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Has Safety Become An Idol?

Some level of risk is inherent in life in general. And missions brings some additional ones as well. I believe that what I wrote in October 2015 is still true – about risk and about idolatry in general.

I’ll admit – I’m a bit scared to write this. There’s some (theologically unsound) apprehension that once I say this out loud, or in writing, the Lord will ask me to live it out more completely.

I place a high priority on safety. I’m not a fan of “risk for risk’s sake”. I want to feel safe – and my choices of where to live and what to do on a daily basis are impacted by this. I admit to feeling a bit nervous when my adult daughter lives in a city and I don’t know how “safe” her neighborhood is. My first thought when I think of certain regions of the world or certain parts of a city is primarily the lack of safety. And so on – in big and small ways, my thoughts are filtered through safety.

I don’t think that is necessarily wrong. In fact, I think it’s wise.

But what if safety becomes an idol?

How do we know if it is an idol? For me, it would be an idol if my “yes” to the Lord was held hostage to my requirement for safety. If safety absolutely had to be first – no matter what, no exceptions.

As followers of Jesus, idolatry in any form needs to be recognized and confronted with brutal honesty about the place it holds in our lives. Anything that supplants the Lord as number one in our lives is an idol. Is safety an idol in my life? Maybe not. Do I need to be watchful so that it doesn’t become one? I do. If I felt the Lord calling me to an unsafe place, would I go? I hope so.

There’s a commonly repeated phrase, intended to bring comfort, but which nags at me because I don’t think it is true – at least not the way people tend to use it.

“The safest place to be is the center of God’s will.”

Is the center of God’s will absolutely the RIGHT or BEST place to be? Yes. Is it the “safest” by the measure most of us use for safety? I’m not sure it is.

Look at the apostle Paul, who describes his life this way: “Five times I received at the hands of the Jews the forty lashes less one. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I was stoned. Three times I was shipwrecked; a night and a day I was adrift at sea; on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from robbers, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, in hunger and thirst, often without food, in cold and exposure.” (2 Cor. 11:24-27)

There’s the early church, in Acts 3:29, who when faced with strong persecution did not pray for safety but prayed “Lord, look upon their threats and grant to your servants to continue to speak your word with all boldness ….”

Matt Blazer, my pastor in Connecticut, describes any promised safety this way: It refers to our internal heart and our eternal salvation.

So what does it take to make this shift in perspective?

Let’s start by being honest that safety and comfort are not the same thing. Most of the world lives very differently than we do. A lack of nice houses, air conditioning, good food, regular electricity, or indoor toilets – or even the presence of things like lice and bed bugs – is not primarily a safety issue. It’s primarily a comfort issue. We can talk about safety, but let’s make sure we’re not really talking about comfort.

Let’s admit that it is impossible to be incarnational with our message of the gospel and also make our comfort or our safety the most important thing. If we follow the model of Jesus, we will dwell among those we are called to love. Whether or not it is comfortable. Whether or not it is safe.

Let’s realize that the shift involves the spiritual realm and not just the physical one. Erwin McManus tells a story of his son, who had been scared by demon stories during his first time at a Christian summer camp. He asks Erwin “Will you pray that God will keep me safe?” Erwin’s response was “I can’t pray that God will always keep you safe, but I will pray that God makes you so dangerous that when you enter a room, the demons flee.” (paraphrased based on my memory of the story)

Can I get there? To the point where I am more concerned about being powerful in the spiritual realm than safe or comfortable in the physical realm? I don’t know. But I think I’m supposed to try.

(Postscript Note: I work for an organization that makes safety a top priority for our mission trip participants – and it is right for us to do so. This is not about questioning or changing that. Scripture is clear that we are to be wise, that we are to count the cost before entering into something. I believe safety is part of that equation. But I’ve written before about a tendency to mask fear by calling it “wisdom”. And Seth Barnes, the founder of Adventures in Missions, often tells people that if we wanted our kids to be safe, we shouldn’t have introduced them to Jesus.)

Discovering Strength (and Becoming Dangerous?)

