I watched a video this morning in which a lady made an inference to Jesus and the woman at the well. As I thought about this lady’s story, I began to think about the woman at the well.

Most of you know the story so I won’t tell it here. I think it was Beth Moore who first called my attention to the Samaritan woman’s kind of odd response to their conversation:

Jesus: “Go, call your husband, and come here.”

The woman: “I have no husband.”

Jesus: “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’;  for you have had five husbands, and the one you now have is not your husband. What you have said is true.”

The woman: “Sir, I perceive that you are a prophet. (That makes me laugh every time)

So the woman left her water jar and went away into town and said to the people, “Come, see a man who told me all that I ever did. Can this be the Christ?”

The woman, who has been married five times and is now living with a man, and who is drawing water alone at high noon, gets called out by Jesus and then runs through town excited because He told her everything she had ever done. She believes Him to be the Messiah and shamelessly runs through town yelling about it.

When do you think was the last time she was shameless? I wonder.

I love the turnaround in this situation: the shamed woman becomes a prophetess of the Christ.

The first strike against her, culturally, is that she is a woman. Women were basically property at the time and their words didn’t carry a lot of weight.

The second strike is that she has been married so many times. No doubt she was a woman of a certain “reputation.”

How many of us have had a reputation of one kind or another? How many of us have lived with shame?

I used to really despise my younger self, because of the way I lived. I carried a sense of shame because I made bad decisions; behaved in embarrassing ways at times; I was sometimes a doormat; other times I was unkind.

In addition my mind was defiled. Really, through no fault of my own, as I grew up, various people and things were placed in my path, that led to the defilement of my mind.

It took a long time to get freedom from it. I feel like I can relate to that Samaritan woman. I know a lot of you can, too, and I want to call you out of shame.

I want to call you to turn that thing around and be a prophet for the Christ. Don’t be ashamed of the fact that you needed saving. Even the perfect Pharisees needed it. It was just harder for them to see it.

He knows everything you’ve ever done, and yet He still looks on you with love and compassion. He doesn’t turn away from you. It’s not too much for Him.

I want the dirty, the defiled, the abused, the shamed to come out, and take the offer of living water. Then run with your testimony.

Many Samaritans from that town believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, “He told me all that I ever did.”

John 4:39 ESV

Art: “I That Speak Unto Thee Am He,” by Michael Phipps

I think I’ve finally figured something out.

In the process of letting go of comparison and bearing the burden of the expectations of others, I’ve found the freedom to be myself. As I’ve become more “me,” my relationships have improved. 

When I lived under a black cloud of failure (and it certainly did feel dark and oppressive) I was miserable. When I was focused on trying to please people, especially my own husband, I was always aware of how I fell short. It’s hard to never feel like it’s enough.

And that was a burden I picked up myself – he didn’t put that on me.  

We only carry the things we choose to carry. That’s when the freedom comes – when we realize we can set certain burdens down. We can’t make anyone happy, we can’t please everybody and some people won’t like us or understand us. That’s the normal human experience.

The thing I’ve noticed is that, though I’m the same person, with the same shortcomings – I still forget about the laundry, I still get moody, I still haven’t gotten a grip on meal planning – our relationship has grown. And I don’t want to put words in my dear husband’s mouth, but I think he finds me more attractive.

I know it’s true: there’s something attractive about a person who is comfortable in their own skin. I don’t mean in the inappropriate, in-your-face, I’m-gonna-be-me-so-forget-you kind of way, but in the easygoing kind of way. 

It has made me more open-hearted and freed me to love better. Not perfectly, still, but better. 

I have purple streaks in my hair, I smile more, I’m more at peace and I’m more friendly. I’d still like to grow and improve in many ways, no doubt, but they don’t crush me any longer. Basically I’m becoming less self-conscious and {gulp} self-centered. 

The real secret to all of the above is this: I’ve determined that there’s only one opinion that really matters. My only goal is to stand before God the Father in good conscience. When I miss the mark I agree with Him and ask Him to work in me to change me. Then I trust Him to do it. The end.

That’s a really good feeling. I can breathe again. I only wish I’d figured this out a long time ago. 

 

When I saw this sign the other day, it stopped me in my tracks and I said a big, AMEN. It’s outside the new Restoration Hardware store that’s under construction in Leawood. Call me crazy but I love it.

I wish I could take credit for the words:

“Every act of creation is first of all an act of destruction.” – Picasso

See what destruction hath wrought.

If ever there was a short and sweet way to describe where I’ve been the last few years, this is it.

I might rather say, “Every act of re-creation is first of all an act of destruction.”

You have to tear down before you can rebuild.

I’ve said in previous posts that I’ve been in a process I named, “unbecoming” (click for a little explanation in that post). Several things had happened that left me feeling like I was sitting in a pile of rubble, that used to be me.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say God was behind the destruction, but He most certainly has used it for my good.

