Joy to the World?

~ Ami ~ Leave a comment

I don’t know if you see what I see, but there it is every time I use the bathroom, wipe a bottom that doesn’t belong to me, or just sit on the lid for a few minutes to pray without the clamor of little hands touching me.

It stares at me like a dare, a little scribble (In permanent marker), that conspicuously looks like “joy,” Apparently toddler height aligns perfectly with my eyes if I’m sitting on the toilet.

The scribbled “joy” demands my attention beckoning me to stop and assess my heart. More than once I’ve stared blankly at it asking “Where is joy today? What does it look like?”

As a 20 something, single, longing for a husband and children (while seemingly everyone else received those gifts), sometimes finding joy was a fight.

As a 30 something, reeling after the death of a husband finding joy was an all out war.

As 40 something, thick in the hands full days of sticky floors and yogurt spills, of endless needs to meet, of constant sibling squabbles, of rocking a sobbing three year old who desperately wants his red pants (but Mommy can’t give him what’s down in the laundry), sometimes joy is a battle.

My life is full of good gifts. Gifts that I’ve prayed long for, gifts I enjoy immensely. But they are also gifts that demand extensive time and energy. They are gifts with their own minds and emotions. They are gifts that are sometimes agents of destruction. They are gifts who all need me at the same time. A sage friend aptly described the little years as “sweet and suffocating.”

There isn’t a life altering crisis in our lives right now, but this Christmas season joy has been illusive, trying to slip through my fingers like water. Stress upon stress leaves me feeling like I’m bailing out a sinking ship with a bucket that has holes in it. I’m using a broom to push the ocean away from the shore.

I haven’t struggled for joy at Christmas this deeply since the immediate years following Jon’s death. That’s saying something.

We’ve done all the Christmas things- lights and hot chocolate, made ornaments and cookies, decorated the tree, watched the movies. Our book basket overflows with all my favorite Christmas books. These usher happiness for a time. But it’s like smoke against the deeper struggle. Anyone else notice the immense pressure and emphasis our culture puts on “Christmas magic?” Don’t get me wrong. I love all the special things. But this year they brought only fleeting joy.

So I find myself crying out, “Lord fill my heart with joy. Burst onto the scene. Help my unbelief.”

I think we deceive ourselves that a day will come when we won’t have to fight for joy, when life is less hard. Or less overwhelming.

When I have children, I won’t have to fight for joy.
When I make more money, I won’t have to fight for joy.
When I’m understood…
When I am known…
When I lose twenty pounds…
When my house stays clean and tidy…

Feel free to fill in your own blank also.

But on this side of the new heavens and the new Earth, “hard” is a fact of life, and sometimes we must fight for joy because circumstances and emotions lob grenades at us. Of course, there are breezy days with oceans and gorgeous sunsets. Of course there are days when joy is accompanied by happiness, with light feelings and oxytocin.

But is joy separate from emotion? Can it endure even when I don’t feel particularly sparkly and bubbly? Can it endure even when I kneel on the floor tears flowing, sobs forming, panic brewing?

Yes, I think it can.

I have experientially learned this to be true in other seasons. Now I recall it to be true in this season.

Joy is a confident, settled attitude of the heart that blossoms from trust and rest in God. It’s not dependent on circumstances or emotions. It’s deeper than happiness.

I want this so badly. I want the state of mind that knows, “all will be well” because I know God is good. And I want joy’s close cousins—peace that passes understanding, and hope, the confident expectation that God will do what he says he will do.

So what can we do when emotions shout otherwise? When we want happiness and joy to coincide but they don’t?

Seek it. Pray for it. Ask God to fill your heart with it. Recall your blessings. Repeat truth even when emotions scream the opposite. Remember what has gone before.

I heard another wise friend tell her seven year old, “Your emotions are real, but they aren’t always honest.”

Fight.

“Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people! For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord!” (Luke 2)

Great joy! It’s there. It’s possible to know it. Maybe, just maybe if we keep recalling truth, our emotions will eventually catch up.

And if they don’t, perhaps in the season of Advent, the struggle for joy is entirely appropriate. Before that very first Christmas, the world full of gloom, groaning, waiting. God had been silent for 500 years. But finally Jesus came, right in the middle of the mess and muck. When his cry rang out, the Light of the World pierced the darkness changing the world and the course of history forever.

But you know what, the world didn’t know it yet. The immediate darkness didn’t change yet.

Mary was still a woman with a very real recovery after giving birth. There was still blood upon blood and pain upon pain. There were still cracked, bleeding, sore nipples as she learned to nurse her son. There was still a wound the size of a dinner plate in her uterus.

She and Joseph were still far from home. Perhaps Mary was attended to by Joseph’s relatives or Bethlehem’s midwives, but her own mother wasn’t there.

And 40 days after giving birth, they took a little jaunt over to Jerusalem to present Jesus at the temple. But their finances hadn’t changed. They still had to give a pauper’s sacrifice, two turtle doves instead of a lamb.

She gave birth to the one who was Great High Priest and perfect lamb, but she still had to offer a sacrifice! The veil had not yet been torn, and she was still far removed from God.

And then there’s Herod. Perhaps the threat was not yet there on the night Jesus was born, but at some point in his infancy or toddlerhood, Herod started murdering little boys. At some point Mary and Joseph fled with their child. Imagine that stress and trauma.

Mary and Joseph experienced utter delight at the birth of their new son. Great joy had indeed entered the world—I know that delight. I know experientially that the utter joy of new life makes the physical agony of childbirth fade to the background, forgotten as it were. Moments before birth, my body was on fire. But as soon as that first marvelous cry echoed, and the baby placed on my chest, excruciating pain gave way to glowing, radiant happiness.

Soon, however, amid the rapture and utter happiness real life came back.

When look around and see physical chaos around me, emotional chaos in my heart, worries and fears that creep in, the stress that threatens to drown me—I recall, this is what Jesus came for.

He came down right in middle of the mess and muck. He came for the days you don’t feel sparkly, bubbly, or radiant with happiness.

So friend, fight for joy. You can’t be passive. We can’t expect temporal pleasures to give us what’s of an eternal nature- lasting, permanent joy.

But I know the author of permanent joy.

“But this I call to mind and therefore I have hope, the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, great is your faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3)

Our confident expectation is in the God who created us, pursued us, purchased us back, and won us through the blood of his Son.

I remember the joy and delight of intimacy with God. I “shall again praise Him.” Delight will come again. I remember that He is the Rock, the stability when waves toss me about.

I change. He changes not.

I remember who He is. By grace He enables the impossible—“Rejoice always.” But for grace through the accomplished work of Christ, that would be a crushing command. (I Thess 5:16-18)

I don’t rejoice always. I don’t always have an abiding attitude of trust, or take pleasure that all things in my life are according to God’s will.

But these things don’t depend on me. Jesus accomplished what I cannot. He rejoiced always. He gave thanks in all things. He prayed without ceasing. His performance is the standard, but it is also my standing.

Because I know the good news of Christmas, of Jesus himself, is real, I can rejoice. I can live with overflowing thankfulness and unceasing dependence.

When the Christmas season feels weighty, when sorrow mingles, when joy tries to slip away, remember what is true.

Jesus did indeed burst on the scene. He did indeed change the world. He did indeed change me.

So I quiet my noisy soul. I glance at a toddler’s scribble, “Yes, Lord. You are joy.”

Joy“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with joy by the power of the Holy Spirit.” (Romans 15:13)

For My Young Friends (And maybe the not so young ones also)

~ Ami ~ Leave a comment

From my vantage point at the back, I noticed her radiant smile and his hand raised in worship. Two worshipers juxtaposed across my line of vision. These teens unashamedly and joyfully responded to God, their faith in Jesus on display, and it brought me to tears.

I had spent the worship service much like I spend it every week— passing out paper and markers, rummaging for other quiet activities to keep little hands busy and little voices quiet, hearing bits and pieces of the sermon, bouncing a baby on my hip, whispering variations of “Shh time to stop talking, Pastor Shayne is praying.”—in short, doing every thing I could to keep my children from distracting others. 

Our small church doesn’t have a children’s ministry, so everyone is together. I love much about this arrangement. My children experience all the aspects of church together. They can tell you what the communion elements mean and why we celebrate it every week. They see adults pray and sing.They get to see Daddy play the guitar and preach sometimes. But I’d be a liar if I said it is easy. Sometimes I’m bone tired, weary, and wish I could listen to the sermon without my four little “distractions” in tow. Sometimes I hand out markers with an overwhelmed, grudging heart. And more than once I’ve wished I could send them along to their own classes and call it a day.

So it was at the end of another such service when I noticed two teenagers simply, humbly, worshiping. Neither was putting on a show or drawing attention to themselves. Several thoughts intersected in my mind—

“Is it even worth it?” I’ve asked myself. “Are they taking in anything? Am I teaching them they can worship too, or to just be quiet so the adults can concentrate?” 

First, the teens’ sincerity deeply encouraged me and spurred my own heart to respond. The worship service was not about me or whether I was inconvenienced. It wasn’t about being able to sit with rapt attention in the front with a notebook and pen in hand. Worship is about God. And my heart needed to remember I can worship even when it’s not easy and doesn’t look the way I long for it to look. And how does my attitude seep through to my children? What are the messages I’m sending? My self-focus almost missed something beautiful—the heartfelt responses of others around me, and the opportunity to bow my own heart to God.