I wrote this in August 2015. And, like so many things I am revisiting as I move posts to a new platform, I love that what was once new and scary has now become more deeply embedded into my “normal”.

For most of my life I didn’t see myself as “strong”. Growing up, I was “compliant”, not “strong-willed”. I was shy – and it’s hard to see yourself as strong if you are too afraid to speak up. I was fearful – again, not a great underpinning for strength (or so I thought). My identity was wrapped up in being “nice” and “understanding” (in some good ways and in some unhealthy ways) – not in being strong. I was a people-pleaser and craved approval – which meant I didn’t tend to take stands that were my own. I was told more than once that being strong made me undesirable and that “meekness and gentleness” disappeared if I was strong. And on and on.

There’s a somewhat clichéd quote, usually attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt, that says “A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she’s in hot water.” As much as I don’t like clichés there’s something about this that has been true in my life. I discovered my strength during the hard times. I don’t think I became strong during them. At least a core of strength had to have been there all along. It didn’t magically appear when things got hard. But it emerged and it became visible.

I didn’t see it at first. My friends and counselors saw it before I did. In my mind, even now looking back, I was just doing what had to be done. It didn’t feel as if I made a deliberate choice to be strong. I didn’t even feel like I was making choices. It felt like a constant slogging through pain and fear, taking the next step and then the next one. “Of course I throw myself into all that counseling provides.” “Of course I keep going.” “Of course I cling to the possibility that grace will get me through.” “Of course I try to be wise about what I say and do.” “Of course I run to the Lord.”

It didn’t feel like strength. It felt like survival. In hindsight I see a pattern and I do see choices that I made out of strength. I did choose to embrace counseling and let the Lord work through that. I did choose to cling to the Lord rather than run away from Him. I did choose my words and actions carefully. But in the moment, I didn’t see choice and I didn’t see strength.

So what does strength – which may have emerged during hard times – look like during other seasons of life, the ones that aren’t necessarily difficult times? For me, an intriguing concept began to surface. Does it mean I can be “dangerous”? An odd word for a shy, introverted, quiet person to resonate with. But it came from different places and it always stirred something in me. Even before I could believe it, I could feel the stirring, the twinge of hope that would come even when it didn’t yet make sense or seem possible. Even before I had the courage to think that it could describe someone like me.

Erwin McManus wrote and spoke things that brought a perspective to my life in the midst of pain and struggle – I’m part of a bigger picture and I’m made to be dangerous in the spiritual realm. My counselor urged me to consider the possibility that the enemy was trying to derail my ministry because it was significant in the Kingdom and important enough to be attacked. An in-depth profile of how I’m wired surprisingly revealed there’s a bit of “rebel” in me – a quiet and subtle rebel, but someone who had changed how things were done. Lynne Hybels wrote a book called “Nice Girls Don’t Change the World” and provided a picture of a Christian woman that was not limited to the “nice Christian girl”. Much of her journey, many of her assumptions about herself in the early years of her life, lined up with my own.

So here I am. Fairly content to describe myself as “strong” these days. Still not at a point where I would put “dangerous” on a top 5 list of personal descriptors – but wanting to grow in that.

Lynne Hybels has a prayer, a “creed”, in her book and online. I return to it time and time again, asking the Lord to make this more and more true of me:

Dear God, please make us dangerous women.

May we be women who acknowledge our power to change, and grow, and be radically alive for God.

May we be healers of wounds and righters of wrongs.

May we weep with those who weep and speak for those who cannot speak for themselves.

May we cherish children, embrace the elderly, and empower the poor.

May we pray deeply and teach wisely.

May we be strong and gentle leaders.

May we sing songs of joy and talk down fear.

May we never hesitate to let passion push us, conviction compel us, and righteous anger energize us.

May we strike fear into all that is unjust and evil in the world.

May we dismantle abusive systems and silence lies with truth.

May we shine like stars in a darkened generation.

May we overflow with goodness in the name of God and by the power of Jesus.

And in that name and by that power, may we change the world.

Dear God, please make us dangerous women. Amen.

Finding a Voice

So grateful that all these years later, the Lord continues to teach me how to use my voice.

