Category: Confessions of a Broken Human

Like a dog that returns to his vomit is a fool who repeats his folly. – Proverbs 26:11

Vomit… what a title, yeah? This word has been churning around in my head for the past several days, and much like vomit, something’s gotta come out. If you’re squeamish, this might be a rough read for you. But it might be worth it. Only one way to find out… 

This word “vomit” first came to me during one of my evening walks in the woods last week. As I walked, I didn’t like me very much.  It wasn’t because of insecurities, and it wasn’t because I lost sight of my worth… I just felt so very human. The sickness of sin inside me made me nauseous, and I felt the bile of regret and shame rising in my throat, burning and stinging. When I finally reached a place to be alone, I cried out to God, full of repentance and grief over the state of my heart. I wretched all the gross and disgusting things inside me, and then felt immediate peace and forgiveness.

And that’s when the proverb above came to me… a dog returning to its vomit.

Was I, like a dog, going to return to the thing that brought me only misery and separated me from the Lover of my soul?

Most likely, yes. Yes I would. And that reality hurt beyond expression.

No matter how good my intentions were in that moment with the Lord; no matter how much I wretched my honest struggles and habits of brokenness; no matter how deeply I wanted to leave the vomit of sin behind, there was something inevitable about my return to it.

“Jesus,” I wept, “Don’t you tire of me? Don’t you tire of my repenting? Don’t you tire of my sickness?”

I closed my eyes and saw myself. I was doubled over a toilet, loudly expelling my insides. I rested my head against my forearm and gasped for breath. I felt Jesus there. His hand gently rubbed my back, like a comforting friend or mother, and the other hand held back my hair.

“I came for the sick,” He said, simply and gently.

We claim Christ’s heart of forgiveness and patience so often that I think we’ve lost its truth in the rhetoric that often masks our unbelief. We say it loud and proud, but what happens when we return to our vomit after promising Him we wouldn’t? Surely, as anyone would, He rolls His eyes, sighs a sad sigh, and looks away.

The story of Peter’s restoration tells us something else entirely. Three times Peter returned to his vomit when he betrayed Jesus. He didn’t just sin – He personally rebuked his relationship with our God incarnate. He actually rejected Christ, his intimate friend and teacher – the One whom he pledged his allegiant love to. Not once. Not twice. Three times.

And when Jesus came back, He asked Peter, with deep compassion spilling over and the kindest conviction in His eyes, “Do you love me?” He opened the door of love and restoration. Not once. Not twice. Three times. Peter was not rejected as a consequence of his own rejection of Christ. He was invited again to follow Jesus.

So it is with us. The strongholds, the habits, and thought patterns that lead us to reject the One in whom our souls long for, will continue to plague us. We will often walk our walks nauseated. And yes, we will oftentimes return to the things that sickened us in the first place. That is the reality, not the comfort. The comfort is that He is with us, hand gently resting on our backs as we agonizingly release all that doesn’t belong inside us. And when we have released it all, He wipes our perspiring faces with a cold rag and holds us, inviting us again to Himself.

What precious mercy.

We’re all broken
Hurting people 
with bodies snapped like twigs 
 
For me, it’s my legs 
They are broken and
I’m lying cold on the wet pavement
in the middle of the road
Hoping to God that someone will come and carry me 
 
I hear footsteps behind me
And a voice, easy and kind,
Saying to me, “I think I can help you.”
The pavement crunches as he sits behind me.
 
He talks to me
About life and love 
Hopes and dreams 
He is curious about me
He asks me questions 
He keeps talking 
He jokes with me 
He remarks on the weather
He asks me if I enjoy traveling  
He keeps talking 
 
All the while 
I’m lying cold on the wet pavement 
In the middle of the road
Dying for this man to stop talking and carry me
 
Tears drip backwards down my temples into my ears
My heart races and my blood boils 
My pulse pounds in my neck
I want him to swallow his tongue and choke on it
I finally scream: “Stop talking, damnit!” 
 
