A Reason to Smile

As I drove to work this morning, I noticed something surprising about my heart. The usual mad dash as I aspire to move from point A to B was noticeably absent. I traveled at a slower speed. I smiled. I was conscious of the natural beauty around me; the sun beaming through my sun roof; the first blooms of spring waving at me to stop and admire; the feeling of calm. The radio was softly playing. Restful. Peaceful. I was present in the moment. Unknowingly, ready for the unexpected. 

The song that began to play was one I'd heard many times. But today, with a calm and fully present heart, I listened with ears to hear.

“Jesus, friend of sinners . . . We cut down people in your name . . . The world is on their way to You but they’re tripping over me . . . Always looking around but never looking up I’m so double minded. A plank eyed saint with dirty hands and a heart divided.

Oh Jesus, friend of sinners. Open our eyes to the world at the end of our pointing fingers. Let our hearts be led by mercy. Help us reach with open hearts and open doors. Oh Jesus, friend of sinners, break our hearts for what breaks yours.

Jesus, friend of sinners . . . Help us to remember we are all the least of these. Let the memory of Your mercy bring Your people to their knees . . . Nobody knows what we’re for only what we’re against when we judge the wounded. What if we put down our signs crossed over the lines and loved like You did.

You love every lost cause; you reach for the outcast; For the leper and the lame; they’re the reason that You came. Lord I was that lost cause and I was the outcast. But you died for sinners just like me, a grateful leper at Your feet...””

— Casting Crowns, Jesus, Friend of Sinners

And the unexpected happened.

The song's primary message urges us to see others as Jesus sees them. But toward the end of the song I heard these words: "Lord I was that lost cause and I was the outcast. But you died for sinners just like me, a grateful leper at your feet . . ." 

As I listened to these words they deeply pierced my heart of flesh, and with stinging clarity I became fully aware of something I already knew and believed.

I was the outcast . . . that lost cause . . . the one enslaved; damaged; the oppressed, poor, and wretched. I was miserable and heartbroken, sad, dejected, and downcast. That was me. 

When I found myself at the bottom, He stepped down into my shambled, disfigured, and rancid life and comforted me. My heart and soul were stained, but He overlooked my filth, the dirty and ruined thing I called my life. The stench of my brokenness didn't repel Him, rather, with love and acceptance, He opened wide His arms and fully embraced me.

He desired me when I was undesirable. He pursued me when I ran away. He accepted me when I denied Him. He loved me when I was at my worst. He reached way down and healed me when I was crushed. He restored my brokenness, clothed me with His righteousness, and cleansed my stained soul. He looked beyond my shame, guilt, and regret, and saw one He compassionately and indiscriminately loved, and He called me His friend . . . His own! 

---

I drove the car into the parking lot and turned it off. It was pleasantly warm as I sat quietly and looked out the window. 

"Thank you," I whispered, "Thank you for befriending a sinner like me." 

And then I was reminded. 

"I'm no longer a sinner, I'm His beloved. I'm His!" And then it all made sense. This explains why the flowers are more delightfully beautiful and the sun more warm and inviting. I know what's behind my smile. I have meaning in my calmness. There's a reason for my peace. The rest I experience at this very moment makes sense. 

I am beloved of Jesus, who befriends sinners, of whom I once was.

[Grateful Sigh] 

Now that's a reason to smile. 

The Son Shines Brightly

I'm weary of the nights . . . when pain, misery, suffering, and brokenness are common experiences in life . . . where deadlines and multitasking, telephones and computers and cell phones exploit me, as though I am subservient to them . . . when busyness and to-do-lists manipulate my moment by moment living and I exhale with heaviness as I give in to running the path they've chosen for me . . . when the people who matter most are the ones who receive the least of me . . . when tears flow from deep wells of sadness and hurt. 

"The night is far gone . . ." Romans 13:12

"Weeping may endure for the night . . ." Psalms 30:5

Today I read that the time of night has almost been spent . . . its season is coming to an end. I also remembered another passage describing the deep well of struggle that our tears draw from is nearing emptiness . . . its usefulness is ending. However, in this body that is mine, which dwells in this place I call now, I cry out in desperation "How much longer Lord? I'm tired. How much longer?"

