Posts tagged Blogger
Our Questions & His Character

I’ve been arguing with God lately. My prayers sound a little bit like some of David’s in the Psalms; I’m asking for answers and help and mercy. 


“What are you doing, God?"

"How are you going to use this mess? What do you want me to do here? When will this season of trials be over?”


I don’t have all of the answers yet. I’m still walking around in the piles of dirt, waiting for the harvest. 

My emotions are all over the place, y’all. I feel like a walking Taylor Swift album. 

And since I can be a little too introspective, I recently tried articulating all these feelings to my patient husband. To which he gave me some perspective and brought me down a notch, like husbands and good friends often do. He pointed me to Scripture and to God, toward light and hope and grace. These are the things that are worth our undivided attention. 

Here’s what I’m learning: How I feel about God right now doesn’t matter as much as the truth of who God is.  

Don’t get me wrong, I think feelings are important. The Lord has given some of us the tendencies of introspection and empathy (bless our hearts), and these are gifts that can be used for His glory. But sometimes I feel ALL THE THINGS and get caught up in the madness. 

I know this is entirely off-brand for this postmodern, everyone-gets-a-trophy world—but making decisions and shaping opinions supremely on how we feel is a destructive way to live.  We cannot rely on our emotions over the Word of God. So, while I’ll still be asking honest questions with a side of Davidic lamenting—these days, I am holding onto my Bible like a lifeline, like a healing balm for my heavy heart. These days, I am trying to focus on what I know to be true about God. 


Because the one true God is perfect and blameless and pure. He is the beginning and the end. He is a respite for the weary and healer for the hurting. He is the creator, author, redeemer, father, and friend. He hands out mercy and grace to a bunch of undeserving sinners like me. He is just and compassionate and forgiving and miraculous and worthy of all praise. 

He is faithful to the faithless and hope for the hopeless. He knows and sees everything. He is light and peace and righteousness, the unblemished lamb who paves the way and pays the price. He weeps for us and intercedes for us and fights for us. He is the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. He is the way, the truth, and the life. The great high priest, the ruler, the king, the shepherd and servant and savior. He cares for every single one of us. He loves every single one of us. (This brings me to tears; I can't even deal.) He is everything that is good. He does not leave us in our doubting. And He does not alter His character, ever. He is who He is. 

This amazing God sent His one and only Son to take our rightful place on that awful, wonderful cross because of His overwhelming, can’t-measure-it-or-comprehend-it kind of love. Because of Jesus, we have a chance to be free from the chains that all of our mistakes placed on us. Because of Jesus, we can live in eternal and perfect bliss with our God. Because of Jesus, there is a bigger and better and holier picture. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound indeed.

Gosh, every time I lift up my eyes from my own self-centered world, I notice this hard-to-live-out truth: it is a far better thing to focus on Him. I don't know about you, but I need this reminder taped to my phone and dashboard and coffee maker: God has been faithful before; He will be faithful again. No matter the hurts we are experiencing. No matter the valleys we are walking through. No matter the demons we are facing. 

Praise the Lord that real faith is not circumstantial! Praise the Lord that His grace does not waiver and His character is not contingent on our behavior. 


If we do one single thing right today, may we allow this Gospel to shift our gaze heavenward.

Glory awaits.  


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Twenty Seventeen.

This year I tried to be David. I picked up my slingshot and stones and then aimed at my giants. My slingshot broke apart. The giants kept standing, taunting, confronting me. I backed away... slowly and then all at once. I am not David.

This year I tried to be Noah. I bought the wood and started building my ark. Please, God. Am I doing this right? I don’t want to face the floods. I don’t want to drown. But I threw away my hammer. I am no carpenter.

Then I found myself in the lion’s den, so I tried to be Daniel. Be brave, I thought. Be strong. But I was so scared. I ran away before the lions could attack. I am not Daniel.


Finally, I decided to wear my own heart. I carried it around on my sleeve like a badge of honor, like a beautiful broken trinket I kept bringing to show and tell. It felt strange and wonderful and free.

At some point along the way, an exposed heart becomes even more broken. And all broken hearts need a remedy.

This year I gained a few more scars. I lost a few battles I never even knew I was fighting. I found myself crying to God more than I’d care to admit.

I suppose when He asks us to walk through fire, some of us are bound to come out burned.

But don't scars have the best stories?


I lived in the middle of the ocean this year. Waves pounding. Sea roaring. I lost sight of the lighthouse a few times. But no matter how severe the storms, I never drowned. There was always another breath to take, another glimpse of the light.

It had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Him, holding out a lifesaver when I grew desperate. He has saved me so many times.

He keeps saving me when I stand there stubbornly saying I can fight the waves myself. He waits, patiently, faithfully—because He knows. We are never able to save ourselves.


Thank God. I would make a terrible savior.


I am staring at 2017 in the rearview mirror now. And the truth flashes across the highway pretty obviously: I was never meant to be David or Noah or Daniel. But we do have one thing in common: we are not the heroes in our stories. God is. He keeps saving all of us. No matter how small or insignificant or broken we are. No matter how many times we try to run away.


So I may not consider myself

a poet, a prophet, a king or a priest.

But I will forever attempt to describe

this radical, wonderful grace.

For He keeps rescuing me—

A sinner, offender, the very least.