Vice and Victory

Facing temptation can feel like a lonely battle. It happens mostly in our heads - the play back and forth between the idea and the resistance. We imagine we are alone, the only Christian to ever face this particular struggle, the only one who's ever been ensnared and enticed by whatever evil we are staring down.

Christ came to this world to resist temptation. If He'd never faced a test of faith, the purity of His life would have simply been divine, rather than the human/divine He came to show the world. We share with Him in victory when we face down our demons and emerge unscathed: though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. (I Peter 1:6-7)

In these difficult days of first breaking the habit, I cannot stare down a single cigarette without succumbing to temptation. What would I do if I were on a mountaintop with Satan, offered power over all the world? (Matthew 4:1-11) I can imagine all the reasons I would justify my relent - I could bring the world peace; I could feed and clothe all the orphans; I could heal every crumbling marriage and protect every child from abuse. As I reflect on Jesus' temptation in the wilderness, it is unfathomable to me that He, using eternal perspective, knowing that all these small salvations would be accomplished in the greater Salvation of the cross, could turn Satan down and say, "Not yet."

“The nature of Christ’s salvation is woefully misrepresented by the present-day evangelist. He announces a Saviour from Hell rather than a Saviour from sin. And that is why so many are fatally deceived…there are multitudes who wish to escape the Lake of fire who have no desire to be delivered from their carnality and worldliness.” (A.W. Pink)

One cigarette craving at a time, I am privy to the grace of the Cross that not only saved me from hell, but daily sanctifies me with undeserved favor, undeserved strength that I can forever draw from the everlasting well of Living Water. When I feel alone, I call to mind the much greater temptations that Christ resisted for the love of my very soul. Would the Savior who suffered the cross on my behalf not hold my hand as I walk free of earthly temptations? Does He not desire freedom for all He loves? True freedom - the kind that eradicates temptation from our consciousness and sets our feet on the solid ground of the call and response of greatest Love?

When I sit on my swing in the clean summer air, longing for the deep breathing of the cigarette, longing for the physical release and the relaxation it brings, I call to mind the greater struggle that is faith meted out in the midst of our failures. Facing down the tangible and momentary reward of giving in to sin for the eternal reward is well worth it. Even when all I can muster is a caveat about the immediate health benefits, He is beside me, walking with me, and reminding me that even He walked this hard road once.

In Him, you are not your sin. In Him, you are not your dirt. In Him, you are hidden and your iniquity is made clean by your identity and your identity is in His purity — and when we are our worst, His white hides our dirt best. (from Ann, in her beautiful piece, When You Feel like Your Life's a Mess...The Real Truth About Your Dirt)

Linked with Shanda's On Your Heart blog hop

Vices and Virtues

We line up our treasures of the soul, memories a string of pearls, moments like seashells on the rough hewn timbre of the past. All life is virtue or vice, high palisades of glorious success and deep valleys of sorrow, sacrifice, and succumbing. Under the microscope of our own conscience and the sharp light cast by the Holy Spirit on our soul, our vices loom large and clear. We pass the glory of our delights and our shining moments on to the Savior to whom we credit them. Yet we claim our failures as our own.

This double-edged sword of perspective can reduce we Christ-ones to hopeless peons in the struggle against sin. If we do not share in glory with our Creator, and wallow in our dismally dark moments, we are forever stuck in the mud of loss and lethargy. For how long can we struggle against the chains of sin if we never allow our souls to ascend to the mountaintops with Christ in our triumphs?

I started smoking last April, a desperate attempt to drown out the triple demons of flashbacks, nightmares, and anxiety. The deep inhale, the slow exhale became the rhythm to which I dragged myself out of the emotional mire. The dirtiness of a soul whose dark corners remained unredeemed seemed congruent with the stink of the smoke I wrapped around me like a cape. And with the vapors of toxin, I insulated myself against a cruel world, pushing out other Christians unsure what to make of a daughter of the King wrapped in the shrouds of soot.