He stops.  
 
I feel a little remorse
but not enough to stop me from demanding: 
“Just shut up and carry me!” 
 
I hear him sigh 
The pavement crunches again as he stands up 
He walks in front of me. 
My heart stops. 
 
Both his arms are broken. 
 
“I'm sorry,” he said,
Tears dripping down his cheek
“I can't.” 
He walks away, and I begin to cry. 

I had this vision in my head as I wrestled through severe disappointment with a person who tried to help me, but failed. They just couldn’t be what I needed, and I was so angry — until I recognized where their brokenness was.

Brene Brown’s question in her book “Rising Strong”  rolled around in my head: “Do you believe people are doing the best they can?”  I thought about that for a long time as I sifted through my emotions with this person. Did I really believe they did their best to help me?

Sometimes, no matter how hard a person loves or cares for you, their own brokenness keeps them from carrying you in yours.  That doesn’t mean they don’t want to, and that doesn’t mean they won’t try. Their clumsy attempts can build a fortification of resentment and bitterness around our hearts, and we start to believe the lie that they don’t want to help, but that isn’t true.  They simply can’t.  While this doesn’t always offer comfort, it does help us extend a strange sort of grace to human frailty that we know all too well.  

Because I always aim to offer hope, here is a soul-reminder:

Rest assured that if you are the one left lying cold on the wet pavement somewhere, you are not permanently broken; that’s the beauty of how humans were created – spirits and bodies can heal, and we are in close relationship with the One who designed our healing. Your healing journey may involve a person, a community, a program, therapy, a message or word, a dog (come on now), silence, solitude, lament, grief… the list really does go on.

Let us extend grace to those who try, mercy to those who fail us, and hope for those who see no end to their broken existence. And let us remember that unlike the poor man in the poem, our Healer will never leave us helpless and broken.

I was absolutely disgusted with myself.  I had finally taken a minute to pause and reflect, and what I saw in that reflection was excruciating.  Life had become what I never wanted it to be: a checklist.

Every day, I woke up and ran through the list in my mind.  Classes, meetings, lunch dates, office hours, evening activities, lesson planning, dinner dates, sleep.  Repeat.  Every day, something new to add to the list, something overwhelming to do,  and all under the guise of serving.  “I can manage.  I’m fine,” I said to console myself.  I wasn’t managing, and I wasn’t fine.  I was anxious.  I was worried that I wouldn’t get everything done.  I was relieved when the day was finally over.

When the moment of pause arrived, I realized that I didn’t even feel alive.   My mind had been so warped into a habit of listing, that every day felt robotically the same.  What’s even worse is that spending time with precious people had become an item on that list.  Time with others wasn’t a joy anymore; it was an item.

This morning, when I surrendered the list and sat at His feet,  He drew me to Luke 10: “Mary and Martha”.  Oh boy.  This one hit me like a freight train:

“Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things, but Mary has chosen what is good…” 

I had turned into the woman who felt so overwhelmed by service and so angry that she wasn’t getting the help she needed. Her anxiety and worries drove her to feel a “righteous anger” towards her “lazy” sister and a frustration with Christ for not affirming her works of service.

Jesus knew better.  He knew Martha’s heart.  Was she serving Him because she loved Him? Or had she simply reduced Him to an object on her list?

Mary had chosen what was good.  What was good? She stopped.  She listened. She learned.  She wasn’t pressured to finish tasks.  She didn’t help her sister because at the end of the day, this was JESUS.  This was her Savior.  Being with Him was more important than doing for Him.   Nothing else could be more wonderful and vital than to sit at His feet.

Sitting with Him does something that making a list can’t do — it creates a holy rhythm that brings us back to life.

There is  a significant difference between rhythm and checklist.  Rhythm isn’t monotonous.  It changes with the season, and it is pleasing to the ear of the Lord.  As He sings over us (Zephaniah 3:17), our rhythms compliment His voice and our movements match His. Our rhythm is a result of surrender.   Our checklists are created out of a need to control.  Our checklists are a product of fear– fear of letting go and trusting that He who has done a great work in us will see it to completion.

