Ever feel like your kids are your enemies?

Perhaps that sounds harsh, but there are days in our house when I feel like I am in a full blown war and all the guns are pointing in my direction. This is really not what I imagined when I entertained thoughts of being a mother. I often get caught up in dreaming that I should be easily respected and adored by my boys, attaining hero status simply by the sacrifices I make in order to care for their needs 24/7. What I often get in return, however, is a dissatisfaction with whatever I have decided/made/offered or given. I often receive whining and grumbling in response to my attempts to meet their demands. Today I found myself in the bathroom-my typical place of sanctuary as it possesses the only locking door in our house-with hot tears of anger and frustration slipping down my cheeks. But I took one look in the mirror and immediately melted into introspection: my tears should be over my own sin; the hard-heartedness I entertain daily before my ultimate Provider and Sustainer!

How many times I end up in this place of conviction! I continually find that the rebellious and selfish attitudes of my children closely mirror my own, and if I take a moment to allow their guilty little responses to penetrate my heart, I find that my tears of self-pity quickly transform into repentance for my own sinfulness. Their disrespect and rudeness still hurts, but far greater is the pain embedded in the knowledge that I daily and continually betray my Savior.

Sometimes I feel like the cycle is never ending; I return and return to this place of conviction, wrestling with what I see in my kids and how it mirrors my own heart. Perhaps this is the reality of a mother’s sanctification process. In addition to mirroring my sin, however, my kids also teach me a great deal about the childlike faith that Jesus called us to have; their ability to instantly move forward once forgiveness is sought sometimes amazes me with its abruptness. They believe completely that they are forgiven, simply because they have asked; moving so quickly from a nasty, evil attitude to singing songs about Jesus that I could almost laugh at the transformation. But they haven’t adopted the belief that we should somberly wallow after confessing our sins and asking for forgiveness-a belief that I have yet to find supported in the Bible. Rather, they move on. This too, is convicting as there are parts of my heart that selfishly hold onto shame and allow me to flounder in retrospective guilt. I actually love the instant fresh breath of a changed attitude or a righted situation in dealing with my children, and I have to assume; wouldn’t God love the same from me?

Perhaps the battle lines that seem-on days like today-to be drawn between my sons and I should serve as reminders that there truly is a war at hand. These are not meaningless, isolated incidents. Satan wants the hearts of my kids just as he wants mine. He will continue to hound our family as long as we profess the name of Christ. The good news is that Jesus pursues us as well; and his promises are strong and true. If I can start seeing these mundane battles with my children as daily practice for greater battles ahead, perhaps my teary trips to the bathroom might be re-routed, and my faith bolstered by the bigger picture of God’s perfect will being executed through us!

Through a variety of circumstances, I have not been in an actual Mars Hill church service for quite a few months now. The details are not necessary, and it is a short-term phase: the end of which I can see on the horizon. Never the less, as Sunday has not held a “live” sermon for me in quite a while, I have been listening online at approximately 1 week behind schedule.

Last night as I listened to worship: God transforms, I began to mull over the last year in which our community group walked together through the book/workbook How People Change by Lane and Tripp, and the women’s bible study I was involved with last summer journeyed through the writing of our stories as we read To Be Told by Dan Allender. Both of these studies brought up many of the same issues as Pastor Mark addressed this past Sunday in his laundry list of questions regarding worship. Some of the questions were not new to me, but were a good reminder of the distance that easily slips in between conscious surrender and lazy apathy; I have been easily consumed by life, allowing it to run and dictate my worship rather than consciously taking up my cross daily, laying at the feet of Jesus all belief in the deceitfulness of Satan.

Of all the questions raised in his notes, the one Pastor Mark asked that most caught me off guard was “what idols am I selling to others.” I don’t often like to think of myself as a seller of idols, but it was a hard question to ignore and has been rolling around in my head much of the day. I sometimes wonder what others think of me; pondering how vastly the way I see myself might clash with the person that others think of when my name is mentioned. This ponderance can become an obsession, so it’s something that I strive to keep in check, but perhaps Pastor Mark’s question addresses it in a healthy way.