And then I'm reminded as I read the second part of each passage . . . 

" . . . the day is at hand."

 " . . . joy comes in the morning." 

When morning dawns, I never doubt the coming of day. I'm aware with the first breaking of the sun as it pierces the night that daylight is coming. Daylight will soon be upon me. This is a reality. Nothing can stop the rising of the Sun. 

Then I realize . . . 

The Son has already risen to defeat the night and with His coming dawn has already broken upon me. His entrance into this shadowy world, ripped apart the veil of that moonless, wretched darkness, and light transfixed its rule. He has dawned upon me. 

Now, I know. 

Just as I sit with my coffee in the darkness of each early morning and watch as the first rays of light materialize, waiting and watching as the day appears just as it should; so now I wait and watch. 

But while I wait, I long . . . I yearn . . . I dream. 

I’m longing for a simpler day . . . a day when every space, crack, and crevice of my life is filled with the stillness that comes from knowing and being . . . a day when stress and misery and pain are foreign concepts and while words might exist to describe them, they're not found in my mouth . . . a day when people matter more than performance or successes or all the materialistic or task-oriented objectives I place in front of them, and I treat them with the love and respect that is rightfully theirs. 

I’m yearning for a natural rhythm . . . a moment in time when life passes slowly by, like the shadows made by the sun as it slides along the blue sky, and my enjoyment of that moment is pure and uninhibited . . . a rhythm that involves a long, deep breath as I stare in bewilderment and joy at the eternal span of the life I live . . . where the steady pulse I feel is the beating of my heart as it anticipates the joy found in being still . . . where sleep is right as rain and rest is as natural as breathing. 

I’m dreaming of a joy-filled time . . . when each moment is brand new and I run out with giddiness to meet it like a child dancing in a field of daisies . . . when simplicity causes me to pause and gaze in wonder at the splendor it represents . . . when hope rests upon my shoulders as I feel its weight and know its power and allow it to settle upon me and surround me . . . when laughter dwells alongside contentment and, like family, they live deep within my heart and mind. 

While I wait, I do know one thing for certain. I am unquestionably confident that absolutely nothing can stop the coming of His Day, when . . . 

The Son shines brightly upon me . . . and you!

I'm Weary

"Come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."  Matthew 11:28

I'm tired. Tired of spinning plates. Tired of trying to live life in the fast lane. I'm tired of being out of breath and overextended. I'm worn out from longing for a better way. I'm weary of striving to slow down and breathe. Exhausted from the heaviness my soul tries its hardest to bear.  

I'm so ready to just push pause, stop, and refocus. 

One of my many faults is that I attempt to solve my challenges and difficulties by either taking it upon my self to do it all, or listening to diagnoses offered by others.

I have a serious case of pride. If left unchecked, it takes control and moves me in places I don't belong. When my pride is running amuck and I'm faced with challenges or difficulties, pride takes over and shifts my internal gear into "get it done mode." When there, I assume complete responsibility for solving all of my challenges or difficulties, and I reason I'm more than capable of finding solutions. 

If I run out of my own solutions, my next attempt is to turn to others and get their input. I will research and dig and discover and read and listen to everything there is to find on solving a particular challenge or difficulty. If someone says do this, I'll do it. If I read to go here, I'll go. Whatever I find that might offer solutions I'm going to try. 

While these two approaches to solving my challenges and difficulties are not inherently bad, to be honest, they've left me completely exhausted. I'm tired of trying to do things on my own, and it seems that these attempts never provide the deep and permanent healing my soul craves.

The healing I ache for comes only from One source. In Matthew 11:28-30 Jesus offers a summons to those exhausted from trying. He says, 

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."

Jesus is the only remedy for my diseased soul. He and He alone provides the rest my soul desires. I simply have to do two things -

First, I must simply come to Him and receive His rest. 