Life won’t stop or slow down.  We are a busy creation, there’s no arguing that.  Before you start your list, remember to choose what is good.  Remember to sit at His feet; Learn from the One who knows you best.  He came to give you life to the fullest, so live not according to your list, but according to the freedom and identity you have in Christ.  We are human beings, not human doings.  So let’s be with Him and feel alive again.  

“My life is transitioning from glory to gut-wrenching glory these days.  Life just isn’t getting easier, although I’ve convinced myself that it should.  I feel strangled by the transition.  I can’t seem to get comfortable.  No matter how I try to distract my mind from it, I feel it closing tightly.  It hurts the more it clenches its cold fingers around my neck.” — Journal entry, September 9.  

So the time is here again.  Transition.  New places, faces, and need of so many new… graces? Ugh.  That was corny.  And yes, I’m actually this dramatic and poetic when I write in my journal.

It got real on Sunday.  Let me preface by saying I’m a minimizer by nature.  I never want to exaggerate my pain, always convincing myself that it could be worse and I’m fine; but I finally had enough that day.  Everything that had happened to me over the course of the past several weeks hit me like a bag of bricks.  What I had chosen to suppress and ignore bubbled up into a flood that crashed through the levees of my subconscious and spilled over into my reality.  Fresh starts hurt. Anyone that says anything different is lying through their teeth.

While the floodgates finally opened and all the hurt was being felt at once, I recognized the beauty of what was transpiring.  The only thing I had to cling to was our Father. While the feelings of loneliness, inadequacy, and uncertainty that often come in seasons of transition were hurting me, I realized that I couldn’t do anything except give it to Him.  And let me tell you, helplessness is a prime position for transformation.

If we leave pain unattended, it strangles us.  Eventually, it will destroy us.  If we hand it to the care of our Maker and Lover of our Soul, it stretches us, and we can give and receive more than we dared to think possible.  When we trust that the Spirit is indwelling and that Jesus is interceding, where else should our pain go except into His loving hands? That’s exactly where it’s meant to be, and our present suffering can’t compare to the glory that will be revealed.

Things don’t get better overnight; we wish they did.  But He loves us, cares for us, speaks truth to us, cheers us on, reminds us that we aren’t alone…and it’s gonna be okay.  Jesus made sure of that. 🙂

“The young man said, ‘All the commandments I have kept. What do I still lack?’  Jesus said to him, “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven and come, follow me.’ When the young man heard this he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions.” (Matt 19:20-21)

The rich young man did everything right.  Straight-laced. Good kid.  Played by the rules.  He really had it all, yet Jesus said He lacked something.  The rich kid couldn’t deal with the cost, so he walked away.

So often times I read this story and cast my judgmental eye upon this spoiled rich kid:

“Oh, wow, you thought Jesus wanted your perfect score? What a showoff.  You probably just wanted everyone to know how ‘holy’ you were. ‘All of these commandments I have kept,’ you said.  Jesus really got you when He asked you to sell everything, didn’t he? Not so hot now, huh? The minute He asked too much from you, you walked away… when you realized that your ‘good deeds’ weren’t enough for Him, You left… ” 

The longer my judgements spew, however, the more I realize that the rich young man…is me.

How many times do I check off my holiness checklist?

To-Do List: 

1. Wake up, get coffee (check)
2. Read a passage of Mark (check)
3. Pray for 30 minutes to 1 one hour (check)

“Okay, Jesus, I’ve given you what I’m required to give you for today.” 

“Abby, you still lack one thing.” 

“What Jesus? Haven’t I done what you asked? Haven’t I been good today? Self-disciplined? Didn’t I set aside my 30 minutes and give you my time? I fulfilled my prayer time quota, right? What else am I obligated to hand over?” 

“I want everything you possess. I want your entire heart.”