As I’ve been thinking about my list of “wares” solicited by my daily life, at the top are some pretty stupid things. Through the course of the last couple years, God has patiently pointed out my sin areas, and I can see the fruit of my actions as they change from rotten to Christ-sweetness. However, as it seems is always the case as I journey with my Savior, I am reminded that we do not arrive in this lifetime—arriving is for later. Rather, we are as ogres: our layers uncovered like the peels of an onion. Each layer may reveal something new or it may reveal more deeply the root of what was uncovered at a previous time. Either way, the list that spilled out as I contemplated the idols I sell included some of the oldies that I have prided myself on having licked for good. (Okay, shall I add that to the list, too? Damn pride!)

Of my repertoire of propaganda, “having it all together makes a difference” runs high on the list. Even though I am growing to love the raw and messy way of true redemption, I still find myself returning to the “importance” of self-presentation. I think this must convey–on many levels–the assumption that I am supportive of all y’all who are trudging through the mire, but I’ve found my step up and am doing just fine, thank you. The truth is that I get hurt and I am lonely and I have days of being quite blue and I have yelled at my kids (today), and most of the time I feel like I’m flying by the seat of my pants.

I thought about this today in light of what I am truly beginning to believe about Christ, and for the first time, put together in consciousness the total lunacy of what I am selling. Attempting to sell others—through my actions—on the possibility that merit can be gained through accomplishment is to spit in the face of the truth: I CAN DO NOTHING THAT IS DESERVING OF JESUS! My very best effort is as filthy menstrual rags; and so my choice to live in deception and try to sell my deception is ugly and ludicrous. So why do I insist on peddling this outrageous idea? It has to do with worship! It seems that what you worship becomes at the same time more consuming and more alluring. If it’s anything but Christ, the allure and draw abounds, but the emptiness grows like a chasm: begging to be filled, but remaining a dark vacuity. BUT, if worship is of Christ alone, that consuming fire is lit in our hearts, constantly kindling a draw from the depths of our created beings. We are simultaneously full of desire and utterly contented—it is then that Soli Deo Gloria (to God alone be the Glory) can be the cry of our very souls and the thing which our lives most loudly proclaim!

This day I have–most assuredly–been challenged. Today I see the path more clearly. Thanks be to God for his Word and those who teach its truth unabashedly!

For the past 15 years I have lived in a plethora of places: cities, countries, flats, houses, condos, but never have I lived in one place for more than 2 years. This fact brings with it a myriad of distinctives that as a whole have defined my modus operandi. For one, my friendships have gone to a two-year level, then have either faded away or have become long distance friendships; well maintained but lacking the details (muck) of daily life. Additionally, the two-year window has generally allowed me the opportunity to get involved in my community and my local church, without encountering anything too uncomfortable. My interpretation of my relatively smooth sailing—for the last 15 years—has been that I am in the know regarding what makes a good friendship, how to address conflict, and how to love others in the pursuit of true community.

What I am learning, however, is that in many ways I don’t know squat about long-term community, nor do I know what to do with friendships that remain “in my face” for longer than two years, nor do I really understand how to delve into true love for one’s neighbor—and enemy—when historically I would just geographically move away from both.

In most areas of my life, you could say that I wrestle with long-term goals and prefer to live in the now, so to see beyond a two year period of time is difficult for me. This month, my husband, sons and I head into our two year anniversary in our little Everett home–with no real plans to move in the near future—and in many ways I don’t know how to proceed now that my “magic” two year window of time has run out. I find myself constantly feeling messy and bewildered as I continue through the days and weeks; often suppressing the urge to run away from the journey is laid before me.

Indeed, I recognize that some things will remain the same and some will change. But the newness comes with the fact that some of the change will occur in the relationships that are still very much a part of my everyday life. Those are the difficult waters for me to navigate. There is a definite tendency toward avoidance in moving from place to place; a sweeping of things under the rug of the past. I have always thought it a positive thing that I could pack my bags and move as I wished, but I see know that much of that ability was really a defense mechanism: the practice of dusting off my shiny little facade and hoping that no one really discovered the crap behind the mask. Staying put is messy; I am new at being messy, and I really don’t yet know how to do it on a long term-basis.

I have met a couple women who have local friendships which they have developed and maintained for upwards of 10 years, and I find myself staring, open-mouthed in awe. There is something that I want desperately in that scenario, and yet it is the wading through the muck of the everyday that seems to drag at my boots. There is something glamorous and winsome about living the nomadic life, but there is emptiness as well. The emptiness resounds more deeply with the passage of time, and although I wrestle against the gypsy draw on my heart, I know that Christ offers more truth and beauty than I have yet experienced.