Intro when originally posted in April 2015: This is the second part of a discussion. Part 1 was Sorting out Shyness, Fear and Introversion. Coming soon in other posts – thoughts on being a strong (dangerous?) woman and thoughts on being an introverted leader.)

This second installment in the series has proven troublesome. In part, it’s because something keeps intruding into the story that I hadn’t intended to talk about. After two weeks of being stuck, I’ve concluded that it’s not going away. I can’t talk about being a strong woman without talking about the need to find my voice.

Remember the 1999 movie Runaway Bride? Maggie Carpenter (Julia Robert’s character) has left several fiancés at the altar and a reporter does a story about her. As he talks individually to each former fiancé, the interviews often take place over breakfast at the local diner. Each guy orders his eggs in a different style. In the course of conversation, every one of them mentions that Maggie likes her eggs the same way he likes his.

That’s a woman who didn’t know how to use her voice. That was me.

I mentioned last time that part of the process of letting go of fear was that I discovered I had a “voice” and that I wanted to use it. I also said God did the deepest work on my fear during a scary stage of my life. What I didn’t say is that it was as my marriage was ending after 25 years. I was a stay at home mom. I’d never been driven by career aspirations. I really just wanted to be a wife and mom. I loved volunteering. But suddenly I was looking at re-entering the paid workforce, being more completely on my own, facing an “empty nest” without a companion and all the other things that go along with that.

(Just a side note – there is a danger in oversimplifying any divorce and I don’t want to do that. And this isn’t the place to share details. This is about a profound work the Lord did in me during that time frame.)

The person who should have been my biggest cheerleader no longer played that role. When you live with someone who doesn’t treasure or value your voice, you get confused. You wonder if you are really what the other person says. When you are put together the way I am, you keep trying to prove that you’re good enough – but it never makes a difference. You ask counselors if your thoughts are normal and they try to help you see that even asking that question indicates there is distortion in your marriage and in your thinking.

It was in this context that God was working on my fear and shyness. But He was also telling me I had a voice – one that it was okay to use. Over the years, I had grown in confidence in certain areas. I knew my stuff when it came to heading up Children’s Ministry. I was competent in a number of other areas. But at my core, the part that was most intimately connected to my hopes and dreams, my likes and dislikes, the things that made me laugh and the things that made me cry, I didn’t know how to use my voice. There was a tentativeness around most people.

Some of the most tender moments in my journals came as the Lord told me that not only was it okay to have a voice, it was important to use it. He told me I had value and He gently encouraged me to believe that. He, the Lord of the universe, showed me His delight in my voice.

Some steps were big. Some were small. I grew enormously through the years of counseling before the marriage finally ended. And in the midst of the intense pain that was my life for those years, this growth felt like a gift – the hidden gem. It felt like weight being lifted off my shoulders. It felt like fresh air. I was coming alive in ways that were exciting to me. But to my husband it seemed as if the ground rules were changing and he could not rejoice in the things that felt like freedom to me.

Eventually, I was the one who filed for divorce. I had begged God that if my marriage was going to end, please have my husband be the one to file. In the end, for a number of reasons, I had no choice but to do it. And in doing so, I found a new piece of my voice – one that I believe the Lord knew was important for me to use. Admittedly, it was a piece I had never wanted to use, a piece that initiated me into a club I had never wanted to be part of (divorced). But it was a voice that came from a place of realizing I had value and importance and a call on my life. Perhaps most importantly, that there were lines it was appropriate for me to draw and there were things that were important for me to say.

Toward the end of Runaway Bride, Maggie Carpenter has figured out more of who she really is. She’s an artist, among other things. She’s built a successful following in the city. She’s found her voice. She’s eaten every style of cooked eggs and she announces to the reporter: “Benedict. I love Eggs Benedict. I hate every other kind.”

Finding your voice matters. And egg preference is just one of the fun parts.

Sorting Out Shyness, Fear and Introversion

Current Update – My significantly less fearful life feels normal these days. Most people are surprised to find out how shy I was. There’s a freedom in how I operate now that didn’t become a reality until my 40s, 50s, and 60s. It’s part of what I love about the journey that has unfolded for me.

