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

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

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

Love Thy Body

Love Thy Body

It’s not just what is inside that counts. We tell ourselves that. We tell our children, so they won’t look too hard in the mirror. We don’t want them to judge their peers by skin color, size or shape.

“It’s only the inside that counts.” What we mean is that character is important. A good work ethic is priceless. Gentleness is admirable. Patience is Christ-like. But it’s not only what's inside that counts.

We tell ourselves and our children that the outside doesn’t matter. But it isn’t true. Tell that to the woman with breast cancer whose body is being eaten away by physical invaders. Tell that to the Indian man with leprosy whose skin is deteriorating. Tell the little blind boy that his eyes don’t matter, the cripple that his feet don’t matter, the burn victim that her skin doesn’t matter.

Bodies bear the mark of God. When God reached out to redeem His creation, He came as Immanuel, God with us. He came in flesh.  He came to look like us, touch, walk, hurt, heal, be like us.

A warm bosom was the first scent of earth-life to fill baby Jesus’ lungs. Mary’s body pushed, contracted and yielded to nature bringing a wrinkly, red baby into the world. Then soft breath, whispered words, gentle lips, trembling hands welcomed, caressed and tended. Life to life.

Dirty, leather-shod feet carried Jesus over the hills of Galilee, Nazareth and Samaria. Ugly, worn, blistered, they brought the healer to the broken, the leader to the lost, the Savior to the cross. As he washed and dried the feet of his own disciples the night of his arrest, did the Creator marvel at the familiarity of each heel and arch?

It is the body of Christ, bearing permanent scars that physically stepped into my place, took my death and rescued my life, even my body. Bodies matter. Intimate moments are constructed by and contained in bodies.

My first niece just turned one-year-old. She lives hundreds of miles away from me. Oh how I miss her. I miss her licorice-black, Precious Moment’s eyes framed with tiny lashes. I miss the softness of the top of her head. I love her face most when it’s smeared with beets or chocolate at breakfast. I love every inch of her oh-so wonderful body.

My mother’s shoulders are the most perfect shoulders in the world. They are broad enough for four daughters to rest their heads at once. Her shoulders slope gently into arms soft and strong; arms which hug me when I sob and hug me when I laugh. Her hands braided my hair when I was little and hold the phone now for hours when I just need to hear her voice.

Oh and those eyes! My daddy’s eyes sparkle with tears at the most elusive, sentimental moment. Those eyes chided me and praised me. The comfort of those eyes lulled me back to sleep after nightmares.

I know the tendency to discount bodies. For half my life, I hated mine. I whittled it smaller and smaller with starvation and long workouts. I measured my arms and legs with my fingers, furious if they grew larger than an arbitrary limit. How dare they strengthen, or fatten or grow or change. How dare they defy my control!

Slowly, Jesus has been persuading me of bodily value. These legs, bigger than they’ve been in years, bend criss-cross-applesauce and my puppy sleeps between my knees. These legs kneel to wrap Christmas presents, get on my niece’s eye-level and pray. These legs, which have long outgrown my fingers, carry me shopping with a friend, to volunteer at the homeless shelter, to walk to my neighbor’s home.

Recently, I found a news story and photo from 1995. It was titled, The Rescuing Hug.

“The article detailed the first week of life of a set of twins who were born 7 weeks early. Apparently each were in their respective incubators, one of them was doing better than the other and on day 4 after their birth, the weaker twin's vital signs were fading rapidly. The nurse in charge of the NICU that day had tried everything she could to save the weaker twin but nothing was working, she then decided to bring both twins together as a last resort. She fought against the hospital rules but finally placed both babies in the same incubator. When they were together, the stronger one of the two threw an arm over her sister in an endearing embrace. The weaker baby’s heart stabilized and her temperature rose to normal right away.” (article excerpted from InspiredDaybyDay.com)

Hands, feet, breasts, stomachs, legs, harshly judged too large, too small, too fat, too thin, are the means with which we express our Maker. Bodies are the means for rescuing life, comforting hearts, raising a child, being a lover.

Telling our children that what is inside is all that counts will not spare them from eating disorders. Believing that the outside is insignificant won’t prevent racism or prejudice. Believing that bodies have intrinsic, Christ-like value will instill in us and in our children the respect God intended for His creation.

What is inside does matter. It’s just not all that matters.