The time has come now, a year later, to walk away from this shroud. Tobacco was created by God, and yes, I think it was used by Him to help me through a tenuous time. But now it has become a vice - a habit unfitting for a temple of God Himself. I never struggled with the habit of it as an occasional smoker since my college days. But now that it is ingrained - especially as my relaxation, my joy, my moments alone - it is proving more difficult to quit. I glue verses to the doorpost, to the porch rail by my swing. Reminders of why the time has come.

Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have received from God? (I Corinthians 6:19)

It is time to put my money where my mouth is. To line up treasures instead of tortures. To claim freedom from sin through the power of the Holy Spirit, who liveth in me...for the law of the Spirit of life has set me free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death (Romans 8:2).

Amy's treasures from the sea, lined up on the surf breakwater.

As I walk free from these chains of sin, will you walk with me? Post a comment here to tell me of your prayers for me, visit my Facebook wall in the coming days and weeks to encourage, send me an email with a personal prayer you've offered up for me? Do you have a vice you need to walk away from, too? Let's do it together - tell me how I can pray for you, either publicly or privately. I, Genevieve, your sister and partner in the tribulation and the kingdom and the patient endurance that are in Jesus...I want to stand with you and join you, that we may both go free from the chains of darkness and walk in the light together. (Revelation 1:9, paraphrased)

Linked to Imperfect Prose

and the Life:UNMASKED project

and Thought Provoking Thursdays

Mistakes

The sun sets unbelievably pink and lavender, sets on a day filled with mistakes, brings the darkness that has filled my heart all day into the world, night always to be weathered before it pulls up day. Two of my best friends hover on the edge of divorce, and I am there to pray and love and accept. But I flee that sorrow-filled room, back to the warm arms of the husband who still loves me, whom I still love. My son acts up all day and finally goads me to explosion in the evening, ironically the evening I write about how I want to parent. It grates. I flee his constant tears and whine and I am on the porch swing with the black cloud of self-reproach stealing from the sunsets glory.

I want to be so much farther on the trajectory of Christian life, so much further from that old sin that I've supposedly died to because Christ lives in me. It's not dead yet. I'm still trying to pack down the grave site of my sin, pack it in so it can't reach an arm up through the dirt to grab my ankle anymore. Sin's bony claw reaches through, now and then, and I am in the grip of an old way of living that I thought I buried years ago when I lost my voice after cancer surgery. But no, I can raise my voice, I can stamp my foot in frustration, I can wither the child lost in temper tantrum with a look, hard and fierce, from my brown eyes.

And so my heart breaks a little on that porch swing. I am so disappointed in self. This steals from Christ all over again...the pity party that follows my fall keeping my attention focused on self instead of the Cross. Ugh. I throw off the despair like an unwanted moth-eaten sweater, and try to shrug on Grace. 

The darkness is gone. The sun is up. The Son is out. But the Son isn't finished. One surprise still awaits them. "Suddenly, Jesus met them and said, "Greetings". The women came up to him, took hold of the feet, and worshipped him. Then Jesus said to them, "Don't be afraid. Go and tell my followers to go on to Galilee and they will see me there'" . The God of surprises strikes again. It's as if he said, "I can't wait any longer. They came this far to see me; I'm going to drop in on them." God dies that for the faithful. Just when the womb gets too old for babies, Sarai gets pregnant. Just when the failure is too great for grace, David is pardoned. And just when the road is too dark for Mary and Mary, the angel glows and the Savior shows and the two women will never be the same. The lesson? Three words. Don't give up. Is the trail dark? Don't sit. Is the road long? Don't stop. Is the night black? Don't quit. God is watching. For all you know right at this moment he may be telling the angel to move the stone. The check may be in the mail. The apology may be in the making. The job contract may be on the desk. Don't quit. For if you do, you may miss the anwer to your prayers. God still sends angels. And God still moves stones. ~Max Lucado, "He Still Moves Stones"

One of those shipwrecked friends sends a prayer in letters to me, and I pray them with her. Lord, I'm broken....I boldly claim your promise that you will not break a broken reed. I'm broken. Please send me help. Help to heal my broken heart, help not to become bitter, help in finding a job wit benefits, help to caring for my son, help to find the right council for the divorce, ;;;to "forgive those who trespass against us....". Lord I need a legion of your angels to surround me, I desperately need your protection, your love, your grace, your mercy, your healing -physically and spiritually. Please Lord....hurry....Amen.