The body of Christ is such a marvelous gift. They probably had no idea anyone was watching, but I needed the testimonies of these young ones— their radiant smiles and raised hands. I needed them to encourage and convict. 

The teenagers at our church are fantastic, and not just these two. All of them seek ways to help and serve. I see their willingness to use their gifts and desire to grow in their faith. They participate in community group and add thoughtful comments to the discussion. They give me so much hope for the next generation.

They give me hope that my small people see them also. 

And they do. “When I’m a teenager I’m going to sing and play the guitar at church!” sweet voices proclaim. 

Secondly, I breathed a prayer, “Oh that I would get to see my own children worshiping with joy and zeal! Lord let the Word fall on good ground. Let its roots grow deep. Let it produce fruit one hundred fold.” In the soil cultivating, seed planting days we pray for rain. Harvest seems so far away.

Yet these teens are not so far removed from their childhood—and God is clearly at work. My children not only see adults who love Jesus, but they also get to observe some who are closer in age. These young friends are seed planters also, and they may not even know it. 

And I remind myself that all these hours gathering with the church are not wasted. God is using this time. Small people begin to understand Jesus is not just a word, but a real, living person, the Savior whose body was broken and whose blood was poured out for them. They see he’s worth the center, the focus of our affections. 

Finally, I also knew a moment of grief for another teenage girl, exuberant, “on fire” for Jesus with faith largely untested who knew God could move mountains. She was the girl serving any way she could, eager to go on mission trips, work at camp, and change the world. She dreamed of doing “big things for God.” Limitations? Nah. God could do whatever he wanted. I was that girl. At fourteen my life had turned a 180 and I’d never looked back. 

“Take my life and let it be consecrated Lord to thee,” I prayed upon many a church stair. 

So I grieved the girl with fewer scars and big expectations, the girl with a fresh face, not yet battle worn. For a moment I missed the days when the Christian life seemed limitless. Big things were on the horizon. Opportunities abounded. I couldn’t wait to see what this wild and wonderful life held.

I also missed the freedom of young adult days, when limits and responsibilities still were few, when I could give myself to the ways I wanted to serve God. Life has a way of looking nothing like one expects, however. Even the things we long for, pray for, and dearly love feel lack luster some days. Answered prayer may be a delight, but the life we craved more difficult than we knew. We sing “Father use my ransomed life in any way you choose,” and mean it. But sometimes we wonder if what he chooses truly is best.

Time and trials refract our big dreams, bending them with changed perspectives. I can grieve that zealous, enthusiastic teenager, but also be thankful the Ami in her 40s looks radically different than her. And if I live long enough, the Ami I’ll be in my 80s will also be radically different than the me I am now. Life lived brings maturity, wisdom, and more shades of gray- not everything is black and white. Mercifully, sanctification is progressive.

Perhaps God doesn’t have big things for me to do right now. Perhaps I need to learn faithfulness in the small things. 

Limitations aren’t always a bad thing— The King of the universe limited himself. The limitless one took on limits, fences, boundaries. He put on skin that sweat, stank after a long day, and needed washing just like his brothers. He put on a body subject to fatigue and illness. He limited his understanding so his brain would develop like the other children around him. Ultimately he limited his power, and refused to rescue himself that we could be rescued. 

So maybe my limits are also good.

Maybe I need to remind myself. “Do small stuff for God. Despise not every day faithfulness.” In the upside down (or truly right side up) Kingdom of Christ, small things become big things.

I’m not here to be a cynic, or rob my young friends of zeal or big dreams. Please keep dreaming guys! For truly nothing is impossible for God. You could indeed be a William Carey or Amy Carmichael. Or for more modern references – a Jackie Hill Perry or David Platt. 

The Kingdom still needs dreamers, and the weary moms in the back need you.

But I’ll tell you, young friends, the plans God has for you probably look much different than the plans you have for yourself. The road will take unexpected turns. There will be more thorns and storms than you’d like to think. The valleys may be exceptionally deep. But, there will also be more fragrant flowers and more ravishing sunsets than you can imagine. 

God’s path is hard. But God’s path is worth it. There are indeed higher joys and deeper peace as we learn Christ.

We like to tell the young “God has a spectacular plan for you. He could use your life in mighty ways.” Young friends, we are not lying to you. But perhaps God’s spectacular plan, the mighty things he can do in and through you aren’t visible things. Maybe mighty isn’t always a public platform or large influence.

Maybe spectacular is a heart with bed rock, unshakeable faith. Maybe spectacular is one who gives the shirt off his back. Maybe spectacular is doing the unseen things, without commendation or applause. 

Also, I think we misunderstand spectacular’s time frame. What if we don’t see spectacular in this life? All we need do is step outside or glance at a headline to remember much in a fallen world is definitely not spectacular. So we orient our hearts to eternity, where there’s much we do not yet know. However, without doubt we do know it is there that “God has a spectacular plan for you” comes to its full and marvelous fruition. Look to Jesus—eternity will be beyond spectacular. 

So young friends, set your eyes on the cross. Since we know spectacular will come, you can confidently lay your dreams at his feet. He may shape them, mold them, ask for them, or strip them away. But if he does, know you have a Father who is always good. He might take your dream, remake it, and hand it right back to you when the time is right. Or he might replace it with a different dream. Either way, his plan is better. 

Better doesn’t mean easier, a life always marked by sunshine and cool breezes, but it does mean he is there. And it does mean he is sovereign. And it does mean he is always kind. And it does mean you can trust him. 

Keep on worshiping with a sincere heart. Keep outwardly responding. Hang on to your enthusiasm, and let God’s light shine through. There’s a weary mom at the back who needs you.

A Memory Redeemed

~ Ami ~ Leave a comment

The first time I raised butterflies, I was a month, maybe two fresh off watching my husband die. I had put myself back to work teaching Kindergarten because I desperately needed something normal. But who was I to fool myself that anything was normal? My brain was still a wall of fog. I remember my co teacher presenting me with a jar of caterpillars. Time to study insects. Thankfully I didn’t have to do anything to keep caterpillars alive. That same dear co teacher moved the chrysalides to the top of the butterfly habitat one day. Teaching students took all my ability to function. Taking care of insects was just too much.

It’s not lost to me that eleven years later the children who peer into the butterfly habitat bear some of my features, that an equally enthusiastic husband checks the chrysalides almost as much as they do, that the contrast to former days is sharply defined.

Eleven years ago… 

Despite the monumental effort to hold myself together for my Kindergarteners (I didn’t always), somewhere in the recesses of my mind I still held an affinity for a good, delicious word. You know, a delicious word— one that’s fun to say, and fun to understand, and makes a five year old sound like a genius. I liked to teach my kindergarten babies delicious words.

Metamorphosis.

How adorable it was to hear such a word repeated with lisps and missing Rs.

“Metamorphosis means to be changed into something totally new.”

“Now hold on a minute,” says the skeptic. “Another butterfly story? I mean, what an overused cliche!”

Keep reading dear skeptical friend. Perhaps this one has a twist.

My class eagerly watched our caterpillars eat, and eat, and eat. Of course, we read The Very Hungry Caterpillar. One day, we arrived to five tiny chrysalides attached to the top of the habitat. Then the waiting began. I admit, I didn’t really care about butterflies. But these sweet babies asked every day, “When will we have butterflies?”

They gazed in anticipation. But in childish clumsiness, one chrysalis was knocked to the bottom of the cage.

“Oh no! It will probably die!”

Finally, after what seemed like forever, there was one butterfly. The next day there were two. On the third day an excited, little voice squealed, “Mrs. Atkins! One is coming out now!” We crowded around to see, and to my surprise, it was the one I thought had died.

He wasn’t dead, just knocked down.

The struggle was intense. Lying on the bottom of the habitat, his fight was radically more difficult than that of his brothers. He had to battle for his very existence. We watched mesmerized, and I couldn’t voice the heavy thoughts forming behind teary eyes.

“He’s not going to make it. It’s too difficult. He was knocked down too far.”

“Oh God! This is me. I’m not going to make it.”

5 minutes. 10 minutes. 15 minutes.

He finally emerged, wings crumpled as if broken.

“How fitting. He lives, but is severely wounded, damaged forever.”

How utterly shocked was I when the butterfly finally unfolded his gorgeous, perfect wings in praise to his Creator! The significance was not lost.

That’s was me. I was knocked to the bottom of the cage, but perhaps God would transform my broken twisted frame into something marvelous. I left my assistant in charge, and had to take a moment to collect myself.

“My precious daughter, you will not be damaged beyond repair. Through Jesus I’ve already transformed you. Though the struggle is intense, I’m producing something gorgeous, something you cannot even comprehend.”

Do you ever feel like you’ve been knocked down too far? Do you think you are damaged beyond repair? Then hear these words of truth. Let them resonate deep within.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a NEW creation. The old has passed away; behold the new has come.” 2 Corinthians 5:17

If you are redeemed by the finished work of Jesus, you are NEW. You are being transformed to be like Him, but you are also ALREADY transformed.

“We went through fire and water, yet you have brought us out to a place of abundance.” Psalm 66:12

You may have been through fire and water.  You may still be right in the middle of it. Perhaps like me, you long for the place of abundance. Well, it’s already here. Jesus is the abundant place. Because you are transformed, abundance is not circumstantial. You are in Christ.