I don’t think it’s by chance that the entire Bible is full of illustrations of community and friendships or that the apostle Paul writes constantly about how to engage in true community or that Jesus drew to him 12 close companions; there is something powerful in community among God’s creation. Even the Trinity is an illustration of the fullness of community. And so I take a deep breath and realize that perhaps God is revealing to me something more wild and wonderful about his body than I have ever imagined. Perhaps I will find myself growing into this body of believers at Mars Hill Church and will have the privilege of being truly known and truly loved by those with whom I walk, hand in hand.

As foreign as it is to me, it sounds frighteningly lovely!

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.

I don’t really watch TV, and movies are viewed on an occasional basis. This trend began years ago when my husband and I didn’t have access to television service for a time, and we just filled in the space with other things. Now after the years of TV-free living, I honestly struggle to find where I would fit television back into my life, and so it has easily remained out of the daily routine. The funny thing about this way of life is that I love watching television. I love a good story line and I love to follow it, to watch the emotions of the characters unfold and to live life along with them. Maybe that last part is the problem: in the past I have abused my freedoms by getting sucked into the story and losing my grasp on the life I was given to lead.

Frequently the characters of movies have invaded my soul and commanded my attention, plunging me into a retreat from reality where I mull over their decisions and thoughts. I’ve used movie and TV watching to numb pain, to escape reality or to dream. Consequently, my basic response to these tendencies has been to use my lack of TV as a way to shut out ugly parts of the world around me—what you don’t see can’t hurt you, right??? In reality, the whole engaging culture thing really blows a hole in my safety-closet, and the retreat-and-hide approach doesn’t exactly present a healthy way to engage one’s freedoms. Point and case: the reason I’m in a frumpy funk….

About 2 weeks ago I spent a wonderful and indulgent weekend with a dear friend. Our traditional, yearly weekend always involves great conversation, leisurely afternoons over coffee, catching up on our art endeavors and lately, watching the entire season of an engaging and addicting TV show. I will spare you the distraction of the show’s name, and acknowledge that the character development and content is insightful and often quite redeeming. The content itself is not the root of my problem. As I look back, I notice that when I returned from said weekend, I felt disconnected from my life; I had jumped into a world other than mine and was neglecting the responsibilities of being fully me. I found myself desiring the continuation of another story rather than engaging in mine. I had opened a dusty, locked box and rather than partaking responsibly, I dove in gluttonously with mindless abandon.

Charles H. Spurgeon, in an excerpt from Morning by Morning, writes that when it seems we have “lost” Christ, we must go back and look in the place where we left him: if we have neglected him through a lack of prayer, we will find him by returning to prayer; if in neglect of his scriptures, it is there where we will find him; if we have lost him by clinging to sin, we will find him by surrendering the sin and clinging to the cross.

It is obvious—and embarrassing—to acknowledge that I left Jesus in front of the boob-tube; that I abandoned my precious Savior for the cheap thrill of stepping out of my life and entertaining the fictional life of another human being. My prayer-time has been lacking. I have been less drawn to the Bible. I have given in to numbness and complacency. ALL THIS FOR A TELEVISION SHOW? Well, yes and no. The television show isn’t the root of the problem; it’s the way in which I engaged the show. I decided to serve something else by letting it fill my heart rather than partake of my God-given freedoms with thankfulness and the choice to keep my God-filter intact: selfishness took root and the cloudiness set in.

About loosing Jesus, Spurgeon goes on to say “how is it that you have lost him? One would have thought that you would never have parted with such a precious friend, whose presence is so sweet, whose words are so comforting and whose company is so dear to you! How is it that you did not watch him every moment for fear of loosing sight of him? Yet, since you have let him go, what a mercy that you are seeking him…go on seeking, for it is dangerous to be without thy Lord.”

It is dangerous to be without thy Lord. How am I so duped into thinking that some fast-paced drama out weighs the excitement and daring and challenge of the God I claim to serve? Everyone is looking for a fix, but Jesus isn’t a fix, he’s the answer. The false gods that beg for my allegiance only resonate with my sin nature that doesn’t get the whole picture; they paint themselves as enticing and leave no room for me to cling to the passionate drama of the cross. Sometimes I get so easily tripped up by the sins of the simple, it makes me want to spit. Still, I am thankful for the mercy to keep on seeking him, emotional wreck that I can be; slowly learning to engage my television for the sake of his body, for the sake of his Glory.