How arrogant are we to think that we are doing ourselves or God a favor by being sweet little rule-followers? Checking Him off our lists?  Squeezing Him into our busy little schedules?  Making sure we ease our guilty consciences by spending a brief millisecond in the Word before bed? Shooting up a hot-second prayer when we get a spare moment? When did we become the rich young man? How could we ever think for one minute that this is what He intended when He went to the cross?  

We do what is required to be “holy” but don’t satisfy His greatest longing: to have hearts undone, with hands up, crying “UNCLE.  I GIVE UP.  IT’S YOURS.” 

While spiritual discipline can be a beautiful thing, it’s practices can deceive us into believing that we are fulfilling our obligations to Him.  The fact of the matter is, His sacrifice for us was never to have our obligations — it was to have our hearts.

Let’s keep our eyes on the Cross and remember why He went there.  He went there to redeem the broken rituals and heartlessness that separated us from Him.  He went there so that we could live in the fullest, most perfect, uninhibited communion with Him.

 

I was writing an e-mail to a friend when these words spilled out onto my screen:

“When our day to day becomes so mundane, lifeless, and painful, how incredible it is to look back on His faithfulness and how He loved, sustained, and cared for us then… and He won’t ever stop.”

He won’t ever stop.

Sometimes, I think we believe He should stop.

We are so conditioned into believing that we have to earn everything.  My protestant work ethic kicks in daily and believing that nothing comes for free is eternally seared into my being.  If I haven’t worked for it, why should I have it?  If I haven’t perfected myself into deserving it, then I shouldn’t be given it.

I know I’m preaching to the choir.  Generations upon generations have revisited this need to earn, so when God offers the unconditionality of Himself to us, I believe we have a tendency to panic.  We don’t deserve it.  It’s too good to be true.  His love is so piercing, pure, and profound, and we can’t stop it.  No matter how reckless we are, we can’t end this constant outpour of grace and goodness, and this can overwhelm the soul a little… or a lot.

The tenacity of God is one of my favorite things about Him.  He goes after us, and He goes hard.  He pours Himself out, and He doesn’t hold back from us.  He gave it all, and He keeps giving it all to us.  It doesn’t makes sense, and that’s the best part.

When we are caught up in that vicious cycle of condemnation, feeling helpless to stop ourselves from breaking the Father’s heart, let’s rest in the reality that He won’t ever stop pursuing, loving, and wholly giving Himself to us.

I was standing in a field.  The hills were black and the trees were bare.  The sky was bathed in a deep, blood red.  The ground was covered in dead things.  I looked to my right, and I saw a procession of men and women.  They were all in chains, headed to a place I knew they shouldn’t go.  Their heads hung low, and their feet were bound in shackles.  I frantically tried to get their attention, but they didn’t see or hear me.

I suddenly felt the presence of something very dark.  I turned around and stood face to face with the evil one.  

“They belong to me.” he whispered, with a malicious, victorious grin spreading across his face. 

Rage from deepest part of me began to well up, and I screamed wildly: 

“No! They don’t belong to you! They belong to HIM!”  

Then I woke up.

______________________________________________

This was a dream I had when I was 8 years old.  I remember waking up, not knowing what I just saw, but knowing it was significant. I feel like the Father gave me that dream as child and kept it in my memory for this moment in time.

I saw people I knew in that procession.  People that I loved.  The fact is, we know and love too many people in that procession.  They are bound, broken, and headed towards an eternity apart from our Father.  We can’t unsee this truth.

We are also living in the midst of war, and the Word is clear that we do not fight against flesh and blood.  The enemy will try to convince and declare that all is lost, and that he has won.  The enemy isn’t out to distract, discourage, or dishearten… he is out to destroy.

I pray that as the enemy begins to whisper lies, the spitfire little girl inside you begins to scream.  I hope you scream, cuss, and shake your fist in the face of the enemy, Citizens of Heaven.  