The Present…

We’ve been on butterfly watch this week. And I admit I’ve had just as much anticipation as my children. 

One, two, three, four butterflies. Oh man we missed it every time! These guys were fast. It occurred to me, that perhaps witnessing not one but two butterflies emerge eleven years ago was precise grace just for me. 

“Lord would you let us see at least one emerge from its chrysalis that we may see your glory? That I may recall your precise care?”

The chrysalis turned mahogany, a sure sign the butterfly would emerge at any moment. Looking closely I could see the pattern of the wing just underneath the surface of the chrysalis. 

We watched, and waited. I finally sent the children outside sensing the butterfly might need some quiet, like I did. 

Checking back a few minutes later, I caught a glimpse of bright orange wing. I rushed to the back door, “Guys hurry! Come quick the butterfly is coming out!” 

Little feet came running from outside, big feet pounded upstairs from the office. We crowded around just in time to see it unfold perfect wings. I breathed a prayer of thanks and worship to the one who made it. 

Did you know that caterpillars turn mostly to goo inside the chrysalis? But did you know some research suggests they have memories of their lives as caterpillars? 

And yet miraculously they become something totally new and exquisite. What a truly amazing thing metamorphosis is. 

Of course I couldn’t see it then, broken and lying on the floor as I was. Of course I didn’t have the benefit of seeing the story arc unfold.

The second time I raised butterflies, I paused to imprint the scene on my heart — a tangle of arms and legs huddled around a kitchen table, peering intently. I paused to enjoy their joy. And it occurred to me that the gorgeous thing (at least in part), the thing I couldn’t even comprehend was this moment, this full and beautiful moment, this memory redeemed.

One Foot in Front of the Other

~ Ami ~ Leave a comment

Maybe it’s the noise of a thousand children you carried in your body (because surely that’s how many are in the house right now). Maybe it’s 10,000 needs to meet. Maybe it’s working hard to “keep house,” but an outsider might be hard pressed to notice. Maybe it’s exhaustion from being up several times in the night— for the last six years. 

Or perhaps for you it’s something different. Something far more weighty like chronic illness, or being broken by someone else’s sin, or a sudden plummet to the valley of death. 

Maybe today is hard. Maybe it’s crushing. 

Either way, here’s to everyone putting one foot in front of the other…

“The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness, he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.” Zephaniah 3:17

As a younger believer this verse astonished me. It still does. This is God’s view of his own? He rejoices over them. He delights in them. It’s God’s line in the sand, so to speak, his declaration of his stance toward the redeemed.

He is with them!

He saves them!

He rejoices over them with gladness!

He quiets them with his love!

He exults over them with singing!

“Don’t overuse exclamation points,” they say, but sometimes you need to. Read the verse again like it’s the best news you’ve ever heard. The Lord, Creator of all things is with you, and has definite emotions about you. “This is not an aloof, emotionless contentment but it bursts forth in joyful divine celebration: he will exult over you with loud singing.” (ESV study Bible commentary). It’s the Lord’s own exuberant answer to the people’s rejoicing in verses 14-16. It’s as if he can’t contain himself and his own delight compels him to join the party.

Believer, do not for one instant believe God is begrudging in his kindness and steadfast love for you. While some of the promises of the surrounding context will be fully realized in the new Heavens and the new Earth, this verse came to fruition at the cross. The realities are yours to remember.

“The Lord your God is in your midst.”

Never will he leave or forsake his chosen ones again. The punishment was paid; the veil was torn. No longer does God reside only in the Holy Place. God, in human flesh came to dwell with man. (Hebrews 13:5, 4:14-16, Luke 2)

He sees your weariness when you rise yet again to respond to a child in the night. He gives grace to endure, and a song in the night. His compassion compels your compassion.

He is near when you battle to discern truth from error, to untangle lies you’ve been taught. His Word is truth, and he will lead you in it.

He sees you stop to adore him even when the day goes awry, and he meets you there, filling your heart with impossible joy.

He holds you as you wrestle with the fallout of another’s sin. He knows your faith is clinging by a thread, and he clings to you. His word says no man can pluck you out of his hand.(John 10:28) Your faith is fraying, but he does not despise your weakness. He is strong when you are weak. 

He feels the crushing weight of your grief, and sits beside you in the valley. He won’t rush you through it. But he binds the gaping wounds, his tears mingling with yours.

And he is with you. He is transcendent but he is also imminent, nearer to you than your own skin. If you are in Christ, you are a recipient of his good favor, and only his good favor. 

“A mighty one who will save.”

Unlike earthly heroes, God the mighty warrior doesn’t fail, or quit. He will always win. And when he rescues his people, he explodes in song – for them, rejoicing over them as a groom delights in his bride.

My favorite person to look at when I go to a wedding is not the bride. Of course I see her. She is magnificent and stunning in her bridal array. But it’s the groom who catches my attention. Watch him watch her. Whether he’s sobbing or beaming, his eyes never leave hers. Adoration radiates from his very soul. “This is the one whom my soul loves! Isn’t she marvelous?” 

“He will rejoice over you with gladness.”

Wouldn’t it be a sad marriage for a groom to merely tolerate his bride, to view her as a business transaction, to put up with her? Rather the best groom, the mighty warrior behaves like he’s won the most valuable treasure known to man. He exults over her, but in this case the bride is radiant only because he’s made her so. He deserves adoration, but he lavishes her with it.

Of course this verse spoke volumes to the girl who used to think God’s love was stoic—to the one who thought she still needed to earn God’s favor, though she would have dogmatically said salvation was by grace alone, through faith alone. (Ephesians 2:8-9)

But on my worst days, I already have God’s favor. It was won for me. It was purchased. I can neither diminish it or earn more of it (for there is none to earn).

My goodness, we could keep unpacking this. It’s utterly life changing to remember how God sees his beloved!. But it is the little phrase right in the middle that’s been banging around in my brain for weeks. It’s this phrase I hope ministers to you when you’re putting one foot in front of the other today. 

“He will quiet you by his love.” 

Not silence, but quiet. 

It bears connotations of calming fears, of restoring peace, of wholeness rather than brokenness. He restores rest to to the weary soul. His posture is not a stern, hands on hips, scowling face. His words are not harsh.

He quiets your soul with gentle embrace. Like a weaned child leans agains his mother for comfort, so do we lean on the Lord. (Psalm 131:2) His heart calms our hearts. 

One day my two year old stood before me his cheeks soaked with tears, his words on repeat, “I need you.” I don’t remember why, but my first inclination was irritation. It could have been that he seemed extra “clingy” that day, or perhaps it was another day that felt like too much noise, noise, noise. For whatever reason, I wanted to be frustrated with him. 

But then I saw his vulnerable little face. And the Holy Spirit whispered, “He will quiet you by his love. Quiet him with love.” 

I gathered him in, spoke kindly to him, empathized with his little boy heart, and let our closeness quiet him. And it did. He snuggled against me, tears slowing.

As I’ve interacted with my children these last few weeks, I put that phrase on a loop in my mind. “Quiet them with love.” Sometimes it’s a reminder that love meets needs with grace and compassion. Sometimes it’s a reminder that God himself quiets me.

When they’re screaming, whining, sobbing, hitting, kicking, throwing… quiet them with love. Before anything else, quiet them with love. Because if they are calm, and I am calm we all can learn.

Yet, I am not completely faultless. I’ve lost it more than I care to admit. 

But God quiets me so I can quiet others. He gathers me with words of truth. His Spirit is gentle with me. He fills me with peace and hope. Because of the cross, God has changed his posture and tone.

I love watching my giant husband kneel down and gather one of our children in his arms. He envelopes them with his strength, but holds them tenderly. This is how God quiets me, and you. His Holy Spirit comforts. The Word calms stormy emotions. When we remember who we he is and who we are, there is peace. 

“May the God of all hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” Romans 15:13

When you’re trudging along one foot in front of the other, perhaps it’s time to stop and rest. Jesus is the better rest. Lean into him. Lean against his heart, and he will quiet your soul.

Eight Pillows

~ Ami ~ Leave a comment

8 pillows. I sat and sewed all day, and he was dying. But we didn’t know it.

We didn’t know the days were numbered as I toiled with a borrowed sewing machine and he slept with knees on the floor, his upper body lying on an ottoman. It was the only way he could breathe easily.

My mother taught me to sew, but I don’t really know how. I was so proud of these pillow covers and their rough final seams. They’ve held up surprisingly well through the years.

Facebook memories are funny. I wonder if this would still be a poignant memory if it didn’t come up in “memories” from year to year.

But here it is still.

I sat at the kitchen table, on the bench and not the chair so my back wouldn’t be toward him.

The apartment would have been immaculate because Jon always liked things especially neat. I was the messy one in that relationship. So there may have been a “closet monster,” the place in the closet where I did not hang up my clothes.

But everywhere else there was order.

I don’t remember if I listened to an iPod while I worked or only the hum of the sewing machine. The TV was not on.

I sat and sewed and probably prayed. About suffering. About heart surgery. About Jon’s cough. About all the unknowns.

But had I known we were four days from death, perhaps I wouldn’t have pressed a pedal for hours. Perhaps I would have snuggled beside him. All day.

Perhaps I would have made him go to the doctor that day, and not wait for a cardiology appointment.

But I did not know. I loved those pillows. I’ve always been drawn to colors.