Melana Bontrager

I have a 4 ½ year old who is bright and wonderful and keeps me on my toes with his ability to jump easily from a conversation about the wonders of heaven straight into a angry-eyed tantrum in the middle of isle 7 at QFC. Although I have a degree that plunged me into studying children’s behavior and how it relates to the inner workings of their mind/emotions/feelings, I find that no amount of education could have prepared me for what I face with my children on a daily basis.

My default is to desire my son’s outlook to be positive and his actions to reflect a serene little lamb at the feet of Jesus. The truth is that I just want him to want to obey, to love and serve Jesus, to take the Bible seriously and to willingly tailor his behavior to the parameters we have set in our home. It can be tempting to overlook the deeper wrestling of his spirit and to strive for the most–if only on the surface–well behaved kid; succumbing to appall when rudeness, disrespect and selfishness burst out of his little body.

As I am discovering, my desire for my son to naturally ooze goodness totally disregards the reality that he is a human being, struggling with his sinful nature just as every human being has since the fall of mankind. Essentially, he is new to this spiritual battle we wage daily; his armor is limited and his understanding of the big picture is small at best (heck, at 32 mine is often nonexistent). The truth is that if I want his behavior to glaze over the brewing of his fallen soul, I am doing him a disservice, and sending him out to war horribly unprepared.

Just taking a moment to think about all the years I have been given to wrestle against principalities and powers without being blasted for messing up is a sobering thought, and shifts my heart toward grace. How frequently does God redirect my words, my actions and my heart? (often, and repeatedly) The reality is that we wrestle daily against sin and it’s not pretty and gift-wrapped. Most often-if we’re honest-it’s ugly and messy and frayed at the ends. How can I expect my sons to fight valiantly if their preparation entails merely an extensive focus on clean shoes and opinions that are best kept to buttoned-up?

I’m not going to discontinue disciplining my sons, nor will I quit entreating them to abstain from spitting pasta at each other in a restaurant or writhing on the floor like lunatics in response to an “unfavorable” decision on my part. However, I do plan to proceed with caution when it comes to my knee-jerk responses to their sinfulness: I want to be sensitive to the paths they are walking, to seek discernment rather than jumping to emotional conclusions. I plan to pray for them and to guide them and to stand with them as the Holy Spirit works on their hearts; way down deep below the spitting and the flying spaghetti.

Melana Bontrager

My grandmother died when I was 8 years old, and although I don’t remember the time of the year, I remember it was a drizzly evening when she had a heart attack and went into the hospital. Additionally, I remember the chilly morning when I got up to get ready for school and my parents came in and told my sister and me that she had died. Whether the long months that spanned the time between her hospitalization and eventual death were actually during the holiday season, I don’t remember. But for the first time in my recollection, something dark and mysterious settled on me, and somehow I attributed a sense of sadness to the cold, dark season of Christmas in the Pacific Northwest.

In the 24 or so years since that first awareness of personal loss, I have lost many things: friendships, relatives, pets, dreams, time, and reality to name a few. Loss is part and parcel of the Fall, and it is felt deeply by all human beings conscious of their daily breath. While on the surface, the ideals of family unity and wish fulfillment collide in a mass array of stuffed turkey, holiday parties and tinseled trees, underneath the Christmas hoopla we are reminded that we are not perfect, that we are not fulfilled by what we find under the tree, and that perhaps in some way we are feeling our losses more deeply against the backdrop of oblivious holiday revelry. Some of you may toss me a “bah-humbug” at this point. Some may nod quietly.

In the last couple years, my Christmas sadness has deepened into a greater possibility than missing a lost someone or something or circumstance. The impetus to this change has come in the form of my children, whom God has used to alter my view of the world in more than a few ways. In regards to the birth of Christ, I have become intrigued by the relationship between Jesus and his mother Mary. I find myself amazed by the mother of Jesus who willingly said “I am a servant of the Lord, let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38) in response to the proposal that she-a virgin-would give birth to God in the form of a man who would surrender himself to every hardship imaginable and eventually die for the redemption of mankind.