Remember the victory of our Savior.  Remember and declare the work of the One who died for the redemption of us all.  Remember that when He said, “It is finished,” the enemy was done for.  Remember the procession, and remember that they are His, bought and paid for by His precious blood.

Press in, press on, and pray for the procession.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I remember the first moment I actually realized what my faith was about.  I was 17, leaving a conference, and I was completely wrecked.  During the ride home on the bus, I was asked to share a verse that had changed my heart.  I don’t know why I chose this verse (I think I felt panicked and pressured, and I opened up to a page that had some highlighted pink and yellow on it)– I picked my verse, walked up to the front, held the bus microphone in my hand, and shared from Nehemiah: “the joy of the Lord is your strength.”

I had forgotten that moment until just now, to be real.  But it’s so amazing how the Father reminds you of seemingly insignificant moments to strengthen you in your present…

Last week, my heart was hollow.  I felt lifeless. Going about the daily grind, doing what I had to do to survive, numbing out, checking out, feeling sorry for myself, uncertain as to why I felt like the walking dead.  I knew I needed a confrontation with Father, so I stepped into the room with Him. And let me tell you, it had been awhile.

I poured out my heart, blubbering stupidly about how useless and unhappy I felt.  “Why do I feel like this?” I asked Him.  “I haven’t genuinely laughed in weeks. I can’t go on like this.  I feel completely joyless.  I fake every smile; what’s wrong with me?”

As I continued my pathetic soliloquy, I burrowed deeper to the root of the matter.

“Father, I have nothing to offer anyone here.  What are my gifts? What are my strengths?” 

Nehemiah flashed in front of my eyes, and I heard Him say it, loud and clear: “the JOY of the LORD is your strength.”

Wrecked again. That was it.

The source of all my joy is found in Him.  I don’t say that to sound spiritual.  I say that as an honest, assessed, tested and tried fact.  My absence from His Presence had left me detached from the source of all joy; every moment away from Him was a moment that stole away my joy, and I was dying inside.

That reminder was more than enough to push me to my feet.  Joy is what the Father gives to us in abundance, despite our circumstances, despite our momentary troubles, and despite our brokenness.  We can rest assured that our strength and hope is found right where we left it: in His Presence; the Psalmist said it best: “In His Presence, there is fullness of joy.” (Psalm 16:11)

And friends, we are all called to be a joyful people.  In Philippians, Paul reminds us to “Rejoice always.”  The season you are in may be joyless, but THE JOY OF THE LORD is in every single, stinking, rotten season of your life.  It’s as close as your skin. Be strengthened by it.  Because honestly, if you don’t infuse yourself to His joy, you are a walking dead man.  Your laugh becomes hollow, your purpose becomes shallow, and your walk becomes weakened.

Perhaps some of you Sunday schoolers recall this happy little ditty:

“I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart; down in my heart; down in my heart to staaaaaaay.”

I really hope I got this stuck in all of your heads. You are welcome.

Also, sorry if that image of my laughter is larger than life itself.  It’s sort of intense. But so is the joy of the Lord.

 

“Stare into the face of ugly sin and love the beating heart behind it.”

That’s what He said to me. In broad daylight.

“But Father,” I choked a laugh. “That’s impossible. You don’t seem to understand. This sin… It’s revolting. I don’t know if I can stand next to this person and not see it. It’s like a bad accident…you just can’t look away.”

He just looked at me. He didn’t blink.

“Okay, maybe that’s a bad analogy…” I stared down at my toes, because that’s all you can do when you stand before Him sometimes.

“Listen, it stinks, this sin. It’s the kind of stench that sticks to your nostrils. You know bonfires? How the smell clings to your sweatshirt for weeks on end? It’s like that. No matter how much I scrub, I can’t get rid of that rank, putrid smell.”

He breathed in, breathed out, and smiled, sadly.