//

Today I rocked a baby and snuggled her a little longer. Today I rocked a toddler and stroked his soft hair. In house far from orderly. Far from quiet.

And it occurred to me, I might have to shepherd my dear ones through deep waters one day.

Tears for a memory of pillows and a very sick husband.

Tears for what could come.

And a prayer whispered. “Lord they are yours, oh Lord I don’t ever want those deep deep waters again. But if they come, you will be there. You have taught me to hold the ones I’ve love most, loosely. You have taught me you are enough.”

11 years in a few days. Some memories still stir emotions.

A Real Conversation About Postpartum Depression

~ Ami ~ Leave a comment

It was the macaroni that did me in. 

About a month before Clara was born, a normal day at home suddenly became one of deepest days I’ve ever had, complete with unstoppable tears and full blown panic. I’m no stranger to big emotions, and have spent a lot of life processing them. But I hadn’t gone “walls closing in” deep since the early days following Jon’s death. 

I’ve written about tears more than a few times, but while the world is still broken, we need to talk about them. Spoiler, I’m not crying nearly as much these days. But we’ll get there. First things first.

All morning Satan barraged my heart with lie after lie. He knows just where to get me when I’m weak. 

“You don’t handle life nearly as well as everyone around you.” 

“You can’t reach out to someone; then people will know how messed up you are.” 

“Other people have much deeper stuff going on than you.” 

“You don’t always want to be the broken friend.” 

“You are failing and inadequate.” 

“You have no value to add to the Kingdom.”

“Why do you have such deep emotions all the time? Just push them aside.”

“Nobody wants to be around someone struggling so badly.” 

“Just pull yourself together and stop crying.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

And on and on and on. Sound familiar?

Stress upon stress pressed on my shoulders. It wasn’t one earth shattering thing, but a compilation of all the ”little” things crashing down. My ear was still ringing, sometimes very loudly, sometimes quietly but always constantly. And my head had been hurting behind that ear. It was still a challenge to distinguish speech during competing noise and overlapping sounds. In a house with little children, there is almost always competing noise.

My body had begun its favorite thing during pregnancy—many contractions, early. Combined with a history of other complications, contractions meant high alert. They meant weekly visits to the OB and constantly paying attention to determine if we needed to head to the hospital. While I was immensely grateful to be carrying Clara, a high risk pregnancy is a draining place to be. 

Furthermore, all of our kitchen appliances had broken at the same time. While it’s definitely a first world convenience, over a month without a dishwasher will wear a pregnant woman down. We had a warranty on it, but it still took hoop after hoop for it to be repaired.

My children are some of God’s best gifts to me. Yet the physical toll of pregnancy while caring for three little ones with need after need was overwhelming. Ever erupting chaos felt paralyzing. Ironically, I don’t mind messy play at all—paint, play doh, water, kinetic sand— you’ll find these often at our house. But that day it was too much.

And then there were other more private things. Biggish things that weighed heavily; I felt like I needed to hold it all together and hold everyone together. I couldn’t fall apart. People needed me. 

There was also a little disappointment regarding a writing opportunity, but you know sometimes it’s the small straw that breaks the camel. As my mind and emotions spiraled downward, my dear, small ones bore with me so beautifully, but Mommy being a sobbing mess all morning left their hearts nervous and unsteady.

Henry touched my face and said, “Mommy crying.” 

Charlotte became quiet. 

And Hudson became angry. 

I sat on the couch and watched Henry dump plastic ware all over the floor and then use it to scoop kinetic sand into a bowl. He was playing purposefully, though not skillfully. But I didn’t have the energy to get up and help him, or clean up the mess. 

The scales finally tipped around lunch time. I was working on mac and cheese, mixing ingredients in with the burner off when the tell tale noise of fighting children echoed through the house. I sighed, and went to investigate. Suddenly I heard the unmistakeable sound of uncooked macaroni being poured and the cry of a hurt toddler. 

I rushed back, panicked that Henry had burned himself. He had not, but had pulled a chair to the stove, gotten the half full box of noodles (about a pound) from the island and went to town. He was completely fine, but it was the dry noodles all over the floor, the stove, and in the pot that did me in. I couldn’t breathe, and the walls closed in. I sank to the floor, and let the primal scream come. I can remember only two or three days of panic that big, ever.

When my mother-in-law answered the phone, I could utter only three words, “I need help.” I scared her half to death, but she said, “I’m coming. I’ll be right there. But are you ok?”  

“We’re all physically ok,” I managed. I heard her sigh of relief. 

And she came, no questions asked. She helped with children. She washed dishes and swept the floor. And she let me talk and talk. I also jotted two texts— one to a friend and one to my other mother-in-law (y’all know Jon’s family are still family right?) asking for prayer. 

The pit was deep, so deep it was impossible to climb out on my own. And I couldn’t preach my way out of it either. I tried to speak truth to myself but it bounced off the invisible wall surrounding my mind. 

At my next OB appointment, I mentioned the panic and commented, “I think we need to keep an eye out for postpartum depression after the baby is born.” 

But I was already struggling with it.

It took me four babies to fully understand postpartum depression. I wish had known more about it three pregnancies ago. I might have understood why I felt so crazy. And why in shame I wondered, “Who is this rage monster? Because it’s definitely not me.”

Sure, I had read about it. Sure, I had completed the depression scale at the OB office at my six week follow up. Looking back, I know I struggled with postpartum depression far more than I realized.

Did you know that depression can actually set in during the third trimester? (Raise your hand if macaroni ever caused a guttural scream.) And that it can be worse with each pregnancy? 

Did you know that it can look like anxiety and moments of intense rage? 

Did you know that excessive shame, guilt, being often overwhelmed, and feeling like a failure are also signs of postpartum depression?

Did you know it can take up to two years after pregnancy for a woman to feel like herself again? If you think about the ages of my children, I’ve either been pregnant or breastfeeding (with brief seasons of respite in between) for the last six years. According to that measure, I haven’t been “normal” for the last six years. It’s almost comical.

Add in a few other life changing experiences like the deaths of a spouse and both parents, and it’s been a wild decade indeed. 

Over the next few weeks, the walls closed in, and panic consumed me several more times. More and more I shut myself in a bedroom to escape, or to keep from hurting someone. I thought about getting in the car and driving away. Not for forever, but at least for an undetermined amount of time. 

Intrusive thoughts slipped in. “What would life look like without me in it?” I didn’t formulate a plan, but the depths of my thoughts scared me. 

But there was grace to fight back. 

I sent messages to family and friends to pray. I reached out to the ladies at church. They spoke truth and grace and peace. But I knew I needed to talk to the doctor again. 

“Are you willing to try medication?”

“Yes, I am.” 

I grew up with a parent who struggled for years with undiagnosed depression, so I had always told myself it I ever needed help I would get it. I know what depression does to a family. And I would not let it break mine. I tried counseling before and after Henry was born, but that particular counselor was a joke. I’ve also put in the work of reading parenting books, taking classes, processing past hurts, and applying the gospel.

Medication is not the answer for everyone or in every situation. But for this season, it is an instrument of grace. Ultimately it is God who lifts us out of suffering. Medication is one tool among many to fight a very real, biological problem.

I share this detail because someone might need to hear it. It’s time we talk openly of such things. I decided to start an antidepressant for the sake of myself, and for the sake of my family. The depths of my thoughts, taking care of three children, and edging ever closer to the birth of a fourth demanded urgency.

“But Ami,” says the hypothetical naysayer, “You went through the death of a spouse and never needed medication?”

“Yes, but I had hours upon hours to process, to weep, to write, to untangle the lies. No one needed me, and there weren’t four children clamoring for my attention.”

If my body hurts, it’s ok to get help. If my mind hurts me, it’s also ok to get help. Medical science is a gift of common grace. Living in a time when we have a better understanding of the brain is also grace.

It’s astonishing how steady and even my emotions feel this postpartum. Kindness and patience flow. I had forgotten what it felt like for laughter and play to be easy. I think I had gotten used to a lower baseline of happiness, and thought “This must be the way I am now.” Joy in my family, my calling as a stay at home mom, mundane tasks— all of it is so much fuller. Gone are intense swings between tears and anger, and the fight for joy.

I don’t sit in a worship gathering with my children (for our church is family integrated), and feel consumed with anxiety about what others think of me or them. I don’t worry that people don’t want to be my friends.

I can remember the truth of who I am in Christ. Words of grace and peace fill my heart, rather than words of shame and failure. 

Though it still bears all the signs of life with small children, my house doesn’t feel like chaos. I see the messes, but they don’t crush me. Bringing order to my little corner of the universe is much more joy than drudgery. 

I don’t feel barraged by lies.

I don’t feel broken.

In short, I feel a lot like the Ami I once knew. 

But isn’t there also a spiritual aspect? Of course there is. Pregnancy, postpartum, and parenting (yay unintentional alliteration!) have all taught me so much about Christ.They have an uncanny ability to reveal sin. I have needed to be, and still need to be sanctified. I have needed to rest in the grace of redemption.

However, we cannot deny the reality that there are also biological factors at play in these seasons. We cannot deny depression as a real issue linked to faulty neurotransmitters, and fluctuating hormones. Unlike I was taught so many years ago, I do not believe all problems are purely spiritual or purely physical. 