I imagine this means that each day - for me it means each moment throughout my day - I must bring Him all my burdens and joys, hopes, dreams, and plans. I must be willing to lay these things before Him. This requires I stop. Pause. Listen. I also must receive the rest He provides by my simply coming, and deeply breathe in knowing He profoundly cares for everything I bring to Him. 

Second, I must receive His yoke, and learn from Him. 

I suppose this implies that as I come to Him each day, I make a renewed profession of my daily, living faith and embrace His Gospel - the Great Good News of what He's accomplished for me - afresh. Each day - or moment by moment in my case - as I submit my life to the plans He has for me, I will learn a new way of being and doing that is filled with gentleness and humility. This modus vivendi (way of life) is immensely different than my modus operandi (way of operating), yet the impact is transformational. 

I'm weary today, and it's been just an ordinary day. But in this moment I choose to stop. To come to Him and receive what He longs to give me. To  renew, once again, my commitment to Him and listen as He teaches. 

Today, I respond simply by coming, receiving, and learning from Him. In living this new way of life, I will find rest for my soul. 

My Addiction

I'm an addict.

I have a "drug" of choice that's my fill-me-up when I'm empty and my pick-me-up when I'm down. It soothes my fears and calms the free-for-all that wages war within me. When I'm discouraged, a simple dose anesthetizes my feelings and supplants a euphoria my mind and body crave with abandonment. 

I have an addiction.

I'm consistently seeking my next fix. My dependency on this "drug" drives me to talk, dress, and act in such a way that guarantees I'll get what I so desperately need. 

My drug of choice . . . My addiction is:

I'm addicted to approval.

I guess you could call me an an approval-addict.

At least that's what he called me as he stared across the room at me one Friday morning. I'd been seeing him for months and with his words he'd been the instrument of God performing a much needed surgery on my soul. While it felt as if this surgeon had forgotten to administer anesthesia prior to his first cut, I came to understand that honest introspection can be as painful as a wound inflicted upon the surface. 

"I know what you are," He offered, after a rather painful discussion of my past. "You're an approval-addict. You've lived your entire life seeking the approval of every single person you meet." 

I have to admit my initial response was an expletive, formed and perfectly delivered in my head. I wanted to defend myself and shout to the top of my voice "You are wrong, this is just my amiable and effervescent personality . . . everybody likes me . . . just ask them?" 

But as I looked back at him, I knew deep down he had just pulled the camouflage off this impeccably concealed truth, and by doing so, I was now forced to discover why I'd hidden it there in the first place. 

Before I could offer anything up, he continued. 

"Do you see how this all makes sense?" He asked with genuine understanding. But I didn't see any meaning in this at all, and he knew it. Knowingly, he began to explain the significance of my approval-addiction and why this made perfect sense to him. 

Looking back, I now comprehend the truth found in his words. 

When I was a child, a wound deeply pierced my soul. In that instant I determined, subconsciously, that I would never let anyone come close to hurting me again. My need to protect myself was so powerful that it propelled me to perform. I know this may not make a lot of sense, but I've discovered the subconscious mind is sometimes impossible to decipher. In performing, I somehow wanted to ensure everyone who witnessed my performance would smile and applaud, and whisper to their neighbor as they looked my direction, "Don't you just love them? They are so real (or talented or well-spoken or intelligent or gracious or gifted or whatevercharacteristicIneededtoengender). I want to be their friend." 

Consequently, I developed techniques to make certain this conclusion was achieved. 

Chiefly, I became an incredible actor. My ability to transform myself into whatever the person in front of me needed, was second to none. As a result, my skills of observation were exceptional. I was able to quickly determine what would cause a person to like me, and then I would act out those things when with them. In every encounter, conversation, social situation, or intimate setting, I was "on stage," performing, so I could make certain everyone "enjoyed the show." In this way, I believed I could manage how people perceived me. After all, if they liked me, then they would surely never hurt me. 

The longer I played this game, the more intense my need for the approval of others became. By living in this manner, I never even realized the extent of my dependency. 

Until . . . He looked across the room and called me an "approval-addict."