Look at this familiar passage in Romans:

Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. And he who searches hearts knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose. For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. Romans 8:26-29

I know there are various thoughts on what this passage is saying, but two things leap out at me:

One, He turns all things for good for those who love Him and are called. That’s good news.

Two, I can’t help but notice a connection between the Spirit’s helping us in our weakness and our being conformed to the image of Jesus.

Perhaps as the Spirit was making intercession on my behalf, praying for me in ways I didn’t know to pray, according to God’s will, He was simply asking that I be conformed to the image of Christ.

What if that was my highest need? What if that is the highest need we all have, but in our weakness we don’t know to ask for it?

What if the things that were meant for my destruction were just the kinds of things God uses to mold me into what I’m predestined to be?

Perhaps he uses [not causes] the hard things in our lives to rid us of all that is not like Him.

That would put a different spin on things, wouldn’t it? It would give us a new, more hopeful perspective in the midst of pain. Maybe it would help us forgive more easily.

So, what do we do when things fall apart? When life looks like destruction? When we don’t know who we are anymore?

I think we plunder the situation, the wreckage, for all the good it’s worth. We mine out the gold, silver and precious stones and then walk away and let the rest burn.

We take what’s solid and begin again. And one day we will say, come “see what destruction hath wrought.”

I was thinking about last night’s post and almost took it down because it sounds kind of depressing. As I was thinking about it, I realized that it was missing something: hope.

It wasn’t totally absent from my mind but I was definitely more focused on the dangers lurking “out there.”

It became clear that the possibilities can be overwhelming, unless I’m looking at them from a hopeful position.

Making decisions based upon fear is never a good plan. I saw it in my mind like a bullseye, with hope in the center and all the other stuff in the outer rings.

That’s where we need to stand – right in the bullseye. Then we can look out at the possibilities with strength and make wise decisions.

We have to be wise and knowledgeable about the dangers but we also don’t ever have to assume our kids will get into any of them. I’ve never understood parents who just conceded their kids because “it’s inevitable.” It doesn’t have to be.

They might make a wrong turn, and if they do, we cross that bridge when we get there.

Unless or until that happens, I can believe for the best. I can joyfully live with our kids while teaching them how to navigate life.

After all real love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres.

This is just me thinking out loud, tonight. Lately, I’ve been experiencing a high level of anxiety related to our kids. Of the “unavoidable not fun things” in parenting, the most difficult for me has been the loss of each child’s innocence.

It comes in different ways and I say it’s unavoidable because it is. At some point they see things they shouldn’t see, or don’t understand; or someone does something really mean; or someone teaches them things they don’t need to know yet; or tragedy strikes; or there’s just a gradual awakening to the ways of the world (this would be my preferable method…just a gradual realization, rather than a sudden plunge into murky waters).

I’ve got one kid left who’s still pretty innocent. His mind hasn’t been infiltrated by older kids, by inappropriate images or by foul language, for the most part. He still loves to play with his stuffed animals and he’s so sweet. And I found myself grieving that he’s the last baby and wishing he could stay innocent forever.

This world our kids are growing up in is tough. There are so many things that could destroy them – pornography, drugs and alcohol, sexual foolishness, bullying, social media. It’s just a lot to think about.

I realized my anxiety is coming from a strong need/desire to control my kid’s circumstances, as if I could keep out all the bad stuff if only I could gain enough control.

But that isn’t true. Stuff happens. We have to keep lines of communication open with our kids, be involved at school, get to know their friends and have lots of conversations such that there are no taboo subjects. We need to love them like crazy. They need to know home is a safe place.

Above all we need to pray for them. A lot. We need to teach them Gods ways because His way is best. He made us and He knows what causes us to thrive and what is destructive. I pray for good friends for each of my kids. I pray that they would follow Jesus, that they would be brave and kind, that they would be wise, that they would learn from their small mistakes and avoid the really big ones.

I pray they would honor the opposite sex and their own bodies, be respectful and be pure in heart. I pray that they would learn to love, be compassionate and serve others.

I pray for wisdom for us, for discernment for each situation and for peace to overcome anxiety.

I pray for love to conquer fear.

I kept wanting to write a post about this topic but then I remembered that I already did 🙂 This is a very slightly edited version of something I wrote two years ago. I could say much more now, and maybe say it better, but this will do. I was in the throes of sorting out a lifetime of bad thinking (still am). The renewing of the mind is a lifelong adventure. Thankfully, God is patient and He is for me.

I’ve heard it said, and I believe it, that perception is everything. Perception may not be what’s true, but I feel it’s what matters most when that proverbial *stuff* hits the fan in our lives. Attached to those situations, tied on with a string, you’ll find an invitation to answer the question:

What will you believe?

