the same time, my sharp hip bones, malnourished mood swings and amenorrhea told him I was unapproachable.

My husband chose to make his life with a two-dimensional “perfect” woman who gave him the sensation of intimacy without commitment or demand. He fell under her spell. She was there to fulfill his every desire and only his desires. She was with him when he wanted her, but needed nothing in return. Unconsciously, his body shut down all advances and responses to me sexually.

Addictions

Shame and defensiveness feed on addictions. My fear of food kept us from going on dates and sharing many special experiences. He steadily lost his ability to express emotion and tenderness. He lost countless hours to video games, comfortable with their one-sided gratification. We were mired in addictions, ways of coping that numbed our desire–no, our ability–to be together.

The night that I accidentally discovered the pornography on my husband’s computer, it savagely lacerated my heart. I felt the actual muscle of my heart clench and fall. And then I hated him.

I picked up book after book about sexual addiction and the effects of pornography. Christian and secular psychologists explained that when an individual becomes addicted to pornography, they lose the ability to connect with a living, breathing human being. They become unable to relate in every way, from conversation, to intercourse to recreation.

And so we sank.

Recovery

“With,” however, is embedded in human souls. It’s part of the mark of God on our beings. In God’s image, we crave companionship, relationship, and devotion. It’s no surprise that as God reached out to redeem His creation, He came as Immanuel, God with us. He didn’t throw out a lifeline, or send an ambassador. He came to be with us. And then, throughout Scripture, God calls Himself our Father, our husband, our friend.

God began with me, slowly wedging Himself between me and the eating disorder. The more God showed me the true joy of His presence, unobscured by anorexia, the more restless I grew in my marriage. Now that I had tasted relationship, I longed for it with my husband; but he was still unavailable. He was fully engaged in a non-relationship.

We can live without many things, but we cannot live without resonance between our lives and others.’ Like the Velveteen Rabbit, we do not feel alive as long as we remain untouched, un-with.

Kind people, godly people, told me, “You have to take care of yourself.”

“Can you really be happy this way?”

“Do you think he’ll ever change? And if not, do you want to live this way?”

My mind started to churn: Of course not. I shouldn’t have to live this way.

I sought God’s permission to walk away, but He didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear. In the Old Testament, the first and greatest commandment was, “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength.’ And the second is like it, “Love your neighbor as yourself.’” (Mark 12:30-31)

But at the Last Supper, Jesus gave a new commandment: “So, now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples.” (John 13:34, 35)

Jesus is redeeming my marriage today, and God is daily teaching me to love as He first loved me. I scorned God’s love for almost 10 years while worshiping an idol of thinness and perfection, yet He never left me. As God’s follower, it is no longer about what I deserve or what is fair. It is how much of God’s love I can absorb and reflect. It is in loving beyond human limits that I prove I belong to Jesus.

Jesus won my heart by refusing to give up on me. He maintained His Immanuel presence even when I rejected Him.

It is in communion, “with-ness” with Jesus, that I take a deep breath and now remain with and in my marriage.

First published at: SheLovesMagazine.com, 12/29/12

A Child's View from the Other Side of the Angel Tree

A Child's View from the Other Side of the Angel Tree

Thousands of years ago, the advent of Jesus became the best Christmas present that will ever be gifted or received. More than four centuries believers had waited with baited breath for his advent, His coming.

Coming. There’s a warmth and anticipation in that word. Most of us are only familiar with the word advent at Christmas time. But, it’s the coming, the conclusion of longing, waiting, pining, hoping.

As a girl, Daddy’s advent every night was a special time. My sisters and I would wait at the end of our long, gravel driveway jockeying to be the first to spot his car. Then, as he turned toward the house, we would race alongside the car. “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home! Daddy, I have something to show you!”

Also when I was a girl, my family did Angel Tree every year that I can remember. We would visit Wal-Mart and pluck a paper angel from the branches, usually a girl about our age. Then we scoured the brightly colored shelves for gifts that matched “our” little girl’s needs. When we  had packed the box to the brim, we took it to our church and stacked it among the hundreds of other shoeboxes filled by our friends’ families.

Back then, I didn’t think too much about the recipient of our gift. I didn’t really think about the gift that we couldn’t give them. The children of inmates who would open our Christmas presents might never celebrate their daddy’s advent. These children might wait night after night with no one coming home.