Intro when first posted in March 2015: This is the first part of a discussion. some background info for what is ahead. Coming soon in other posts – thoughts on being a strong (dangerous?) woman and thoughts on being an introverted leader.

I’m an introvert. I’m also shy in many situations (although not as painfully shy as I was for the first 25-30 years of my life). And the big work God has done in my life in the last 15+ years (yes – in my 40s and 50s and now my 60s) is deal with the fear that had permeated most of my life.

My childhood, my teen years, my twenties and into my thirties are full of memories of shyness. Even now I can remember how it felt. And it was painful. I usually felt like the shy little girl who never grew up and never fit in.

I was in my thirties before anyone significantly challenged my assumption that shyness and introversion were the same thing. I’m not sure whether I thought I was an introvert because I was shy. Or that I was shy because I was an introvert. It didn’t really matter because I believed they were inextricably linked.

I was unaware that I also believed another lie embedded in that. The lie said: “You’re always going to be this shy. You’ll never be able to change. There are a lot of things not available to you because you’re introverted and shy.” Introversion and shyness felt so closely tied to “how I am made” that I could not picture being any other way.

Here’s how shy I was – I ended up sobbing in a college professor’s office because 30% of my grade was going to be class participation and I just couldn’t do it. (And my identity at that point was pretty much wrapped up in being a straight A student.) I wouldn’t suggest a restaurant or a movie when going on a date because I was afraid my date would think it (and therefore I) was stupid. I wouldn’t speak up in class, in a group or to a boss unless specifically addressed and drawn out. Spiritually, as more and more friends were experiencing the “charismatic renewal”, I was terrified – the idea of speaking in tongues was horrifying to me as an intensely shy person.

And the weight of that was crushing. I avoided things that nudged my heart – activities at school, chances to grow, things I wanted to do – and I blamed it on my shyness.

More importantly, I didn’t allow myself to dream big dreams. I couldn’t picture ever having a significant ministry. I tentatively mentioned to my mom once that I might want to be a missionary and her fearful response that I couldn’t do that because it was too dangerous just shut me down. As a teenager, I didn’t have what it took to press through that.

But eventually I began to look at the pieces I hadn’t looked at before. The relationship between shyness and fear. The ways that shyness and introversion are NOT connected. I’d always known I was fearful – but I hadn’t fully factored it into the mix. And I’d never seriously dealt with the reality that I could do something about the fear.

Scripture tells us to “Fear not”. Why would we be given a command unless it was possible to follow it? Is it really possible that when you strip away theological analysis, it’s as simple as ‘not fearing’? Did that mean being a fearful person could be changed? What would it look like to confront fear and move past it? Where would the courage come from? Does a shy person have to go through a different process than a non-shy person?

It didn’t happen overnight, and in fact it happened most significantly during the stage of my life where I had the most reason to be “legitimately” fearful. I had amazing counselors who firmly and gently held out hope to me. My fear began to break apart. I discovered I had a “voice” that I desperately wanted to use – and which deserved to be heard. I took baby steps of courage and lived through them, discovering that they brought freedom instead of death.

I began to entertain the possibility that I mattered, a sense that had been missing while I was imprisoned in shyness and fear.

I’m still an introvert – although on Myers Briggs I test closer to the center of the continuum than I used to. Once my shyness began to break apart, it did change how I answered the questions on the assessment. I’m still shy in some settings – and while I want to work on that where it is fear-based, I’m also learning to be content that I’m not the exuberant, bubbly, dive right in type of person. Not all quietness and reservation is unhealthy or fear-based shyness.

I tend to initially be an observer, especially in groups that I am newly a part of. I take my time. I don’t wrest control away from anyone else. It helps when I have an expected role – both in my own mind and in the perception of the people I’m with. That opens doors for me to be fully engaged.

I can operate outside of these parameters when I need to. And I’m still growing. But the sorting out I did related to shyness, fear and introversion laid the foundation for much of what has unfolded in this season of my life.