I know how to preach the gospel to myself and counsel myself with the truth. I’m no stranger to defeating lies. But the intense emotional swings of late pregnancy and postpartum, made it almost impossible to get truth in. I wonder if Satan uses things like fluctuating hormones to make us more susceptible to his lies. 

I don’t despise the deep times though. For God has used them to illumine my heart with truth after truth. It’s in the valley that I’ve seen Jesus the most clearly. It’s the deepest days that have often produced the most fruit in my life. It’s the deepest days that have caused me to write. I know they are necessary and good. He holds our tears in a bottle. He grieves when we grieve. For now, however, it is good to not constantly wrestle with my mind. 

It is good for my family to have the me I want to be back. It’s good for my family to have the me who remembers who I am—a new creation, redeemed, justified, adopted, cherished, beloved, saint. 

I never thought I’d actually struggle with depression. I know Jesus, and he is our only hope in life and death. The gospel is true and it changes everything. Yet, I had to acknowledge there was something seriously wrong. Something that was not just spiritual. And it doing so, it is so much easier to apply the gospel to life and remember it is true. 

So I cry I lot less these days. 

“I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me, and heard my cry. He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see it and fear and put their trust in the Lord.” Psalm 40:1-3

Medication or no medication, I am confident in the Rock. The work of deliverance belongs to him.

God moves toward his own.

He inclines to me.

He hears my cry.

He lifts me up 

He secures me.

God is not apathetic to cries for mercy, rather he delivers us and sets us upon an unshakeable foundation, that is the Christ. He drew me out of the pit long ago in salvation. And he’s drawn me from the pit of despair many times since then. 

“As for you, O Lord, you will not restrain your mercy from me; your steadfast love and your faithfulness will ever preserve me!” Psalm 40:11

Unrestrained mercy. 

This is how he moves toward a humble heart. His mercy is not on a leash. We are ever recipients of unchanging, loyal, always giving what is best, faithful, love. With the Psalmist I praise him for his steadfast love. I praise him for relief, for hearing my desperate pleas. 

While the world is still broken there will still be tears. And panic. And worry. And shame. We fight these battles with the truth. They have already been won by Jesus who died and rose again. The truth changes things. But when something biological creates a force field against the truth, we fight with other tools also. 

One day even minds will be redeemed. One day there won’t be deep days. Jesus is making all things new. Ultimately he is where my confident expectation lies.

The other day Henry played gleefully with dry macaroni, pouring it back and forth between bowls, stirring it, and shaking it in measuring cups. Of course, as sensory play always does, it exploded across the living room floor. 

I glanced down at dry noodles everywhere, and smiled.

Woman Behold Your Son: The Astonishing Intimacy of Christ’s Compassion

~ Ami ~ Leave a comment

As a Roman soldier hammered iron into flesh, she felt her own body tear also. Her agony mirrored his, and her emotional anguish pierced so deeply it was also physical. She sunk to the ground as hands reached out to bear her up. Her son, her precious son! Prophetic words uttered so long ago, the ones she hadn’t wanted to understand, reverberated in her mind. 

“And a sword will pierce through your own soul also.” (Luke 2:35)

He hung there naked, bloodied, barely recognizable. But she still saw the newborn she’d nursed through long nights, the toddler who’d taken his first steps, the boy about “his father’s business,” the man who had turned water into wine.

“But Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart.” (Luke 2:19)

Couldn’t there have been another way?

She knew what he must do, but grief was a torrent threatening to drown her. The brutality her son experienced was too much to comprehend. But…

“When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold, your son!” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother!” And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home. (John 19:25-27)

Though Jesus gasped for breath, and pushed himself up on nail pierced feet to expand his lungs, his compassions failed not.

He took care of her. 

In the midst of excruciating pain, he took care of his mother. Let’s dwell here for a moment, and let its significance not pass us by.

A popular Christmas song poses the question “Mary did you know?” Drama oozes from the lyrics, and the orchestration swells to a climax- “The sleeping child you’re holding is the great, [dramatic pause] I Am!”

Picture some women all dressed in black, complete with white gloves. Their hands move in artistic fervor as they passionately sign the lyrics. And if we want to get real fancy, throw in a black light so those gloves really pop. There you go. You got it, a staple of late 90s churches and Christian school chapels.

And it goes on to list extraordinary things. Did she know he’d walk on water? Did she know he would make the blind see? Rule the nations? Release captives?

Being the natural rule breaker I tend to be, I always wanted to stand up in the middle of the service and shout, “Yes! She knew!” Then I would sit down smugly, arms crossed. But the Holy Spirit reminded me that maybe it wasn’t the right moment for an outburst. 

Of course Mary knew. From the first glimpse we see of her on an ordinary day turned anything but ordinary, she heard astonishing truth. (Luke 1:26-35) I’m sure there were things she didn’t fully understand, but as we find out later “she treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart.” 

Mary was introspective. She tumbled her thoughts like clothes in a dryer. She had months to think about what the angel had said. Also she would have been familiar with Old Testament prophecies that proclaimed Messiah would make the blind see, the lame walk, set captives free.  (Isaiah 61) Yes, indeed she knew. She knew her son would be the Messiah.

The angel in Luke 1 revealed world altering truth to a woman. And a young, unmarried, likely teenage girl at that. She “found favor” with the Lord. Lest we think this phrase implies something Mary was not—righteous by her own merit, or a further step, perfect—“favor” here literally means “grace.” Mary found grace with God. 

And what earth shattering grace she received. A Son. The promised Son. 

Just what did Mary know? 

Mary knew Jesus would be divine. He would be called “Son of God,” “Son of the Most High.”  This was a title reserved only for the true God, the God of Israel. (Luke 1:32)

Likewise, he would be conceived supernaturally. (Luke 1:35) That she was a virgin underscores this was a birth only God could accomplish. And it also emphasizes Jesus’ divine nature. He would be called Holy. Set apart. Furthermore, she knew he’d be the true King whose reign lasted forever. (Luke 1:32-33)

At his birth she found out even more about the long awaited Son. 

Jesus would be the Savior! (Luke 2:11,17, 30) It was about him whom angels announced, “For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior who is Christ the Lord!” and league upon league of heavenly warriors sang, “Glory to God in the highest and earth peace among those with whom he is pleased.” The exuberant shepherds who burst into her “recovery room” would have made sure she heard the proclamation. 

A few days later faithful Simeon, being promised he would not see death until he had first seen the Christ, rejoiced, “My eyes have seen your salvation!” (Luke 2:30)

The Savior would also bring light to the Gentiles (Luke 2:32) and glory to Israel. Mary’s son would be Messiah, not just to the Jews, but to all people. It was he who would complete God’s redemptive plan, settled from before time began. Also, he would open the flood gates of God’s mercy to gentiles. And he would receive the glory Israel should have had— He alone could fulfill the law and obey perfectly. He would judge the proud and arrogant. He would save the humble and meek. (Luke 2:31-32)

But from Simeon Mary also gained the first glimpse her path would include sorrow. Jesus would be opposed and her heart would break. Being near Jesus included suffering.

“And a sword will pierce through your own soul also.”

Perhaps, the words didn’t mean what she thought they might. 

She watched him grow. Surely she marveled as a caravan of Magi brought him extravagant gifts. Perhaps she pondered the significance of such treasures, gold worthy of a king, incense for a priest, myrrh a burial spice. Later, when Herod demanded the deaths of all baby boys, she fled with her family to protect the promised Son.

She watched his perfection play out daily. Never did he hit a sibling in anger. Never did he selfishly take someone’s toy. Never did he use his words to hurt or deceive. How humbling to be an imperfect parent of a perfect child. 

She would have seen his childishness also. Could Jesus have ever knocked over a vase as he ran through the house? Maybe one day he proudly presented himself covered in mud, “Look at me Mommy!” 

And of course she had witnessed the miracles, and heard him teach. 

“Do whatever her tells you,” she instructed the servants at the wedding feast. (John 2:5)

That simple statement encapsulates her relationship with him. She boiled down all the years of pondering to this statement, the last time we hear her voice recorded in Scripture. Do what he tells you. Trust him. Though his hour had not yet come, she had no doubt he would provide. At this point she’d seen him live only as an ordinary man, no miracles yet. But she knew who he was, believed he would help, and turned attention to him. His was the glory.

Now at the cross, his life came hurtling to an end. His hour had indeed come— the reason he came brought to fruition. As she watched him suffer, perhaps all she had pondered rushed like a flood across her mind. I wonder if Mary’s anguish also mirrored God the Father’s as he turned his face away.

What did Jesus do?

Mary had bled to give Jesus life. Now he bled to give Mary life. As Mary experienced the intense suffering of labor to bring joy, so Jesus experienced ultimate suffering that Mary would have ultimate joy. 

And his suffering was not for Mary only. Rather, the promised Son bore the sins of the world and suffered so we would live. He bled so we would not. He looked into the cup of the Father’s wrath and drank all of it, so we would receive the cup of grace.

In his darkest hour he still met the needs of individuals specifically. The thief hanging beside him. His own mother.

By providing for Mary Jesus honored her even then, fulfilling the law even at the point of death. Amid the incomprehensible pain of crucifixion and even greater agony of being separated from the Father, he gave focused attention to her.

“His tender concern for her in the hour of his mortal agony illustrates his true humanity and compassion.” (The Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol 9) He was not some aloof, self-centered god (for had been he never would have gone to the cross in the first place). He was the Savior pouring himself out, intimately concerned, serving humanity but also serving Mary uniquely. 