And I certainly didn’t have the capacity to wonder much about the incarcerated parents. They might never see the light in their children’s eyes as they opened Christmas presents, or feel the incomparable warmth of a child thrilled with their advent.

It’s been more than 20 years since I filled an Angel Tree shoebox with my sisters. My military husband and I have moved four times in our marriage and belonged to as many churches. But every single Christmas, my heart warms to see the Angel Tree in the foyer. My eyes water when the pastor announces the pending date for turning in our boxes.

I have been blessed with so many Advents. I have a wonderful father who came home to hug his daughters each night. I know the Savior whose Advent secured my eternity.

Angel Tree gives me the extended reach to love a child each Christmas and to show them the meaning of Christmas’ Advent. It gives me the opportunity to offer the anticipation of Christmas to a child missing their parent.

First posted at Faith Writers, Nov. 30, 2012

Broken Chains and Musical Altars

Broken Chains and Musical Altars

Some days it’s hard to remember that I bid anorexia goodbye. In those moments, I desperately need an altar to cling to.

In the Old Testament, altars were monuments, often erected as memorials to a theophany, or “God sighting.” In May 2000, the song “We Fall Down,” by Chris Tomlin, became my musical altar.

That month I had fought my college pastor tooth and nail. “I don’t have time to go to this Passion ‘One Day’ conference in Tennessee. I need to work, I need to study,” I told him.

I couldn’t admit that I was terrified of the bus ride, fast food restaurants and camping. And where was I going to do my morning workout?

Curiously, three days later, I found myself on a bus with 12 other hyper college students, driving from Oklahoma to Tennessee for the event.

I was in a bad place physically. Following two rounds of inpatient therapy, I had relapsed again, back to shaving calories, adding miles and skipping meals. I had no idea how I was going to survive this trip. However, I was long past denial of my eating disorder. Truthfully, I was scared of how far this dance with anorexia would take me. How long could I live like this?

Of that trip, I remember nothing, except for one song, the one night we camped at Shelby Farms, and one mysterious woman.

On this particular night, the organizers of the conference had arranged to call Botswana, Africa, to share our worship with them. As we began to sing “We Fall Down,” Christians on the other side of the world joined our chorus in their own language.

When people ask me today about my recovery from anorexia, the story is long. But there was that one night when I would declare: “God broke it.” That night, I found myself separated from my youth group, face down on the grass near a fallen tree, my heart wrenched with sorrow, exhaustion and hopelessness.

“God there’s nothing else I can do.” I cried out. “There’s nothing else that counselors can tell me or doctors can suggest. I’m dying and I can’t stop. God, God, please do something.”

I have no idea what she looks like, and I can’t remember her voice, but a woman came up behind me and wrapped her arms around me. I poured my despair into her shoulder.

When we got home, I didn’t look any different, but I know that my supernatural God had broken the chains on my heart. That one night I began a steady climb out of the mire of self-starvation, loneliness, and hopelessness.

A couple days ago, my husband uncovered a bunch of CD’s that had been lost in our last move; choosing one, I popped it into the player. Tracks melted into the air, slipping past my consciousness until track 10. In the live recording, Chris Tomlin announced, “We are going to call Botswana, Africa, and you’re going to hear them singing “We Fall Down” with us, in their own language.”

Hearing that song, my anxiety broke again. My eternal, Heavenly Father played the melody that recalled for me the day He broke my chains.

First published at Finding Balance, October 2012

Book Review: Unseduced and Unshaken

When I hear the word seduce, I think of a brazen vixen, oblivious to an innocent man’s wedding ring. With her long black lashes, polished lips and glistening skin she expertly maneuvers him away from all things chaste and moral. Unseduced, would be that man’s extraordinary willpower to resist such advances.

Rosalie De Rosset’s book, Unseduced and Unshaken, isn’t only about withstanding sexual temptation. The book is about that and so much more. Unseduced and Unshaken explains describes a postmodern culture as a seductress. De Rosset points out the predatory nature of advertising, pornography, peer pressure and other things that particularly young women must be wary to stand firm against.