I do not worship Mary. I am simply inspired by her humility. She willingly entered into the enormous inevitability of loss, and in this beautiful offering of humility, I find my Christmas sadness echoed. I think about holding my own babies; how their faith in my ability to care for them is far beyond deserved. Did Mary sit and hold the baby Jesus with such awe and amazement? Did she then catch a glimpse down the tumultuous path on which her baby would have to walk? I think she must have known deep in the well of her mothering-heart that she would have to let go of her beautiful little hero; that his life would not be easy: a marriage of pain and triumph. The bitter-sweet. The trial and the joy were set before her and she stepped forward in faith, hope and-albeit speculation-a bit of sadness. And so, my heart is affirmed by the possibility of the paradox.

This Christmas season I find myself exceedingly thankful for the gift of Jesus and-strange as it sounds-thankful for my Christmas sadness; I trust God to continuously mold it into a Godly response to the pervasion of sin and its ramifications that we experience every second of this life; to lead me constantly to the cross, and to keep me from putting down roots in a world that is not my home.

Melana Bontrager

I know I am teetering out onto a delicate line, and I don’t necessarily endorse all movies-or the one about which I am writing for that matter–as acceptable pieces of art through which to gain insight on culture or humanity or the nature of God. I do, however, know that in many ways I have held up a hand of fear when it comes to taking a good look at the ugly truth of reality, naively hoping that in doing so, I could make complete sense of the world and put pain in a logical little box.

I find myself constantly attempting to attach a reason to the occurrences I read about or witness in the lives of others. Admittedly, this often comes out as judgmental: attributing events to personal choices in a direct cause and effect scenario. Sadly, the only result of attaching a “logical” reason to the bad things that happen on this fallen planet is a false sense of safety, and a self-righteous lack of compassion for those most affected by its fallen-ness.

Its ugly–this mindset I have adopted over the years–yet I have to be honest if I’m going to look at the core issues. This mindset has allowed me to explain away the possibility of my own vulnerability; the possibility that I am not exempt from becoming the prey for painful circumstances. I have put myself on a different plane than the rest of the world, unwilling to completely look pain and suffering in the face. I have held out for the hope that I will never have to tread a path whose scenery doesn’t meet my expectations.

The movie I watched the other night was Mr. Brooks. It depicted a terrifying look into the possible motivations of a serial killer, and displayed in grotesque detail the killer’s psychological addiction to brutally murdering random people. The murder victims were not related either in situation or circumstance or biology. They were simply targets because they were alive, and the ability to kill them gave the murderer a sense of power and (totally sick) satisfaction.

I spent the next couple days grappling with the visual, emotional and psychological responses that the movie evoked in me and was struck with the heaviness of sin. Sin is not to be messed with; it is real and its ultimate aim destroys all life. Although I would label much of the violence in Mr. Brooks as gratuitous, I was even more sickened by how consumed the murderer became with his desire to violently destroy the life of a fellow human being; how incredibly dark his blatant disregard for the sanctity of human life. I was repulsed, but then got to thinking about the nature of sin. It is easy to point fingers at the character whose desires lead to the horrific, physical demise of another, but what of my own sin? What of the sins of my tongue that wound rather than build; that leave emotions ripped and bleeding in their aftermath? Does Jesus see such a grandiose difference between the physical and the emotional assaults we administer to one another-both with selfish, deadly blows? I’m thinking that he doesn’t. Sobering thought.

The other issue this movie brought up for me was the realization that sin has a wide-spread and impartial effect on all of us as a collective community of human beings. We are in this together more than we like to realize. Sometimes we see a direct result of our sin in our circumstances, but often, the things that really enrage us and tempt us to doubt the existence of a good God come as a result of sin simply existing in the world. We are part of the human race that chose to rebel against the one and only Holy God and therefore, we experience the effects of the presence of sin in our now fallen world.

As I mentioned before, I have always found a pseudo comfort in coming up with “reasons” for the evil that pervades our planet, but as Mr. Brooks so poignantly displayed, there are those who do not need a reason or a relationship to kill or hurt or humiliate, but rather a subject. That arbitrarily selected person could just as easily be me, or someone I love as it could be anyone. Sin is not so predictably selective. The point: I AM NOT IN CONTROL. (yikes!) Therefore, to whom am I going to turn when fear grips the sensitive and delicate bindings of my inner being?

I hope always, by the grace of God to be able to echo Edward Mote, a Baptist pastor from the 1800’s: “My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus blood and righteousness.”