What an astonishing compassion! Oh friend, his compassion is this deep for you also. He knows you and serves you individually as well.

Some commentators think he used the term “woman” to not pierce her heart further, in essence to create distance, but “there is another conjecture which is equally probable that Christ intended to show that, after having completed  the course of human life, he lays down the condition in which he lived.” (Calvin’s commentary). He laid down the earthly relationship of mother and son, for the slain son would soon become the risen King.

His provision for her was also precise. He laid down the mother/ son relationship, but gave her a new son. Mary a widow in her 40s or 50s would have had little opportunity to meet her own financial needs. Some think Jesus entrusted her to John’s care because his own siblings did not yet believe. Some think it was because he was the closest relative present.

Regardless, because John marveled so greatly at being loved by Jesus, he described himself as “the disciple whom Jesus loved.” He would have poured that love back on Mary. In saying “this is your son” rather than “this is your care taker” Jesus provided family. He gave her someone who would not only provide, but cherish her.

He took care of her. 

And he takes care of you.

John’s response to Jesus was simple. “From that hour he took her to his own home.” He obeyed Jesus’ instructions and cared for her as he would his own mother. 

This is is how the church is to care for one another. Our care flows out of his care for us. 

In the middle of this tender moment, something bigger was happening. Jesus reoriented the family. It was the inauguration of the new Christian family, which supersedes even biological relationships. 

Don’t misunderstand here, natural family is still important. He didn’t throw it out! But at the cross he hints at what he intends for the church. When we become believers, the church becomes our greater family because in the church we have a spiritual connection forged by Christ. 

We’re invited to see ourselves in this new family that meets needs and shows the same (if not more) tangible compassion we would give to blood siblings. In this beautiful gospel moment, Jesus’ care for Mary equips our compassion for others. He equips us to love and serve without selfish gain lurking in the corner. 

The End

“After this, Jesus, knowing that all was now finished, said (to fulfill Scripture),“I thirst”… When Jesus had received the sour wine, he said, “It is finished,” and he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.” (John 19: 28-30)

And they pierced his side, just as they had pierced Mary’s soul.

Jesus’ last act before willingly laying down his life was to take care of Mary, something profoundly personal. What astonishing love! After he entrusted her to John, he knew all was finished.

The contrast is staggering. While he satisfied God’s righteous wrath and paid the penalty of sin for a people more in number than the stars, he simultaneously provided for one.

Our Savior is both all powerful and immanent. And we rejoice with millions upon millions in our salvation, but we also rejoice as individuals beloved by God. 

His body was broken. Her soul was broken. But that wasn’t really the end. 

Grief gave way to exceeding joy, for he rose just as he said.

A Decade. Ten Years.

~ Ami ~ Leave a comment

There’s something about bare, winter trees that captures my attention. At first glance they’re nothing special, merely creation lying dormant. But if you gaze long enough, you might notice beauty in the blank spaces, each taking its own shape, each lovely in its own way. Some days the winter sky behind them is is a flat gray, dreary, sad, and lonely. But sometimes sunlight glimmers through the branches. All of a sudden what was just an empty space reveals a beauty of its own.

Likewise, you can’t see it, but of course something’s going on beneath the surface. Without basic understanding of seasons, one might look at a winter tree and presume, “Dead, dead, dead.” How could life possibly come from something so barren and brown? Yet if you’ve lived even a few years on this earth you know in just a little while new buds will burst from those branches followed by a canopy of fresh green. 

Spring does indeed follow winter. Always.

Sometimes winter is unbearably long, arduous and harsh. Buy there’s hope in the blank spaces, beauty even in dormancy. Eventually the sun peeks through and warms those trees. The sky behind the empty spaces turns a striking, brilliant blue, and shifting clouds wander lazily behind.

It was winter when he died, a brutal northern Illinois winter, frigid with layer upon layer of snow. Winter in the midwest had been culture shock to my southern girl soul, but now it was agony. It snowed again the day of Jon’s funeral, and dear men from church stood out in the elements all afternoon helping people find parking, shoveling, keeping the sidewalks salted.

I wore a dress more fitting for warm breezes than zero degrees. Colors. I had to have colors and not black. My flats were a rich royal blue.

Funerals are not for widows. They are for a couple hundred others who knew and loved your husband also, and need to share in grief. I stood at the front of the church for several hours embracing friends, crying with them, letting them feel their sorrow with me. I was surrounded by pictures of Jon, pictures of his family, and pictures of us. There was no casket present, for I could not bear it. 

Grace was thick, palpable, tangible. I let them in. They let me in. 

Then we sang and worshiped. In that way the funeral was for me. It was a chance to glorify God in suffering. Through sobs, with lifted hands the song “All I have is Christ” washed over me.

“Now, Lord, I would be Yours alone

And live so all might see

The strength to follow Your commands

Could never come from me

Oh Father, use my ransomed life in any way You choose

And let my soul forever be my only boast is you

Hallelujah! All I have is Christ

Hallelujah! Jesus is my life.”

I had never sung the words as broken as I was in that moment, but also never as sincerely. And still 10 years later, I cannot sing them without tears. Sometimes I still have to stop singing and let the words sink deep, a silent prayer accompanied by emotion streaming down my cheeks.

A decade. Ten years. What a definitive milestone this seems to be. 

That first winter, trees bore no beauty. Their barren ugliness was a reminder that life would always be winter. No more spring for me, only winter. Without Christmas.

Christ clung to me. He would not let me go. And I clung right back. But it took awhile to believe Spring would actually come again.

After the funeral I escaped downstairs to our bedroom (rather “my bedroom” as I learned to say). Picking up a photo of the two of us, I sunk down on the bed. 

“I’m so proud of you Lovee. I’m so proud. You did so well.” 

Theologically I’d tell you it probably wasn’t him. Humanly, I’d tell you it absolutely was his voice. One cannot know for sure. Perhaps it was just the way the Holy Spirit met me with specific comfort in the moment. Either way, it need not be debated here.

Ten years. I’m letting my fingers do what they did in the early days—type in whatever direction they want to go, not worrying about “polished” or “cohesive.”

I’ve wondered at times what he might think of my ten years older self. There are certainly more fine lines, more stretch marks, and enough grays that I no longer try to pluck them out. I think it’s my hands that shout “40,” though. However, Jon remains in my mind’s eye, a youthful 30. But he had the best laugh lines by his eyes even then. 

More than the physical differences, I wonder what he’d think of the fundamental differences, for it is impossible to walk through the valley of death and not come out forever altered. He might see someone a little more serious. But then again, he always drew out silliness and laughter.

I think perhaps he’d see a more radiant version of myself. I hope. Yet even as I type emotion wells up because I know I still struggle with some of the same old sins. Even now I see parts of me that aren’t so radiant. I’m not as sanctified as I’d like to be.

He might see me fighting for joy in the seeming slog of mundane days. He might see me fail my family and repent, over and over again. 

But I hope if Jon could see me now he’d see a woman still following hard after Jesus. A woman who’s faith and compassion have grown exponentially. I hope he sees one who sees others better and sits with them in their grief.

I hope he’d see a woman gripped by the hope of eternity.

Indeed the confident expectation of a renewed earth, of the death of death itself, of all that is broken restored, of real life, of “further up and further in,” of worship face-to-face— of the full consummation of God’s grand plan of redemption— this spurs me on more than any other facet of the gospel. 

I hope he’d still see “Father use my ransomed life!” resonating from my soul. 

There’s been a lot of life in ten years. So much processing, so much writing. So much growth as new life sprung from a tree burned and charred. 

I can tell you now with the hindsight of 10 years that it’s true. Some aspects of grief never fully leave you. While its weight and effect on daily life diminish greatly as Jesus binds up broken bones and heals gaping wounds, in significant moments grief must be taken out and examined again. Remarriage, pregnancies, the births of my children, motherhood— all of it has had to be processed not only through joy, but also through a lens of grief. And sometimes through fear that had to be squashed by truth.

I’ve also wondered what he would think of me as a mom. I long ago left mourning the fictitious children we never had. But I wonder what he’d think of my precious little ones and who I am with them. 

I also imagine he and David would be good friends. I see conversations about guitars and books. I see David answering Jon’s bold questions with dry humor, and I envision corresponding awkward grins on Jon’s face. I don’t imagine what life would look like married to Jon now, for the life I have now is inextricably mine. David and these small ones are inextricably mine. And it’s a beautiful now.

Some memories fade, some remain crystal clear. The day I made funeral plans, I specifically wanted a gyro for lunch. And then I barely picked at it. What a funny memory to stay sharp over the years. 

Scenes of the night he died also remain. 

Jesus likewise remains. Faithful. Triumphant.

In the early days of grief we don’t get the benefit of seeing what lies ahead. We can only hope. When strength fails, when waves are a tsunami, when mounds of kleenexes lay strewn on the floor, when all we see are barren trees, Jesus carries. The Holy Spirit speaks words of truth and comfort.

We weep and we cling. “God you are good. You always do good.”

People come along and speak words we cannot always speak to ourselves. “He’s not done writing the story.”

If I could I’d gather my 30 year old, crushed self into my arms. I might tell her “Just wait! You’ll see! God is going to do magnificent things.”