O come, Lord Jesus, and rescue us from these lives rotting around us. Rescue us from the power of sin, teach us to lean hard into your Grace. Live Grace. Before I die, might I live Grace?

What shall I do with you, my love

What shall I do with you?

For your loyalty to Me is like the morning clouds,;

Like the dew that goes away so early.;

What shall I do with you, my love?

You keep bringing Me sacrifices

To ease your mind, 

 But it's your heart that I want.

Hasn't it been a long road

With disappointments,

Chasing after lovers

That just throw you away?

And are you done fighting now?

All the love it takes to lighten you,

Shame was never meant to be your portion.

Though these sins are red as scarlet,

I will wash them white in My mercy.

~Kristene Mueller, Mercy~

He sees me on the path

It's made for work, the heavy leather of a saddle. Embossed with roses, a humble piece of equipment made beautiful. As am I, worker for the glory of Jesus, yet the jewel in His crown.

As for you also, because of the blood of my covenant with you, I will set your prisoners free from the waterless pit. Return to your stronghold, O prisoners of hope; today I declare that I will restore to you double. Then the Lord will appear over them, and his arrow will go forth like lightning; the Lord God will sound the trumpet and will march forth in the whirlwinds of the south. The Lord of hosts will protect them, and they shall devour, and tread down the sling stones, and they shall drink and roar as if drunk with wine, and be full like a bowl, drenched like the corners of the altar. On that day the Lord their God will save them, as the flock of his people; for like the jewels of a crown they shall shine on his land. For how great is his goodness, and how great his beauty! (from Zechariah 9)

The scarlet of Christ's blood has washed me white as snow (Isaiah 1:18). Yet there are three stages to this salvation: redemption, sanctification, and glorification. Though He sees me through the image of Christ, and no longer will send me to the waterless pit as punishment for my sin - for I am the believer redeemed! - I walk now in the sometimes arid path of sanctification. I am the piece of metal, willful, sometimes wicked, hard and rough edged, in the refiner's fire. He is bending me like a bow to transform me into a weapon for His army. I feel the fibers of self as they break to bend, I feel every clang of the blacksmith's hammer on the metal of me fired red hot.

He sees me when my eyes are dead, when my sadness overcomes. When I am penitent and when I am simply overcome by my own blackness.

He sees me as I go about my work, and guides my hand as I bend to teach four young lives everything that is of Him, from the glorious infinity of math to the endless possibility of language and the beauty and variety of art.

He sees me when I bend in prayer, shape this body new on a rubber mat with my French hip hop blaring and my children dancing around my prone back bent like that bow He is forming me to be.

He sees me when I am dirtiest, inside or out. When I've labored hard only to discover a new crust of dirt that needs to be scrubbed with His fuller's soap. What once was filthy rags, He turns to silver and gold that will never perish in the testing fires of the judgment on those last days.

He sees me when I feel the rejection of the world, when I cling to cross and the crutches of my own making to forge ahead on the golden trail, lost in the woods of depression and shadow of memory.

He knows the peace and heartbreak that live together in the soul broken over beauty. He sees behind the closed eyes and knows the words stuck in the clenched lips, sees the heart that has been bruised and labeled and torn, sees the mind that races and craves and empties and fills.

He knows my crazy uniqueness. He sees beneath the hat brim covering face bent low. He pours out my tears when I squeeze eyelids tight, and bottles them forever like the precious perfume of obedience and repentance.

He loves me through hands and hearts of others, He clothes my nakedness with grace. He turns my sorrow into dancing, my suffering into glory, and leads me ever onward toward glorification, that glorious day when I will put off sin like a set of old bones, and walk into the double portion He promises for my sacrifice and pain.

Oh, how I long for that day when I am free as a six-year-old girl dancing in the clearing, jewelry snapping like castanets around the neck that scorned them for so long, a robe to replace the hoody I hid in for two decades.