The ultimate questions we have to answer center around what we believe after something happens to us. Two people can experience the same event, and while one is traumatized for years the other may recover fairly quickly. Perception/belief can be the difference.

As I see it, there are four possible questions we have to wrestle with, depending on the nature of what happened:

1. What do I believe about the situation? Do I see it rightly or are facts skewed by emotion or past events? What do I know to be true here?

2. What do I believe about myself because of what happened? What we say about ourselves is more important than what others say.

3. What do I believe about God? This one is the most important, obviously.

4. How should I respond, having answered the other three questions?

We will all work through things differently based on how we answer these questions. For example, after a divorce; after the loss of a loved one; after a rejection; after a failure; after an abuse: what do you believe about God and what do you believe about yourself?

Where was He? What does He think? Is He angry with you? Is He willing to show mercy? Is He good?

Are you unlovable? Are you a failure? Are you not good enough? Was it your fault?

The other important factor is who we surround ourselves with. Without question, other trustworthy people are essential to getting through the hard things. Isolation will leave us stranded in the mire and so will negative people.

If we can find one or two people that can listen to our story, who love us, who are wise, who are truthful, we need to take advantage of that. Anything kept in the dark will fester and grow and rob us of joy and life. We need other people to speak truth to us: about who God is and about who we are.

Speaking from experience, there is great power and freedom in talking about the things we’d rather cover, hide or avoid. It’s rarely as bad as you think it will be.

We have to go through things to get through things.

We will live “below our privilege,” so to speak, if we believe the wrong things about God and ourselves. We can’t live above what we believe. Our minds must be renewed to the truth in order for us to be free.

Freedom is a daily choice. We have to take the steps and the risks, but it’s so worth it. I promise.

If you look deep in the heart of Dixie, you’ll find big bows, smocking, Mary Janes, monogramming, frills, ricrac, lace and sweet girls with good manners. Okay, the manners part is a toss-up. (Even boys are not exempt from smocking and monograms, when they’re young).

Listen, I’m not hating on you if you choose to put cranium-size bows on your daughters’ heads. I have friends I love dearly, that relish all things little girl.

I’m just saying I wasn’t having it – I didn’t want to wear it. My own girls wore bows but they were on the modest side. They also wore dresses and cute clothes, but we were well below the Southern Standard. I tended to stay more in the Target price range.

Given my lack of laundry prowess, I didn’t buy anything that I couldn’t feel okay about tossing out if it was destroyed by dirt, ice cream or a blowout diaper. I know, it’s gross, but that’s just how it is with babies. I speak truth.

I was raised in a culture that prized all things girly. I’m sure it’s like that in other regions, as well, but it seems more prominent in the South for some reason. We may have infected other parts of the country by now, though, what with the Internet and the Southern diaspora (I made that phrase up – it’s when Southerners graduate college, get jobs and move away from home, taking their Southern culture with them). But, I digress.

I feel like I’m writing with a southern accent right now.

I just never fit in. I was tomboy to the core and despised having to wear dresses and have my hair fixed.

There was an incident in first grade that might have played into all this:

I wore my blue corduroy skirt to school one day. We were all on the floor watching a film strip (yes, a film strip, kids – those were the days). I was stretched out with my legs behind me when a little boy reached up, lifted my skirt and looked underneath it.

I was mad, horrified and violated. I believe I decided that was the last time I was wearing a skirt to school. My business casual days were short.

It was probably bound to happen eventually. I was destined to be a tomboy. As I got older I realized how not okay that was. I felt unsatisfactory and always thought my mom probably wished I was a girly girl. That would be a pretty normal wish for a mom.

Boys liked me, too – when we were younger – but eventually as they started noticing girls in a different way, I was overlooked. I was great for climbing trees, playing spy or riding bikes, but not considered pretty. I was one of the boys, I guess.

Plus, as previously mentioned, I was a late bloomer. So I kind of looked like a long haired boy for a long time.

I say all this to say that in a world where girls are judged and defined by a certain set of standards and ideals, I was failing to hit the mark. And I was well aware of it.

Thank God I didn’t grow up in the current day and time, because someone would have been right there to tell me that maybe I really wasn’t meant to be a girl. Maybe I should experiment with being a boy for a while. I can’t imagine how much more confusing it is for kids today.

When I was little I saw a show about people who had been born with particular defects and their parents had chosen which gender their kids would be (and they often chose wrong).

I didn’t understand all the ins and outs, so for a while I actually thought that’s what must have happened to me: my parents picked for me to be a girl because we already had a boy. I hope that doesn’t freak anybody out (looking at you, Mom 😉). It’s funny now but it wasn’t at the time.