But I don’t have a Tardis, and I am not a Time Lord. That’s a good thing, I think. Time travel would not be a gift.  Because maybe those weren’t the words I needed right away. Maybe I just needed someone to sit beside me and weep. Maybe I needed to live it. 

Maybe the valley of death taught me to know Christ in ways I never dreamed. 

Without winter, there would be no spring. Without death, there is no resurrection. It’s winter that taught me my desperate need. Sometimes I still forget, but I learned what it is to long for Jesus. 

Bare trees still catch my attention. They remind me of the valley, of where I’ve been. And as a crisp blue sky, rays of sunlight, and white stratus clouds burst through the blank spaces, I know Spring will come again. It always does.

Behind the empty spaces is the unchanging God who loves me and gave himself for me.

On that fateful Saturday between the cross and the resurrection, all creation lay silent, waiting, holding its collective breath. Had the powers of hell prevailed? Would Jesus rise again as He said?

The dark of night is greatest just before dawn. Winter often seems worse right before fresh buds appear. But his friends didn’t understand. All hope was lost. The Savior was dead, dead, dead apparently not really the Savior at all.

Or so it seemed. As Sunday crept over the horizon, light eradicated darkness. Life burst forth from barren trees! Colors spread through a world painted gray! 

“Up from the grave He arose, with a mighty triumph o’er His foes!” 

As the new life of Spring erupts from the death of Winter, so did Jesus rise. So will we rise.

And perhaps one day Jon will greet me with a bear hug and a radiant grin, even more exuberant than on this side of eternity (if that’s possible). 

“Come on! I can’t wait for you to see Jesus!” he’ll exclaim.

And I’ll utter the only words I can, “Me neither!”

Me neither.

No More Gloom (Remastered Edition)

~ Ami ~ Leave a comment

Imagine not hearing from God for 400 years. He said he was going to act. He said a Promised One would come, but year after year, generation after generation there is nothing but seemingly stony silence. No prophets, no voice from heaven.

“But for you who fear my name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings, and you will go out and playfully jump like calves from the stall.You will trample the wicked, for they will be ashes under the soles of your feet on the day I am preparing,” says the Lord of Armies. (Malachi 4:2–3)

Among the last prophetic words given to Israel, these radiate hope, but where is this healing? Where is this sun of righteousness? Has He forgotten His promises?

Sometimes the world seems to hold nothing but injustice, oppression, and gloom. Many have turned away; it is they who have forgotten the promises. But a remnant remains waiting eagerly, or perhaps in anguish, as they long for Messiah. Generations come and go; still, in darkness, they sit and wait. Gloom settles in, a dense blanket of fog.

Gloom. It’s a state of partial or total darkness, of despondency or depression.

Two thousand years later, our world today is much the same. Wars and rumors of wars, corruption, violence, school shootings, human trafficking, refugees displaced from their countries, abortions by the millions, natural disasters. Sometimes it’s just too much.

There’s a handsome, smiling face, a man surrounded by his wife and three children—the photo is all joy. But in heartbreaking, devastating contrast the words paired with it are ones no one ever wants to write, “My Michael has gone to Jesus.” 

Sometimes darkness crushes.

What hope is there when gloom overtakes? What hope is there when darkness is a heavy blanket or heaven seems silent?

Oh, my friends, there is indeed hope, for one magnificent word turns the world on end—But.

“But there will be no gloom for her who was in anguish” (Isa. 9:1 esv, emphasis added).

No more gloom! Let that sink in for a minute. No more gloom.

Rather, light has dawned. Joy has come. 

This imperishable, unfathomable, confident and sure expectation has a name. He is King Jesus who eradicates the gloom!

For, 

The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
a light has dawned
on those living in the land of darkness.
You have enlarged the nation
and increased its joy.
The people have rejoiced before you
as they rejoice at harvest time. (Isaiah 9:2–3)

Like fissures spreading in cracked glass, so the Light of the World penetrates the darkness.

Like fissures spreading in cracked glass, so the Light of the World penetrates the darkness. The astonishing, glorious Sun of Righteousness has arrived. A Son was given. He multiplies our joy! He ends anguish and distress.

“That light shines in the darkness, and yet the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1:5)

Light always overcomes darkness. Jesus, the Light of the World, penetrates to the depth of our souls, pushing back despondency and despair. Gloom gives way to hope.

Sally Lloyd Jones wrote, 

In the little town, in a little shed, in a little window a candle flickered in the dark. And a tiny cry rang out in the cold night air. And high above a single star set in the highest heavens shone out brighter than all the others and poured down silver onto the little shed . . . A Light to light up the whole world! (Sally Lloyd Jones, Song of the Stars).1

That first Advent long ago may have begun as a candle flickering in the dark, but Light burst through, lighting the whole world. 

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
’Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, 
for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!2

But wait, the news gets exponentially better.

The Light Is Precise

But there will be no gloom for her who was in anguish. In the former time he brought into contempt the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the latter time he has made glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations. (Isaiah 9:1 esv)

Now compare Isaiah 9:1 to Matthew 4:12–16:

When he heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew into Galilee. He left Nazareth and went to live in Capernaum by the sea, in the region of Zebulun and Naphtali. This was to fulfill what was spoken through the prophet Isaiah:

Land of Zebulun and land of Naphtali,
along the road by the sea, beyond the Jordan,
Galilee of the Gentiles.
The people who live in darkness
have seen a great light,
and for those living in the land of the shadow of death,
a light has dawned.

Do you see it? 

A seemingly insignificant detail: the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but it is a laser beam of precise care. God redeems with the skill of a surgeon and the craftsmanship of a master artisan. Way back in Israel’s history, the people of Zebulun and Naphtali were among the first taken captive by the Assyrians, among the first to “sit in darkness.” 

BUT when Jesus began his public ministry, He went to them first! The Light of the World dawned first on the ones who were captives first. I don’t know about you, but that pierces my soul and makes me sing with joy. Jesus could have started anywhere. How easily such a small detail could have been overlooked. Not so with God. Jesus not only fulfilled prophecy, He did it with exquisite precision. He couldn’t wait to rescue the ones who sat in darkness first!

God’s sovereignty is not an indifferent wave of the hand, a vague maybe. Instead, “I will” is the persistent drumbeat of His plans. 

Is His care for you not also precise? Is He not thoroughly committed to His promises?

Oh, friends, how deeply He cares for you. He knows your needs and fears far better than you do. He knows the hurts you never voice. He sees you when no one else sees. 

We can rest in his precise, intimate care.

Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born!
O night, O holy night, O night divine!

What’s more, God became man at an exact moment in history. As a fully human, yet fully divine embryo formed in Mary’s womb, God hurtled His redemptive plan forward. Jesus was born, lived a perfect life, died on the cross, and rose from the grave. Redemption reached its pinnacle on the cross, and Christ’s resurrection sealed it for eternity.

The Light Reverses

When the Light dawned and shattered the darkness, He began the work of reversing the curse. Isaiah 9 radiates with shocking contrasts. God reverses.

Gloom          No gloom

Darkness      Light

Remnant      Multiplied

Sorrow         Increased joy

Captives       Liberated, delivered

Oppressed    Free

This is what He does for His own! It’s astonishing.

I’m reminded of the Holocaust museum in Washington D.C. Even the architecture tells a story. When you first walk in, the rooms are gloomy, cramped, and chaotic. Folks shuffle through the exhibits in reverential quiet. No one laughs, tears trail down cheeks. It’s a scene of horror—a history of genocide and a sober indictment that we never let it happen again. 

Finally, just as despair permeates and hope seems a vapor, patrons wind their way to “Liberation,” the end of the war! The lighting and design of the museum shifts noticeably as Allied forces liberate captives, righting what was wrong. There is light. Dissonant crossing beams give way to clean, straight lines. Normal conversation resumes, and the claustrophobic soul can breathe again.

So much greater than mere architecture is God’s reversal. This is redemption. He makes the world right side up. The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light.

Chains shall he break, for the slave is our brother,
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we;
Let all within us praise His Holy name!

The Light Reigns

For a child will be born for us,
a son will be given to us,
and the government will be on his shoulders.
He will be named
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Eternal Father, Prince of Peace.
The dominion will be vast,
and its prosperity will never end.
He will reign on the throne of David
and over his kingdom,
to establish and sustain it
with justice and righteousness from now on and forever.
The zeal of the Lord of Armies will accomplish this. (Isaiah 9:6–7)

Jesus is the Wonderful Counselor. This royal title combines the idea of “doing something wonderful, extraordinary, and miraculous with the skill of giving wise advice or making wise plans.”3 The divine, second Person of the Trinity reigns with infinite wisdom.

He is the Mighty God, the mighty warrior. His power is divine, and nothing is too hard. The Lord of Hosts fights battles for us.

He is the Everlasting Father. Literally the title means, “My father is eternal.” He never begins, He never ends. He is the ideal protector. By eternally exercising perfect wisdom and perfect power, He accomplishes intimate fatherly care of his people. 

And He is the Prince of Peace. Jesus comes to make an end of war. “He will limitlessly expand His influence and create peace without end.” The world is certainly not at peace, but one day it will be. Even now, our hearts can know peace that passes understanding as we’re guarded by Christ Jesus (Phil. 4:7).

This is our King.

But you say, “There is still gloom in the world. Still horrific things. Still death and sorrow. Where is this King?” 