He sees me and knows me, and has turned my wretchedness into unconquerable beauty and strength through the blood of the cross - redemption. He bends me and breaks me and gives me a sickly heart and cancer and a daughter who is damaged so that I might learn to put off self and put on Christ - sanctification. And someday, I'm going home to the land where there will be no more tears, where I'll carve my snowboard through clouds and sit on the singing stars and forever sing with them and the angels glory to His almighty name - glorification.

Oh, come Lord Jesus, come! (Revelation 22:20)

I need you to soften my heart 

To break me apart 

I need you to open my eyes 

To see that You're shaping my life

All I am, I surrender

Give me faith to trust what you say 

That you're good and your love is great 

I'm broken inside, I give you my life

I need you pierce through the dark 

And cleanse every part of me 

I may be weak 

Your spirit's strong in me 

My flesh may fail 

My God you never will 

~Give Me Faith, Elevation Worship~

Linking up to Bonnie and Ann today,
amazed I'll get to see them both next week!:

Back to Black

Our black lab sits by my swing, panting in the warm autumn sun. Black soaks up the sun, I tell my curious daughter. That's why she's hot.

And then it hits me. What if black soaks up the Son?

Over the past few days, my sin has been pummeling me like an attacker with a baseball bat. I know who wields the bat and thought up this beating - Satan. But my part in it is paralyzing. I did those sins that haunt me now.

Wave after wave hits me, and I know exactly what God is asking me to do in allowing this pain back into my life. He wants me to confess some very specific things to some very specific people. This is so hard. I would rather heal in the dark, by myself, locked in myself. I don't want to open up my storm-battered heart to others because I am so afraid of the next blow.

But recovery is like the morning sun just kissing the maple hill, a glimpse of what and who I could really be if I go free from this torment of years gone by.

Like the lone golden leaf in a sea of wet rocks, yellow against black, a glimpse again of the beauty that I hold within right alongside those stinking sins.

My world is peopled, not silent. I have to engage to be part of this life. What if going free from my past sins means my daughters will never do them? What if I allow God to reshape my black heart into a mural of His glory?

I believe He allows Satan to pummel us so that we are brought to the place on our knees, tear-stained faces contorted and starving for His mercy. I so desperately want the connection with Him to grow stronger until we are two beings pulsing on the same wavelength. What if the blackest of hearts is the one who appreciates most the gift of His scarlet blood making us white as snow?

I came here tonight with a mission

To confess what I'm trying to hide 

But here in the hour of decision 

I'd rather give you the company line 

There are secrets I don't want to tell you 

And wounds you might not want to see 

But they keep me bound to my sorrow 

And I really want to be free 

And you're the one holding the key

You don't have to give me an answer 

An answer is the last thing I need 

There's no magical cure for this cancer 

I just need you to listen me 

'Cause you're the one holding the key 

We were made with these hearts 

Meant to be open 

Then we locked them away 

Afraid of being broken 

But we're given each other to set it free 

And you're the one holding the key 

This dark room is perfect for hiding 

But I don't want to hide anymore 

You can't force the light here inside it 

But you can help me open the door 

You're the one holding the key 

We were made with these hearts 

Meant to be open 

Then we locked them away 

Afraid of being broken 

But we're given each other to set it free 

And you're the one holding

The key to the truth 

Of what's really going on 

Your listening ear 

Is the grace of God 

Love will take the shackles off 

But you're the one holding the key 

We all need it sooner or later 

A safe place for telling the truth 

I'm happy returning the favor 

'Cause I'm holding the key for you
~Jason Gray, Holding the Key~

Confession: I am a mom who yells.

The day had been a long one, and I tried to meet each new challenge head-on, not creeping through, anxious. The kids seemed to be thriving and I actually made dinner, from scratch, for the first time since April. Aaron was busy on another car repair (are they really endless?) and the sun was settling toward the horizon when I lost my grip.

Out, out, out! I bellowed. Then afraid as I saw how not one of them flinched. When my mother bellowed us, we flinched. My kids have become immune to my anger, and it shocks me, flays me open, and leaves me bleeding at heart. In a softer voice then, "Why not go swimming?"