Today, while I'd love to admit that my need for approval has lost it's hold over me, I'm not quite there. At times it raises its ugly head and smiles approvingly at me, nodding with raised eyebrows, as if signifying it knows me better than I know myself.

Even now as I write these words, I can hear the all to familiar whisper to once again play the part, as it anxiously skulks below the surface. It's there. I know it. 

But this time . . . things are different.

I have named and accepted my addiction, and now I'm free to receive the healing that's mine. But it takes time and lots of patience to root out the lingering effects my addiction leaves behind. It also requires stillness. It's in this undisturbed calm that my soul is finally free to receive His Words, like healing balm tenderly applied to my injury. 

I suppose one could still say I'm an Approval-Addict. But this time things are different. Because the more I listen to Him, the less I need the approval of others, and the more I'm dependent on His Approval. 

I am not my past

I'm sitting across from him, back to the window, in a fairly uncomfortable chair. 

Aren't these places suppose to have couches and comfy pillows one can cradle to protect the soul? 

I fidget and try my hardest to avoid eye contact. After all, I've just laid bare my soul and the secret I've carried for years is no longer a secret. 

"What are you feeling?" 

I tell him. I'm honest . . . for the first time. 

He listens and writes. He doesn't respond. I go on.

I describe the pain and hurt. I tell him I feel worthless and ashamed. 

"What do you see when you look at yourself?"

What kind of question is that? Are you kidding me? Hmmmmm, let' see . . . 

Every day for pretty much my whole life the image I see of myself is one shaped by what happened. I see the scars and blemishes, the imperfections and deformities my soul's injury left behind. After all, aren't we the sum of our experiences? I tell him so. My past has fashioned my present. I am that person, which I can't escape, no matter how fast I try to run away. 

He listens and writes.

What's he thinking? I can't help but fear what he thinks of me. 

My need for approval shoves its way to center stage, while the old, tried and true feelings of shame and worthlessness surround me like a rabid pack of dogs, ready to pounce, and I've no protection against them. 

I glance up. He's looking at me. 

"Listen to me closely." He speaks with determined gentleness. 

My eyes meet his in quiet desperation. 

Please God. Speak. I need You . . . 

He's silent for a moment, as if he hears my souls cry for help, and then, when all is still, he slowly speaks eight words with weighted holiness. 

"What. Happened. To. You. Does. Not. Define. You." 

I stare at him as my ears hear his words and my brain perceives their meaning. My spirit swallows heavily, as the weight of his words sink deep with meaning. 

What happened to me does not define me?

What. Happened. To. Me. Does. Not. Define. Me. 

The moment my soul repeats these words I know they are true. The cold despair this lie has fostered begins to fade by the warmth of truth. Hope springs to life. 

He continues. "What defines you is who you are. Are you this?"

I slowly shake my head no. 

"Who are you?" He asks. 

"I am His child. I am whom He says that I am. I am His beloved."

He looks at me knowingly. "You do understand what that means don't you?" 

And I do. 

Words can't adequately describe what it feels like to finally stop running . . . knowingly . . . all these years I've been running from my past, only to discover that it's the truth I've been trying to escape. But one can never run that fast, and so with a sigh of deep understanding I just stop. Turn. Look truth in the face. 

And I do. Truth speaks just above the whispering of the wind outside the window I sit beside. I hear it's familiar voice as clear as my own. 

"I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me." Galatians 2:20

At that moment something changes within me as I finally understand what it means to belong to Him. I died, and His life was birthed within me. Therefore, I am not my past, because all of me has been swallowed up by all of Him. His life is now mine to claim. I am not the sum of my experiences. My former life is dead and I've been made new - redeemed. My past, and all that happened to me, can't define me. It doesn't have the power or the right to do so. 

The only One, now, with the right and the life-giving power to define me is my Savior, and He says I've died with Him and He now lives within me. I am loved by Him. I am His beloved. This is what He sees when He looks at me - His beloved.  

I look at him from across the room. "I am not my past" I repeat. 

"No you are not." He smiles. "You are His."

"I am His." 

Light dawns. Shame runs for the shade. Worthlessness slithers back into the shadows.

I am not my past . . . I am His!