To be continued …

[New P.S. If you are an introvert, have introverted kids or just want to understand what introverts bring to the table and how best to support them I highly recommend Susan Cain’s book “Quiet”.]

Things That Should Not Be Juggled

Written in October 2014 during the last months of my mom’s life. She passed away on December 23, 2014.

Life can feel like a juggling act. Work and rest. Busy schedules and establishing healthy habits. Job tasks and everyday home tasks. Competing projects and resources at work. The urgent and the important. Our needs and the needs of others. Time for friends. Time to serve and minister. All too often, we have what can feel like too many balls in the air.

A week ago, just as the flight attendants made the “cell phones off” announcement, I received a text from my sister in Virginia: On my way to the hospital to meet Mom’s ambulance.

I was on my way home to Atlanta from Chicago. My mind had shifted back to work mode – adding new items to my ever increasing “to do” list, beginning to prepare for the week’s meetings. I love what I do, and work is always busy.

By the time I landed in Atlanta and drove the hour-plus to home, it was clear that I needed to head for Roanoke. I didn’t even take my suitcase out of the car – just threw in a couple of extra things and made it partway to Roanoke that night.

It was a serious situation with Mom when I arrived. The confusion that landed her in the hospital was getting worse, not better. CT scans, MRIs, EEGs – some information but not enough for a clear-cut initial diagnosis. Brief moments of being lucid and coherent surrounded by hours and hours and hours of being confused, incoherent or “out of it”.

I was still in juggling mode when I arrived. I’ll juggle this and work. It’s not the worst time for this to happen – no big events right around the corner, no trips to lead this month. I can go back and forth – carry the full load at work and be attentive here as well.

My sister – a day ahead of me on this round with Mom and with previous experience being on the front lines with less serious episodes – already knew what I would quickly discover.

Some things should not be juggled.

This is one of them.

Other things need to fall away for the moment.

Even if it means some balls get completely dropped.

And even if there is no one else to pick them up. (And even if your “identity” as the super-responsible one is on the line.)

So we sit and wait and hold her hand and sympathize about the itchiness of her EEG leads. We ask the “what is your name/what is my name/do you know where you are” assessment questions whenever she wakes up for a few minutes. We trade off spending the night beside her bed on the uncomfortable recliner. We try to sort out what the doctors are saying and which ones we trust if there are conflicting opinions.

I spend a few minutes here and there checking emails. I make arrangements for the dogs back in Georgia to be taken care of. I touch base quickly with a few members of my team. But all of that is in the odd minute here and there. For now, work and home are not part of a constant juggling act. They get glanced at, not juggled.

I know that I have it easier than many would: A capable team and a supportive employer who immediately say “We can make this work. What do you need? How can we help?”. I have a few financial resources that not everyone has. My daughter is currently in Georgia and able to help on the homefront. In the end, my choices have not had to be hard ones.

We’re a week into this. We’re still unclear what’s ahead. Or how long I’ll be here. But it’s an important time.

It’s a time that is best served by full attention.

A time that should not be juggled.

Holy Moments and Kingdom Minded Grieving

The number of similar examples that have impacted my life since the original post in July 2014 are sobering. I’ll leave this post as it was originally written, with the possibility of telling some other stories in the future.

In July 2014 I had a chance to be part of one of those holy moments you get to experience from time to time. Those moments when the veil between heaven and earth seems thinner, when you sense you are part of something bigger than “normal” life. When you see someone act in a way that can only be explained by the presence of the Holy Spirit, infusing them with spiritual eyes and a grace we can’t muster up on our own. And by seeing it, you are drawn closer as well.

We launched four squads of World Racers – and therefore four squads of World Race parents. The parent launch event is one of my favorite things in parent ministry. We give information, they meet our leadership, we hope they get glimpses into our heart for missions and discipleship and their Racers, we answer their questions, we talk about their Racer’s journey but also their journey. It’s an amazing time.

We had a unique family there this time. Jon-Roy and Maria Sloan and their son Sterling. Their daughter, Anastasia, was scheduled to launch. She was scheduled to meet her squad in person at training camp in May. And a week or so before training camp, she died in a car accident.