Can we in our clothes, Mama?, two clamor. Can we go skinny dipping?, another voice asks. Yes, yes, yes, just get out, oUT, OUT!, I say. And they happily do. I'm thinking, my kids are two lazy to put on suits, one way or the other.

I sit in my swing and listen to the laughter. My sister-in-law comes over, and encourages me even with her bright clothes and a rushing niece who first comes to hug her auntie before begging to swim, too. We play with kittens, and everyone gets wet, even the Mamas, from hugs.

I think about not shouting, and not being anxious, and lift silent prayer for continued healing. "Why am I so bad at this?" I wonder for the millionth time since birthing my second in 2005. It is hard to see why God would ever call me to mother 4 kids born in 4 years (all single births, by the way. With a few miscarriages in between). But His words whisper, "I settle the barren woman in her home as a happy mother of children." (Psalm 113:9).

No mother ever wants to fail her kids. I don't want my kids to be marked by this season of anxiety. But the truth is, I am not perfect. I pray God fills the holes I dig each in my children's souls. And that I can learn His quiet way. I don't know why He chose me for these four kids. I love them to pieces. But I am THAT mom that I never wanted to be. The one who yells. My temper has finally been trapped in my voice, but I want it gone, eradicated.

Hurt

I swallowed 24 pills. Half of me hoped 24 is enough. The other half hoped 24 wasn't enough. I told my husband, and he found this bottle, the bottle I bought in 2003 because it was on the list of things you should have in your home when you have a baby. This bottle saved me the the indignity and nastiness of having my stomach pumped and activated charcoal.

I come home, and go back, and come home, and go back - 4 times in 6 weeks, and now it's been 3 weeks that I've been out. Progress.

My rock of support, my mama, leaves on vacation, and we tend Papa's chickens, check the mail, feed the cat and dog, throw balls for the lonely dog. Little things. A schedule. Something that keeps us going.

I think I'm admitting myself to the hospital again this evening. Thoughts of suicide are edging their way back in, and I dream of razor blades, ropes, cars, bags. Going before I hurt myself feels awkward, like maybe I'm just being too fearful of my own thought life. Like wading out in the cold river the first time in spring. I listen to Johnny Cash on the way our outdoor church service this morning, and he sings "Hurt" - a troubled soul covering a song written by a troubled soul - and I nod yes, yes, YES. 

I hurt myself today

to see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

the only thing that's real

the needle tears a hole

the old familiar sting

try to kill it all away

but I remember everything

what have I become?

my sweetest friend

everyone I know

goes away in the end

and you could have it all

my empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns

upon my liar's chair

full of broken thoughts

I cannot repair

beneath the stains of time

the feelings disappear

you are someone else

I am still right here

if I could start again

a million miles away

I would keep myself

I would find a way

~Trent Reznor, Hurt~

Performed here by Johnny Cash:

In His grip, yet free

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand. (John 10:27-28)

10 years ago, I met this amazing woman who was descended from missionaries and had been one herself. It was kind of an "Amy Carmichael" moment for me as a floundering but desperately seeking young Christian. Her son was in the hospital for a bone marrow transplant that would either cure him and give him extra years of life, or kill him slowly and painfully. Her father had just been released from captivity in Eastern Europe, minus a few fingers. As she readied herself for the long season to come, the marrow transplant process that is at least 100 days and often spans years, God gave her a song and words. Be still and know that I am God. And she was - one of the stillest, ever-praising women I'd ever met. Her faith was inspiring and I felt like when I worked with her son, there was a giant electrical cord connecting our two souls and her love and beauty and identity in Christ flowed my way like an electrified burst of power, consuming my soul and even threatening to surge and cut the power cord.

Amy blogged before there were blogs. She maintained a website chronicling her son's progress. And she signed every single letter to her friends, "In His grip". I asked her about it, and she quoted John 10:28 (my favorite eternal security verse). No one can pluck us from His hand. That's quite a grip. Jesus isn't even going to allow me to break that grip when I beg Him go test someone else, put your heavy hand on someone else. I can't learn anymore, and I am grief-stricken and wrung out.

