by Melana Bontrager

The mornings at our little Everett home are sometimes steeped with fog. The surrounding houses are barely visible from my living room windows; large glass portals that usually offer a commanding floor-to-ceiling view of our neighborhood. Sometimes I get the feeling that my little corner of the world is wrapped in redemption; every street and porch light glows with incredible softness and the rough edges of our somewhat transient neighborhood are smoothed by the brush of moisture particles.

Just the other day, as I drew the curtain to take in the morning, I was particularly struck by the foggy beauty, and the glow of the neon cross atop the Trinity Lutheran church with which we share the alley beside our house. I ran outside in my mismatched pajamas and my bright yellow crocs to take a few photographs and found myself standing in the middle of a damp, early morning street just gazing up at the cross; a funny way to find ones self at dawn, but somewhat typical for me lately.

This period of my life has been characterized by my many issues—as truly, there are many—becoming clearer to me as I’ve traveled with my community group through Paul Tripp and Timothy Lane’s book, How People Change. We are about ¾ of the way through and I warn any of you who have not taken on this study, that the going is slow and laborious for a good portion of its duration; however, by the time the half-way mark is passed and you are tempted to think you might be able to coast through the rest of the book….beware. A month ago I was a little bored; now I am getting a serious spiritual butt kicking!

A major theme that has been unearthed through simultaneous scripture reading and probing questions brought up by Tripp and Lane is that my perspective on virtually everything has been weighted and swayed by the sinful patterns with which I have chosen to paint the daily journey that is my life. Particularly ugly has been the discovery that I filter God through my earthly experiences and relationships rather than seeking to filter my experiences through his character. If my art is not desirable enough to be published, if my writing is not affirmed by others, if as a daughter I am not as favored or as a companion I am found to be lacking, I tell God that his opinion must affirm these painful shortcomings and I push away with rigid arms of stubbornness. I stuff God into the limitations of my experiences rather than allowing him to be perfection; waiting with open arms to prove how much MORE he is than everything fallen.

Moreover, as I’ve dug deeper, I’ve come to see how I have not only placed certain parameters on how God is allowed to love me, but I’ve placed parameters on how others are allowed to love me as well: if I feel I’m ugly, my husband isn’t allowed to believe that I am beautiful, my parents are not allowed to love me as much as they love my sister, my friends are not allowed to love me if I am more overweight, less talented or substantially moodier than other potential friends in their lives. I’ve designated my limitations and become prickly when they are challenged. It’s a dreadful shell that I’ve wallowed in; a selfish and lonely place.

Beautiful, though, is the way in which Jesus has been patient with me, and has lovingly let me wander for 32 years without pushing me further than my heart had been prepared to go. For most of my days I have been hard-hearted and moody and self-focused and the full realization of my dreadful shell would have likely crushed me. Yet now, as he has led me softly to a place where I have begun to trust, I find that he has prepared me to walk with him as he weeds the thorns from my heart.

Beautiful, also is the way in which his love is beginning to be the most important thing in my life. I find myself less concerned with pulling all the loose ends together in my controlling fashion, and have found a bit of wonderful foolishness has entered my heart; I feel like a child, free and wondrous when something as small as the glow of a neon cross in the fog of an Everett morning can draw me to worship over the redemption offered to my heart.