The truth is that I was meant to be a girl. I was a girl and I am now a woman. That’s what God created me to be (I firmly believe that women are women and men are men – where identity issues arise, there is disorder somewhere. That’s not politically correct, but it is logical. I also believe there’s a more sympathetic way to see people who struggle in this area than with reproach).

Stereotypes and expectations, and an inability to understand them, were a big part of my problem.

As I’ve gotten older and looked to see what Scripture says about what it means to be a woman (and what it doesn’t say), I feel a lot more freedom to be myself.

God’s original design for woman is so much higher than many of us ever imagine, because we’re so busy worrying about our exteriors that we never get around to the interior of our hearts. That’s where true beauty should be found.

There’s this kid I grew up with. This kid was generally messy – the bedroom was a science experiment, with dirty dishes shoved under the bed during emergency clean-ups, only when outdoor play time was threatened.

Clothing and toys were everywhere and you might say that the child was an early stage hoarder. Everything – trinkets, happy meal toys, drawings, school papers, rocks – was treasure. Sentimental attachments to stuff abounded.

Favorite activities were tree climbing, playing in the water hose, wiffle ball with the neighborhood kids, touch football, basketball and playing in the ditch looking for frogs and tadpoles. Tiny baby frogs were the rare, but ultimate, find.

Getting dressed up was a no-go. Jeans or shorts with t-shirts only, please. Why was it necessary to dress up for church? Why did God need kids to be uncomfortable?

This kid was also a late bloomer. Puberty showed up late to the party, so while everyone else was becoming something “more,” this kid remained, well, a kid, a little while longer.

Interests were Transformers, GI Joe, Star Wars and the like. Also, art was pretty cool. New packs of crayons and markers were the best.

There are many other things that could be said about this kid, but for now let me ask you this:

Reading the description above, would this kid most likely be a little boy or a little girl?

I’m sure you realize that I’ve been describing myself all along, because you’re smart people and you’re quick that way.

So, the kid that loved frogs, wiffle ball and Transformers, and hated dressing up and cleaning up, was me – a girl. Or supposed to be, anyway.

This was the foundation of one of my ongoing struggles in life, which was and is, not feeling like I measure up as a woman. I didn’t and don’t feel like I fit the mold.

…………………………………………………..

To be continued (at some future time…could be days or weeks…can’t make any promises…I have commitment issues).

I’m also into Bitmoji right now.

Within the last few years I’ve found myself in a strange and, at times, uncomfortable, place. It wasn’t just one thing, but rather, a series of events that led me here.

Within a years’ time I lost a close friend to cancer, we moved to a city 12 hours away from family and friends, and I had an interaction with someone that left me broken and in shock.

Essentially it was like a series of explosions that left me shattered, emotionally. The way I’ve come to see it in my mind’s eye, is that when everything blew up, it stopped mid-air and is being held in suspension with me standing right in the middle of it all.

I can turn and look at each piece, one at a time, take it, turn it in my hands, examine it and decide whether to keep it, renovate it or toss it.

This is the process I’ve been in for the last three years.

I’ve been examining almost everything: relationships; parenting; my childhood; friendship; ideas about grace, sin and salvation; theology of sickness, suffering, dying and healing; biblical interpretation and eschatology; ideas about gender roles in marriage and submission; expectations, shoulds and oughts; what it means to be a good wife, mother and housekeeper.

When I say I’ve looked at nearly everything, I mean it. What have I believed because I believe it and what have I taken in, without thinking, just because somebody said it?

I only want to keep what’s mine – in other words what I’ve prayed through, wrestled through with God, studied out and what the Holy Spirit has taught me.

I’m nowhere near finished (I’m sure I never will be in this life) but I’ve made some progress. I’ve had to toss some things and I’ve found a lot of things to keep. Some of them need tweaking, but are still keepers.

The one piece that was never up for grabs is Jesus. In fact the harder things got and the deeper my despair, the closer He felt. The further into the wilderness I went, the more I sensed He was near.

I love Him more now than before everything blew up in my face. This explosion of my life has been a gift.

As I proceed in writing, just know that He is what’s solid for me. I could throw away an idea or belief today, only to pick it back up in five years. I realize that. But He remains.

I might say some things you disagree with. I fully expect that because we’re all so different – our backgrounds, denominations, faith and teaching, aren’t the same. I have friends who are charismatic, Southern Baptist, Catholic, agnostic, atheist and everything in between.

If you’re a follower of Jesus, let’s join hands there. There’s little that’s as dangerous as we think it is, so long as He remains central. We can trust the Holy Spirit to guide and teach each heart that’s willing.

As I proceed I’ll probably write in essay style, tackling topics, rather than trying to be chronological. How do you make a timeline out of all this, anyway? I’ll share what personal details I can and where I can’t I won’t.

Deal?

Photo from: http://www.techinsider.io/how-nuclear-weapons-work-2016-1