In His grip, yet free. An eternal conundrum. A concept that has God following me around, gripping me despite my foray into sin, when my depression peaks and I just want to bleed dry, when I am weeping into my pillow and feel all alone. He is gripping me. Yet He moves those hands under me, too, when I am on the path He has appointed for me. Lets me walk, always in the palm of His hand, watches with joy and fulfillment as I satisfy His will.

I am "In His grip". You'll see that in my e-mails, letters. I am also free, like Maya Angelou's bird: A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips her wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

I have unanswered prayers

I have trouble I wish wasn't there

And I have asked a thousand ways

That you would take my pain away

You would take my pain away

I am trying to understand

How to walk this weary land

Make straight the paths that crooked lie

Oh Lord, before these feet of mine

Oh Lord, before these feet of mine

When my world is shaking, heaven stands

When my heart is breaking

I never leave your hands

When you walked upon the earth

You healed the broken, lost and hurt

I know you hate to see me cry

One day you will set all things right

Yeah, one day you will set all things right

When my world is shaking, heaven stands

When my heart is breaking

I never leave your hands

Your hands that shaped the world

Are holding me

They hold me still

Your hands that shaped the world

Are holding me

They hold me still

When my world is shaking, heaven stands

When my heart is breaking

I never leave you

When my world is shaking, heaven stands

When my heart is breaking

I never leave

I never leave your hands

joy without lament is a deflated balloon

This guest post comes from one of the wise and questioning bloggers I know, Joy from Joy In This Journey.

A father, oldest daughter lying in a cemetery a few miles from the church, stands with arms raised and sings ragged, “Blessed be Your name on the road marked with suffering, though there’s pain in the offering…blessed be Your name. You give and take away. My heart will choose to say ‘Lord, blessed be Your name.’”

How many times have you exulted over how something worked out just right and said, “God is so good”?

It is easy to praise God when life is good.
We don’t struggle at all to thank God for success-as-we-define-it. And it’s easy for those don’t love God to explain it away as hard work or good luck or “of course Christians thank God for good things.”
What do you say when everything falls apart? When it doesn’t work out and the bills are high and the child doesn’t come home and the test result is “malignant” and the thieves get away with your valuables, do you still say, “God is so good”?

Not so easy. Maybe even impossible. How could that dad sing, and actually mean those words, without the Helper, the Holy Spirit?

I wrote last week how we need songs for days when we come face to face with our own failures and with the brokenness of the people we live with and the world we live in. When life is spinning out of control and the hits just keep coming, happy-clappy songs often seem to deny the painful reality of life.
Nothing-Bad-Happens teaching has power — faith-destroying power.

Happy-clappy songs can be so damaging because they can lead us to believe that God promises easy life and happy endings. The worst songs (and the teaching that goes with them) imply that even to name the bad things makes them true and gives them power over us.

God does promise a happy ending, but it often comes after our death. God never promises ease and comfort and happy endings here, now, in this life. Quite the opposite. God promises trouble and pain. (“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33) But He also promises to be there with us because He, in Jesus, has walked through every painful experience of life already.

Do you see how this can shipwreck someone’s faith? If you tell me God gets me out of every trouble, and then He doesn’t, I will naturally conclude that God has broken his promise, that He is not trustworthy. Telling me not to name my pain gives it the power to destroy my faith.

For who will worship and obey a God who breaks His promises?

Lament is critical in the life of every believer because lament tells the truth.

Lament admits the existence of the very real evil in the world, even in the life of Christians.

Lament does not stick a trite band-aid on the stub of an arm, pat the person on the head, and say “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” And it most certainly doesn’t say “this isn’t real” and walk away, leaving someone bleeding to death. Lament wraps a tourniquet around the wound and cradles the injured as it defiantly cries, “Your arm is gone, it is awful, but our God is a healer and He is good!”