Oh, friend, He is coming again. Like Israel of old we long for his Advent. Let us hold fast to our confident expectation. Remember the promises. And the next time, not only will light dispel the darkness, it will utterly eradicate it. 

The Light Pursues

The zeal of the Lord of Armies will accomplish this. (Isaiah 9:7)

It’s His zeal and passion that initiated redemption. We turned from Him, but “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom. 5:8).

Jesus pursues even to the point of the cross. He pursues even those who seem beyond hope.

“With unassailable zeal, determination, and passion,” says one commentator, “God will concentrate His efforts to accomplish this marvelous deed . . . His people can be absolutely sure that an omnipotent, sovereign God will stand behind the fulfillment of this wonderful plan.”4

When darkness threatens to crush, when holding fast to promises seems impossible, when our faith is weak, when we are the faintly burning wick—He holds us. And he spares no omnipotent effort to keep His promises. 

The blessing of His people is guaranteed. Victory is won. The Light has dawned. Heaven isn’t silent anymore.

So we rest and we worship.

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we;
Let all within us praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord! O praise His name forever!
His pow’r and glory evermore proclaim!
His pow’r and glory evermore proclaim!

That light shines in the darkness, and yet the darkness did not overcome it. (John 1:5)

Amen.
 

The Light breaks through the darkness! That’s why we love to celebrate the Christmas season here at Revive Our Hearts. And as a ministry, we have so much to celebrate this year. Want to celebrate God’s goodness with us? Check out our 2022 Annual Praise Report. It’s a dynamic good news review! 

1 Sally Lloyd-Jones and Alison Jay, Song of the Stars: A Christmas Story (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2015).

2 Hymn lyrics in this post by Placide Cappeau, “Oh, Holy Night,” Hymnary.org, accessed December 16, 2022, https://hymnary.org/text/o_holy_night_the_stars_are_brightly_shin.

3 Gary V. Smith, New American Commentary: Isaiah 1-39 (Nashville: B&H Publishing Group, 2007), 240.

4 Smith, New American Commentary, 240.

(This version of the post No More Gloom also appeared at Revive Our Hearts)

Open Hands in Life and Death

~ Ami ~ Leave a comment

As I held my shaking hands out, palms up, one desperate word formed, “Help!” I knew God understood what I could not pray. Help me open my hands to you, Lord! I sat on a hospital bed, and the steady rhythm of a heartbeat echoed from a fetal monitor. I was twenty-four weeks pregnant, and my placenta had begun to abrupt, or tear from the uterine wall. The delivery of our baby girl seemed imminent. 

Up to that point it had been a smooth, “boring” pregnancy as my ob-gyn jokingly and reassuringly quipped. I’d even had less nausea than with my firstborn.

A gentle breeze and gorgeous, blue sky had beckoned us outside. As I pushed Hudson in the stroller, a sharp, knife-like pain suddenly pierced through my lower right abdomen. I doubled over and then stood, breathing deeply for a minute before I could walk again. 

Not a rookie pregnant lady, however, I didn’t want to overreact and thought the sensation could be round ligament pain. We walked home and sat on the front stoop to rest. I snapped pictures of my grinning toddler in his muscle shirt and red baseball hat. Still feeling some pins and needles pain and cramping, I thought I might need to use the restroom.

I sat Hudson on the floor in the bathroom (because, you know. . . mom life). It was then that I saw blood on the tissue—every pregnant woman’s fear.  I stood and there was so much blood.

Instinctively I glanced to see if my precious girl was in the toilet.

While my nightmare fear (I’m losing her!) crashed around in my mind, I screamed for my husband. “David! David! We need to go to the hospital right now!” Praise God, David had not yet left for work.

He wasn’t crying, but fear etched Hudson’s fifteen-month-old face. I scooped him up and put on my best calm voice. “Buddy, we’re going to get in the car. And Mamoo and Papa will meet us at the hospital. Mommy loves you, and it’s going to be okay.” 

I desperately hoped it would indeed be okay.

As we drove I felt Charlotte kick. She is moving. She is alive.

A Familiar Question

When something is critical, hospitals become a flurry of activity. Medical staff moved quickly, starting an IV, giving me a steroid shot to develop the baby’s lungs, starting magnesium to forestall labor, checking vitals, hooking up monitors, calling an ambulance for transport. Thinking of the frenetic pace still brings up residual trauma from my first husband’s death.

Alone in the room of a major teaching hospital, I called out to God. As I prayed, a vivid question sprang to my mind. What if I take her?

The words felt familiar; I had been in that moment before, where God held someone beloved across my mind’s eye. I do not claim to hear God’s voice audibly, but He has asked me that question three times.

Once he “took” a fiancé through a broken engagement.
Once he took my husband home to Himself.
Once he spared the life of my daughter.

Once I said, “No! God, I’ve waited too long.”
Once I said, “Lord, I want to say yes, but I don’t know that I can. I do know you will help me open my hands if the time comes.”
Once I said, “Yes, Lord. She’s yours.”

Father, you know my hands are open to you. She is your baby. I know you will do what is good. But could you please spare her and protect her?

In His mercy and grace, He did. We had eleven more weeks of countless doctor visits, two more occasions of bleeding, multiple inpatient stays, multiple outpatient hospital trips, along with medications, steroid shots, preterm labor, and contractions for weeks and weeks. We made it to thirty-five weeks before my water broke.

Now she’s a vibrant, precocious three-year-old with a love of marker tattoos and stickers. Still, I open my hands to God. She is still yours. They are all still yours.

I opened my hands and God protected her. 

But let me also be extremely clear. Open hands do not guarantee healing in this life.

I opened my hands when my first husband, Jon, lay motionless under the weight of chest compressions, his airway intubated. I prayed the same prayer. My hands are open. He is yours. But please God, spare him. Nothing is too hard for you.

Yet, much sooner than I ever dreamed, God didn’t heal (in this life, anyway).

God was still good, though. Romans 8:28 assures that He works all things together for our good and His glory. He designs the course of history in ways I cannot understand, but ultimately I trust His providence, “His wise and purposeful sovereignty.”1

A common thread between life and death stitches the words “open hands” over and over. Motherhood, grief, all of life—they are studies in having open hands. None of these things follow the well-ordered designs we create in our minds.

The Savior’s Answer

Sometimes God’s will feels crushing, His mercies too severe. And we cling to our plans as a child clutches a grubby penny though he’s offered far more. But Jesus opened His hands. He opened them wide, and they were nailed to a cross.

“Father, if you are willing, take this cup away from me—nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done.” (Luke 22:42)

In agony Jesus pleaded that there might be any other way for humanity to be rescued. As He looked into the metaphorical cup, all He saw was wrath brimming and boiling over. He anticipated a depth of suffering that is incomprehensible to us. Yet He lay down His own will, opening His hands to the Father’s perfect plans.

With open hands, He held out far more than we have ever been asked to give. For the first time He knew separation from the Father. He held out His identity, His authority, His riches, His unity, and His holiness. He would become sin personified (2 Cor. 5:21).

When we lay down our lives, we find true life.

If Jesus has truly accomplished redemption and if God is truly who He says He is, then we can hold our hands open to Him. Again and again, we can surrender our plans because His will is better. He does know all things and is in control of all things. When we lay down our lives, we find true life (Matt. 10:39).

And when holding life with open hands feels too big, He meets us with lavish grace. For me it was grace to face the valley of the shadow of death. For me it was also grace to walk through a pregnancy full of complications and the gift of humble submission regarding the timing and circumstances of my daughter’s birth.

It’s strange that it’s almost easier to open our hands in the defining, life-altering moments. But surrender is also daily. It’s the mundane plans that are sometimes hardest to hold out with open hands—the days when a long awaited nap doesn’t happen, when teething keeps us all awake, or when a toddler expresses his big emotions through hitting and biting. 

I have yet to decide what is more life altering, the death of a husband or being a mom. Right now they seem neck and neck. I did them in reverse order, so for me motherhood is sometimes colored by loss. My first husband died when I was thirty, and I became a mother at thirty-five. 

Of course, there are radical differences between the two. The death of a spouse is like being hit by a freight train. Being a new mom is sometimes like hanging on to the freight train for dear life, and sometimes like sitting at a crossroads that is blocked by what seems like a never-moving train. However, being Mama is also full of precious delight.

But the similarities between motherhood and grief are striking.

Both have the potential to crush us.

Both bring us to the end of ourselves.

Both cause us to evaluate our identities.

Both aren’t always what is expected.

Both teach us to hold out our hands, palms open.

Whether in birth, death, or all the in-betweens, God is accomplishing so much more than we can see. And grace empowers our responses.
 

I realized that the deepest spiritual lessons are not learned by his letting us have our way in the end, but by his making us wait, bearing with us in love and patience until we are able honestly to pray what he taught his disciples to pray: Thy will be done.2 —Elisabeth Elliot

1John Piper, “Are God’s Providence and God’s Sovereignty the Same?,” Desiring God, October 20, 2022, https://www.desiringgod.org/interviews/are-gods-providence-and-gods-sovereignty-the-same.

2Elisabeth Elliot, Passion and Purity: Learning to Bring Your Love Life under Christ’s Control (Grand Rapids, MI: Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group, 2013). Ebook edition accessed at https://www.google.com/books/edition/Passion_and_Purity/rTATEAAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&pg=PP1&printsec=frontcover.