“Look, it’s really uncomfortable for me, okay? Being around this sin is gross. I just can’t deal with it. I don’t want to. Can’t I just love them from a distance? Like, I’ll call and text them weekly. How’s that? I won’t ask them about the sin. I won’t even bring it up. I can do that, can’t I?”

Not a word.

“Okay, I can’t do it.” I threw my hands up.  “I can’t love them like you want me to.  How can I?  How can you expect me to love them when their sin is so heavy and disgusting?” 

A tear brimmed on the edge of His eye.

I knew I blew it.

He crouched down and grabbed my face. He didn’t say anything—He really didn’t have to. I felt the weight of conviction pressing down hard.

He looked deeply. He breathed in the stench of my prideful, arrogant breath. He closed in on my distant, avoidant heart. He stared into the ugliness of my sin and loved me anyways.

___________________________________________________________________

When the going gets tough, I get going. This is my greatest struggle. When vulnerable, aching people desire closeness with me, I want to turn away. I don’t want to look into the ugly sin and see the reality of it. I don’t want to fight alongside a broken friend. I want to run back to the safe surface, where no one will ask hard questions and no one will ask anything of me.

But that is not what He calls us to, friends. He calls us into the kind of unity that confuses the world. He calls us into a love that stretches our hearts wide open. He calls us into a bond that defies all earthly understanding.

This sort of love will force us to see and hear things that we don’t want to see or hear. It will beckon us to share things we never thought we could or should. It will call us to love deeper, wider, and higher, still.  And yes, it’s going to feel uncomfortable; it’s going to hurt; it’s going to stretch us beyond our limits.

Because He did it for us. He stared into the face of our ugliness and chose to crown us with royalty, adopt us into His family, and die that we may be with Him forever.

The Son said it best: “May the love that you have loved me be in them…” (John 17:26)

May the love he LAVISHED on us be in us.  May our broken brothers and sisters feel this love pouring out of us.  May it be done as He has said.

A few months ago, as I sat in my cozy, comfortable room in America, I wrote these prayerful words:

“Father, be the fire inside my veins.  May the passion that led your Son to the cross be in me, and may the Love that poured out of His veins pour out of me.” 

I think back to this moment, remembering the shameful tears I shed that night.  Spiritual lethargy, my Achilles heel, had snagged me yet again.  I was going through the movements of mundane life, forgetting my purpose and allowing this lethargy to dull my senses.  The Love that gave me my daily breath was barely acknowledged, and my heart was hardening fast.

I share this because during times of great transition and intense pain, spiritual lethargy creeps back into it’s cozy corner of my heart.  It grabs a coffee, a fuzzy blanket, and begins the binge of “Parks and Rec.”  It blinds my eyes to the reality of a crumbling world, and shuts my ears to the voice of the One who created me, knows me, and seeks me.  As things intensify around me, spiritual lethargy tucks itself inside and refuses to get off the couch.  It feels safe, secure, and hates the discomfort that the outside world brings.

As I transition into this new world, I find myself fighting against this despicable lethargy again and again.  My heart wants to know Him in my comfort, but I simply can’t know Him there.  Who has ever truly known the heart of our Creator in the quiet, secure, and settled life?  We serve the One who draws us out of our safe spaces into the world that is covered in His DNA.  He is discovered in the unknown.

The image of fire in the veins is deeply moving to me.  Fire burns, refines, and purifies.  As the fire of the Almighty moves in our veins, our very life-blood is being burned away.  This hurts like heck.  It’s the most uncomfortable sort of refinement.  But as our life-blood is being seared away, new life is coming in — the life of the Son.  He is our life, our strength, and our identity.

We can’t take this wild-fire refinement sitting down.  It gets us out of our warm-and-cozy, coffee-drinking, binge-watching nonsense, and spurs us onward into the unfamiliar.  It’s far more painful than we could have ever imagined, but it’s worth it every time.  We may find ourselves hungry, aching, bleeding, and confused, but take comfort–we are becoming more like Him in the process.

May this fiery, passionate Love of the Son drive us into uncomfortable places we dared not go before.