The young man has told so many lies he can’t remember the truth or see where to begin to make things right. He came to his friend’s home Bible study desperate but fearful of being judged and condemned by real “good” people. He looks at the song sheet and tears blur the words as he reads “We are the broken, You are the healer, Jesus, Redeemer, mighty to save…”

Lament allows us to acknowledge that we sin, hurt others, and suffer the consequences of our failures the rest of our lives. Lament gives real hope as it points to a God who works in and through sinners, and whose plans cannot be ruined by any sin or catastrophe. We can say with Habakkuk:

“Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior. (Habbakuk 3:16-18)

Lament gives solid footing in chaos
In lament we cling to the hope that one day God will overcome the evil in the world. He will make everything wrong right again, heal all the wounds, wipe the tears off our faces, and wash away all our sins and the hurt we’ve inflicted on others.

A first-time mom slips into the early service before hurrying down to the hospital where her prematurely-born newborn is clinging to life in an intensive care unit. The hymn that morning is “It Is Well,” and all she can do is whisper the words as tears stream down her face. “When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll, whatever my lot thou has taught me to say, ‘It is well, it is well with my soul.’” (A song written by a man who lost his wife and daughters in a shipwreck… “sorrows like sea billows…”)
While people can explain away our praise of God in good times, they cannot explain it away when we praise God in the midst of pain and failure. They cannot wrap their minds around a bereaved father blessing God’s name after his daughter dies or a mother’s peace at the bedside of her preemie or a sinner’s relief in the forgiveness of God.

When we lament, we demonstrate that God’s claims to be trustworthy and forgiving and merciful and love are true enough and strong enough to cling to even after our lives explode. Lament gives us the words to worship God in the aftermath of our own failures, out of the ashes of crumbled dreams, through the pain of illness and injury and tragedy.

God loves a lullaby

In a mothers tears in the dead of night

Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

God loves a drunkards cry,

The soldiers plea not to let him die

Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

We pour out our miseries

God just hears a melody

Beautiful the mess we are

The honest cries of breaking hearts

Are better than a Hallelujah

The woman holding on for life,

The dying man giving up the fight

Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes

The tears of shame for what's been done,

The silence when the words won't come

Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

We pour out our miseries

God just hears a melody

Beautiful the mess we are

The honest cries of breaking hearts

Are better than a Hallelujah

Better than a church bell ringing,

Better than a choir singing out,singing out.

We pour out our miseries

God just hears a melody

Beautiful the mess we are

The honest cries of breaking hearts

Are better than a Hallelujah

-Amy Grant, “Better Than a Hallelujah” from the album “Somewhere Down the Road”

The fallen sisters

I could talk about self-control, rightly so. I could talk about doing the right thing and what my conservative opinions of a Christian life should look like. I may even get a lot of encouragement from other well-meaning do-gooders. We could have our own club, totally separate from ‘the world’ and draw the shades to our heart while we enjoy how Christian we are. Meanwhile, we suffocate a fallen sister because our lives don’t offer hope, they offer moral standards. You know you’re sending the wrong message if one of your members leaves the group when they make a moral mistake. God set up grace so that He would never lose anyone. Set your life up that way, too. ~from the incomparable Serena Woods at Grace is for Sinners

I've known a thousand of them, women struggling. Women losing babies. Women saying goodbye to their dead children. Women struggling through pregnancy, or grief, loss, limitation. Women wounded deeply, ignoring their wounds and living in a twisted world. Women at odds with their families. Women deep in depression and plagued by anxiety.

Last week, in the hospital, I met so many fallen sisters, sisters who saw no reasonable excuse to continue their sad lives. Sisters who had overdosed, wounded their own bodies, carving out flesh for sins past, sins present, sins they dreamed their future filled with. I walked with them, as one of them.

How do we, the church, respond to fallen sisters? How to carry them through their grief, loss, pain, and dependence? How to help them see sunlight again? To feel the small and large joys that await each of us on this long walk we call life. How to let them know that life is not hopeless, nor are fallen sisters powerless or voiceless.

Like the glimmer of the yellow crocus petal, I feel myself in the world of fallen sisters, but rising for beauty. Beauty for ashes. Gladness for mourning. Praise instead of a faint spirit. (Isaiah 61:3)

Lord, help me walk back into the sunshine.