First published at Haven Journal, Dec. 2012

Where is the Peace on Earth?

Where is the Peace on Earth?

 I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head
'There is no peace on earth,' I said,
'For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.'
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
'God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.'
Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
~ Wadsworth

I wonder if when Wadsworth penned those words, he expected to someday see peace on earth. Or was he speaking wistfully about some day hung in eternity, about as accessible as the stars? Certainly, no one even today, nearly 150 years later, would dare to say we have achieved peace on earth.

Here in America, we have come as close to peace as anyone. Most of us live safe, predictable lives. But even here we have domestic violence, natural disasters, political arguments, road rage, rivalry, and worse. Even at this season when we blissfully sing of peace, havoc reigns. Just last week: An inexplicable mass shooting at an elementary school - 27 people killed.

Why is this? What can we do? This morning on talk radio, commentators were asking, "What law do we need to prevent this kind of thing from happening?" The answer isn't in a Christmas carol. It isn't in Washington. The United Nations can't bring about world unity. However, Peace will come from authority. 

Think of it, what do you do when you feel anxious? If you're like me, you set out on a frantic course to determine the problem, find the solution and relax once more in your manufactured peace. The trouble is, in no time, you and I are in turmoil again.

Do you ever say something like, "Oh to be a kid again, no cares in the world." The reason kids have no cares is that they are happily submitted to the authority of their parents. Their peace comes from knowing that Mom and Dad will feed them, clothe them, tell them what to do and when to do it, answer their questions, calm their fears, kill the boogieman, dry their tears, tuck them in and teach them what they need to know. What would you give to have that kind of peace again?

This is what the LORD says--your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel: "I am the LORD your God, who teaches you what is best for you, who directs you in the way you should go. Is. 48:17

World peace, personal peace, eternal peace is found under authority. And therein is the main reason we miss it. The older we get the less we like the idea of taking orders from someone else. The older we get the more confident we become that we can take care of ourselves. But, what if there was someone worthy to exercise authority over us? And what if that someone was implicitly good and trustworthy?

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Is. 9:6

We have been given PEACE, peace incarnate. And yet, this peace is a prince; he has come to rule.

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.
Col. 3:15

Do not think that you can experience His peace unless He has full authority over your heart.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Phil 4:6-7

The peace of Christ is for those who like little children with a benevolent parent, bring their troubles to Him, instead of insisting on their own solution.

You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you. Is. 26:3

The Prince of Peace gives peace to those who look to Him for truth and trust His answers.

First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for all people, for kings and all who are in high positions, that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way.
1 Timothy 2:1-2

And this Peace of Christ is for today, it is peace on earth (Luke 2:14). For even the peace that we desire in our homes, between our political parties, between our nations, is only experienced under the authority of Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace.

Originally published on Predatory-Lies.com on Dec. 19, 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

Give It To God

Give It To God

How many times has some well-meaning Christian friend or advisor told you that?

You can’t control it, so just let it go. Trust God. He’ll handle it.

Does that rankle your nerves as it does mine? I hate being told that, and I hate hearing that seeming cliche come out of my mouth to another believer.

It’s a common response to a painful situation that we don’t know what to do with. When someone we know is forging through the aftermath of a senseless loss, trying to survive a betrayal or struggling to overcome a recurring sin, we often don’t know what to suggest. That’s because we are as fallible as they are. We are as fragile as they are. Even if we have crossed that particular bridge before, replaying our story and offering our solution often comes out with an air of superiority or false empathy.

Recently, I sat across the table from a gentle mentor who said no such thing. In fact, I am amazed that she sat with me for nearly two hours, listened intently  to my pain, watched my public display of agony and never once said, “Oh, I’ve been there too. I know exactly how you feel.” It was after those soothing hours of verbally releasing my hurt that I told my journal, “I think I finally know what it feels like to ‘give it to God.’”

 It’s like flipping the latch on my own cage. I had been chained to stare at my pain. Like a canary in a tiny cage, able only to watch the cat threaten and mock him. All along, the vulnerable little bird had the power to flip the latch and not only avoid the anguish of mediating upon his impending doom, but to fly away to safety. When he discovered that latch and flipped the lever, the pain didn’t go away. In fact, the pain could now leap with even greater possibility at his feet. But also, he now had the indisputable power to fly higher and farther away than the pain could ever reach.

Published on Predatory Lies, July 2012