De Rosset uses classic literature and well known movies to exemplify both desirable and unbecoming character traits. She enforces the need for dignity, modesty, self-confidence and strong, Biblical theology.

One of the most valuable aspects of the book is the extensive list of suggested reading in the appendix. De Rosset lists all of her sources and whets the reader’s appetite to know more about each one of them.

The book is easy to read and extremely well written, calling on a vast vocabulary. While the book is directly targeted at young women, De Rosset’s points apply to every Christian.

First Published on Amazon, 10/1/2012

Whatever It Takes

Whatever It Takes

How badly do you want to be thin? What would you trade? Would being thin make you ultimately happy – even if you don’t really believe that  - do you think that? Would life be easier, happier, more fun, (add an adjective) if you were thin?

A recent study revealed that many women would give up a year of of their lives to be thin.
Another study discovered that most women would give up sex to be thin.

In April, the New York Times, reported on a new, disgusting trend. Women, mostly brides, in a last ditch effort to be thinner (and therefore in their perception: more beautiful on their wedding day, make that special day happier, etc.) have resorted to feeding tubes.

At first, I was shocked. I remember being inpatient for my eating disorder. One of the sweetest little girls I have ever met, greeted me at the facility’s entrance. Alicia became a quick confidant and encourager for  me. But it was hard to look at her without crying. Alicia was 12, but she had stopped growing when she was about 5. Because of her refusal to eat and seeming determination to starve herself, Alicia wore a feeding tube. This disfiguring device looked just like it sounds. A long tube ran up her nose into her stomach. It was taped in various places down her little body until it attached to a pole, nearly twice her height, where hung a plastic bag of liquid nutrients. Everywhere little Alicia went – to counseling sessions, to watch TV, on pass into the the little town nearby, to bed, to worship – everywhere, her tube went along.

Now, imagine a grown woman, preparing for her wedding day, strapped up with a feeding tube. A little more visually appealing, these brides carry around a purse with their “food” bag instead of Alicia’s pole. Nonetheless, they have a rubber tube snaking up the side of their face, through their nose and into their stomach – to supply them with starvation’s subsistence – a mere 800 calories.How far have we fallen?

Here are some other facts for your consideration:

2/3 of dieters regain the weight they lost within about 4 years of any diet

About 44% of women admit to being on a diet at any given moment

And guess what! Despite all our paranoia, drastic measures, social mores, fitness obsessions, fad diets and self help books, political intervention and endorsement – despite all these things, recently an advocacy group reported that by 2030, more than half of the population in the majority of states will be considered obese. So, apparently, our strategy isn’t working.

Happily, there’s a small, underground minority that is working hard to reverse the trend. Have you heard of Intuitive Eating? Sounds interesting and logical, doesn’t it?

How about a new book, by Greg Archer, whose provocative title (albeit accurate) I’ll encourage you to check into yourself.

Another wonderful person whom I consider a champion of this movement toward reprioritizing our weight, our diet, our life goals, is Emily Wierenga.  It was a recent article on her blog, Chasing Silhouettes, that launched me onto my soapbox again.

Enjoy her words of wisdom:

No longer [should food be] an object to be feared. It is a necessity to be enjoyed and embraced.  It is another form of communication, another way of sharing in this thing called life, of relating with other humans through a means devoid of words. It is the breaking of bread, which Christ calls us to.

So, as you wisely set health goals, lace up your sneakers, breathe deep during a jog or slice your paring knife through the pale green skin on a tart, fresh apple, wonder : Why am I doing this?

And then do whatever it takes to honestly answer that question with:

So that I might, “present [my] bod[y] as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is [my] spiritual worship. [I will] not be conformed to this world,but be transformed by the renewal of [my]mind, that by testing [I] may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. Romans 12:1-2

First published at: Moms Who TRI Blog, Sept. 18, 2012

Awake and Feeling Sick

Awake and Feeling Sick

I’m a Bible study drop out. I’m sick to death of church. I feel more fake around my “Bible study girls” than anyone else in my life. Last year I was a small group leader. People tell me I should do women’s ministry. How can I, when I feel like corporate fellowship is shallow and contrived?

I’m sick to death of cute clothes and shiny flats. 

I’m sick to death of name tags and place cards and frilly coffee. 