Melana Bontrager

I am in a women’s community group that meets once a week. I don’t think I’ve ever been in community so true and honest and gritty. Yes, gritty-and I do so like that word! Gritty seems to be what James is talking about. There is the roughness of sin that grates against the holiness of God, and it produces in us a constant battle of flesh vs. spirit.

In our community group, it seems the more we dig into God’s Word as a group, the more real he becomes and the more blatant our sin seems to be. Not only is our sin made clear, but our confession of it has become a regular part of our communion as sisters in Christ. I’m becoming increasingly convinced of the importance of true, Christ-seeking community-it doesn’t allow for sin to hide in the secret cracks of our hearts. Likewise, it doesn’t allow us to remain unchanged beings, but promotes the working of the Gospel in our daily lives as we live in accountability with one another.

In our community group, I am being challenged to look at what comes out of my mouth as a result of the state of my heart as we are working through the book War of Words by Paul David Tripp, while simultaneously I am being challenged from the pulpit at Mars Hill Church to examine my heart and take a look at such ugly attributes as pride and grumbling. I mention these two because they have been especially glaring in my life, even though I have turned toward them a blind eye, thinking that I have been justified in my thoughts (pride) and have deserved to hold my own “opinions” (grumbling).

I was recently called on the carpet regarding my prideful, self-righteousness by someone very dear to me. It was painful to finally take a look at the havoc wreaked by my sin, but humbling in a refreshing sort-of way. For everything I’ve done, I’ve always had an excuse, and each excuse has held me just far enough from the truth to remain comfortably uncomfortable. Being forced to come nose to nose with my sin has brought me to my knees, and with confession has come the true peace of Jesus; even as the pain of my decisions linger. I am grateful for the hand of God allowing the hurt that further turned my heart toward him.

After Pastor Mark’s sermon on humility a few weeks ago, I again saw a bit of myself: a prideful, arrogant mess. This came on the heels of months of praying that Jesus would make me aware of my sin; that I would begin to know the weight of my depravity that it might draw me to him.I now see how much bigger a prayer that was than I ever realized. Another clue-in to my totally self-righteous attitudes, but a good reminder to be careful about that for which you pray: look out, God is faithful and does answer prayer!!!

The cool thing is that I didn’t want to fool anyone. I am happy to be me. Now this may sound trite and surface, but I really mean it and in truth, this is an enormous statement for me to make. Much of my life has found me wishing I were someone else: I have desired to look different, to have different life circumstances, different acquaintances, different skills and abilities, a different house, whatever. I’ve long put on the façade that I’m brimming with self-confidence, but it’s only to conceal the truth that I have been self-consumed and dissatisfied.

The process of turning from the sinfulness of selfishness is an (unfinished) novel in and of itself, so I won’t attempt to blog that in detail, but the nut-sized version is that God used a series of life events–starting about four years ago–to begin turning my heart toward him and away from the self-absorbed, selfish being that I had become. He has brought me to a place where I am learning to surrender my society-formed perceptions of self, and I am learning to hold fast to the love of Jesus and to the cross: Jesus’ sacrifice that defines my true identity. The journey is a redemptive process…

In honesty, as the reunion date approached, I found myself longing to lose just a few more pounds, hoping I wouldn’t break out in a flurry of facial blemishes and desiring for someone to offer me a large shopping spree so I could outfit myself in something impressive. However, by God’s grace, the process that he had begun in me continued, and as I stepped into the first interactions with my former college peers, I was overwhelmed by the softness of my heart and the transparency of my words. Conversations tumbled over each other in pleasant succession as my classmates and I shared amazement over the changes God has brought to our lives, and the transformation he has brought to our hearts. The sweet honesty between us hovered almost tangibly, and I felt total awe at a Creator who would choose to offer such beautiful gifts of friendship to his sinful, fallen creatures. Throughout my life I have spent countless hours enjoying good conversations, but these were some of the first that literally led me to worship on the spot. I am shallow, but Jesus runs deep and true; one amazing thing about redemption is that it not only enables negative tendencies to transform and give glory to God, but it also allows us-fallen beings-to find joy in the process of glorifying.

I thought my 10-year college reunion would be a fragmented piece of my journey: a disconnected piece of my life, filed in a solitary folder within the chronological order of my experiences. But what a joy to find that the work that Jesus is doing in my daily life is real and transforming. His work in me transcends chronological time and surrounds me in its fluidity. Jesus is in our past, in our present in our future; redeeming all things for his glory!