I’m sick to death of perfect hair and matching purses and smart-looking workbooks. 

I’m sick to death of small talk and polite sharing. 

I’m sick to death of angled prayer request and sappy guitar songs. 

I’m sick to death of assigned greeters with coral colored lips and childcare volunteers and homemade cookies. 

I’m sick to death of everything that all church looks like. 

I am sick to death of making time for one more volunteer opportunity. 

I’m sick to death of being plied for my spare minutes, my spare change, my spare pens. I’m sick to death of bigger parking lots, potlucks, church gymnasiums and special VBS props. 

I’m sick to death of big screens and four services that say the same thing over and over and over and over...

Forever, I have believed conventional church had a place. Forever I have believed that fellowship with godly women is essential. For each of our military moves I have related my loneliness with not having found a “home” church. So where does this repulsion come from?

I am almost scaring myself. I had already signed up for a Beth Moore study. I had already started emailing with my BFF’s about which study we were taking, where we would sit and see each other, how busy our summers have been. I had already emailed the committee leader promising to be a bubbly, name tag slapping, coral lipped greeter. And then I quit. 

I just quit. 

And the first Tuesday, when I should have been in Bible study came and went. I noticed the time, 10 a.m. and realized that my BFF’s were probably searching up and down plush rows searching for me - me - the quitter. 

For one second, I imagined the twittering among rows. “You know, she’s been withdrawn this summer.”

“I wonder if she’s OK? I wonder if she and her husband are fighting?”

“Do think she’ll still be involved in ministry and growing? I’d hate to see her grow away from the Lord.”

“You know how important Bible study and fellowship is.”

For a split second, I worried that they would all pity me or tisk-tisk in disappointment. My cell phone erupted in bleeps and bings of texts, “Where are you?” 

Where was I? 

Shameful. 

I was standing beneath a broad shedding tree on a cracked sidewalk a mile from my home. The grinning puppy at my feet was ridiculously happy that had chosen a walk with him over the more “perfect” option. The edges of fall lapped at my goosebumps. It was 50 degrees when I woke up. I had brewed a slow cup of coffee, opened my windows, plugged in Pandora radio and sat at the feet of Jesus for an hour and half. I hadn’t gotten ready - in fact, I hadn’t even showered by the time Bible study was letting out. 

That wasn’t my first rebellious act - the first sign of my awakening. My husband and I skipped church two weeks in a row recently. Instead, we opted for a slow morning curled next to each other with cups of banana nut coffee. Late, we watched a sermon online. 

We went back one week later. I was afraid, certain that I had probably missed something life changing while I was playing hooky. People must have been whispering that our seats were empty. Or were they?

Surely, I should feel rotten about missing worship. Then why did I feel like my quiet worship at home had been so much more real and fulfilling?

Later that afternoon, after I had skipped Tuesday morning Bible study, I started getting emails from sweet girlfriends. I don’t mean to imply that they are fake, but I think they are duped. I think most of the conventional American church has drunk the Kool-aid. I think my stupor is suddenly wearing off. I’m waking up, and that’s terrifying when everyone who validated my religious life is still content in slumber. 

“Abby, Bible study is right up your alley! You of all people can make time for this. I know you’re spending time with Jesus, but quiet time is with God. Fellowship is with others.”

Really? Is Jesus not enough real, tangible enough for me to fellowship with him? And I am sick to death of making time for things. If there’s not enough time in the 24 hours of my God-given day, do I have the right to try to make time for other things on my personal agenda - the agenda I think God should have?

I’m sick to death of begging, “God what is it you would have me do? What is my calling?” And then charging off on my righteous steed to analyze headlines, and argue about conservative politics and seek out my next opportunity to “be there for someone.” As if my calling, my purpose were so incredibly unique that if I miss it the world is doomed.

The going notion is that Christians must determine what God has called them to do. How can we serve the Lord? How can we minister? Who needs us?

Here’s the rub: The driving force behind each of those questions is pride. Yep, that ugly invader of Paradise is alive and well and thinly disguised behind our masks of ministry. 

What if we quit isolating others’ needs and targeting our resources to help those “less fortunate”? What if we quit pointing out where we can be of assistance and creating repeatable, efficient programs to meet them? What if need doesn’t want to be met with charity? What if we met need with need and then humbly shared from the place of need? 

Remember the widow and her two mites? The poor, marginalized woman gave out of her nothing, gave what she had without show or pledge card. And after, Jesus didn’t run out and give her coin. Jesus didn’t instruct his disciples to buy her a meal or cover her with their cloak or take her into their home. 

Did you ever notice that Jesus didn’t establish a program or system for preaching? Jesus didn’t seek out the hungry, lame, blind, leper or dying. Jesus didn’t set up a podium, send out fliers or provide transportation. Jesus went to the people and sent out his disciples, plain, poor, ordinary men and women. He never called people to him. He never announced a special message or a seeker sensitive service. 

I feel like I have woken up to a screaming alarm clock. It’s the kind of startled wakening when you don’t really remember where you are. I have been jarred awake and I’m hungry. I’m starving for something real, something new. 

I want to be with real people. Real people who KNOW they are hungry. I want to touch and be touched. I want to bleed and be bled on. I want to break crusty bread and sit on the floor. I want to hear whatever someone has to say, not ask them prescribed questions that relate to eternity. I want to be needed and I want to be fully free to need. I want to do relationship. 

And I think that’s how the church in America was sung to sleep. She heard the same consoling music over and over. She dined on lush foods and never bit into something so bitter it made her sick, purged her heart and made her hungrier than ever before. 

She moaned about scratches and discomforts. She has never had to walk on raw, blistered feet. She has never known pain that prevents sleep. Maybe that’s another privilege of pain. We bleed to know that we’re alive. 

First Published at Predatory Lies, Sept. 14, 2012

Hard-Core Honor

Hard-Core Honor

Marriage is made of promises, from the inaugural seconds of the union between a man and woman.

I, Sinner 1, promise to be true to you, Sinner 2, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

I took some liberties with the vows, but they are nonetheless true of anyone who has ever taken the marriage vow.

Typically, the honeymoon follows where it’s relatively easy to keep those promises. Just two weeks ago, I returned from my little sister’s wedding. She and her husband have been dating for more than seven years. They have kept and broken promises to each other. They have forgiven and overcome bitterness. But as she and I sat on the floor in her living room, just days before she was to take those vows, this sinner felt an urgent need to share with her what I am finding to be the secret to promise keeping.

The secret is one five-letter word hidden in the middle of the marriage vows. Honor. According to Dictionary.com, honor means: honesty, fairness, or integrity in one’s beliefs and actions. Despite the culture’s clamor for equality, showing honor requires nothing of the sort. My vow to honor my husband is binding on me even if he breaks his vow.

This is a hard pill to swallow and one that many Christians contend. But I offer you two Biblical precedents.

First Samuel 25, tells the story of Abigail. Abigail was married to Nabal, a man the Scripture describes as, “crude, mean, wicked and ill-tempered.” Ultimately, Nabal’s stingy and unjust behavior cost him his life. However, Abigail behaved honorably toward both her husband and those he had offended. We don’t know anything about the earlier years of their marriage, but it’s doubtful that Nabal had ever treated her with honor.

Hosea is the sad story of one man’s marriage to an unfaithful woman. Hosea obeyed the Lord and married a woman who was never faithful to him. In fact, on more than one occasion, God sent Hosea to redeem Gomer from the trouble her promiscuity had gotten her into.

And the Lord said to me, ‘Go again, love a woman who is loved by another man and is an adulteress, even as the Lord loves the children of Israel, though they turn to other gods and love cakes of raisins” (Hosea 3:1).

These stories tell of the obedient lives of two people who loved God and kept their vows to honor their mates, even when they were not treated with honor. But the verse in Hosea introduces the greatest story of love in the face of dishonor.

God loves us even when we are disobedient. “…but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8

Whether you are preparing to take your marriage vows, or took them years ago, maintain your obedience to Christ.

Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God” (Ephesians 5:1-2).

We understand that we will face dishonor and unfairness in life, but we generally believe that our spouse should be exception; Our husband or wife should be one person who always honors us, brings us joy, and makes us happy. But when two sinners wed, that can never be the case. A Bible study teacher once stopped me in my tracks with her comment,

God gave you a spouse to make you holy, not to make you happy.”

Published at Start Marriage Right, July 10, 2012