Her parents wanted to be at launch. They wanted to be part of the journey of F squad, her squad. As the dad spoke to the 210 gathered parents, he said they know that Anastasia’s name is not yet finished advancing the kingdom. They know she (and everyone else) thought she was going on one journey and instead she went on a different journey. In her blog she had been telling the Lord to take her deep. She was so sure that God was going to work in and through her. The Sloans are equally sure that her impact on the kingdom is not yet done.

As we gathered to pray over the Sloan family, her younger brother Sterling reached for the microphone, looked out at the crowd and said “Your children [your Racers] are going to be fulfilling Matthew 28:19 – they are going to be making disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.” It was an emotional moment for those of us hearing that. But it was a holy moment as well.

I can’t imagine the pain you feel if you lose a child. But I’m grateful for the people who have modeled it for me in ways that profoundly affect me, that remind me there’s an earthly perspective and a deep earthly grieving but there’s also a heavenly perspective, infused with hope.

Dwight and Peggy Buller are people like that. I’ve gotten to know them since I’ve been at Adventures. Their daughter Sarah was killed in a car accident while on a mission trip to South Africa in 2009. Like the Sloans, they knew their daughter’s impact on the kingdom would continue long past her death on this earth – and it has. There are scholarships and celebrations and so much more in her name. They received the news on Palm Sunday and every year on Palm Sunday hold a large community celebration – remembering her, but more importantly lifting up her Lord.

Dwight and Peggy are from Minnesota but they love to hang out with Adventures in Missions and they’ve been at several of our parent events. They’ve shared their story – with tears at times but also with an abiding grasp of God’s goodness to them. It’s not either/or. It’s both – a deep, deep grieving and a God of hope and joy.

The Duffs, although I don’t know them as well, are like that too. Ryan was part of my daughter’s senior class. It was a small school – only 35 or so in the senior class. He died in a car accident in November of their senior year. I watched the Duffs model for that senior class how you walk through grief. They invited them into the process – spending time with them, holding the visiting hours at the school in a room full of tributes to Ryan created by the senior class, inviting them to the smaller graveside service after the packed service at the church. They’ve stayed in touch with many of them – even after 9 years. They modeled well how to walk through grief.

Linda Duff presents a scholarship in Ryan’s name every year to a graduating senior that in some way reminds them of Ryan or something he cared about. She does so with grace and joy.

To the Sloans, the Buller, the Duffs and others I have known less well – I will never say “I understand what you are going through” because I don’t. But I can say this: You have modeled for me a kingdom perspective. You’ve reminded me that our life on this earth is not the whole story. You’ve talked about grace and forgiveness and hope and joy with the deep integrity that comes from a hard path.

And you’ve brought me into holy moments.

The “Hard to Name” Blog Post

I wish I could say this has gotten easier since it was written in May of 2014. At that point, I’d been doing it for 3 years. It’s now been 12 years. My gratitude for the support team that makes it possible for me to say “yes” to this call – whether that is financial support, prayer or other forms of encouragement – is huge. It’s still not the easiest part of my journey, but God has been faithful.

I’ve changed the title of this post quite a few times – trying to find one that captures what I want it to. I’ve tried “It’s Humbling”, or more specifically, “The Humbling Experience of Support Raising”, or “What Have I Learned About Obedience and Joy and Gratitude by Support Raising” or “What It Has Felt Like to Support Raise”. But none of those quite capture my jumbled thoughts. Or maybe this is just a hard one to write.

I know. For some of you, you want to stop reading right here. Please don’t. This isn’t about an “ask”. It is an attempt to share with you a bit of my journey in the same way I have shared on other topics. I want to be transparent about how I think and process and wrestle. I want to share the things that have been hard. The things that have been nice surprises. Where it has stretched me. Where it has exhausted me. Where there have been great stories. What I’ve discovered. What I still wrestle with.

Essentially everyone I know is bombarded with various requests. Or you don’t believe in people raising support. Or you are ambivalent (or not!) about short term missions. I know that and I am respectful of that. There are organizations that require their home office staff to fundraise (like Adventures) and some who don’t. There are ways to do short term missions and discipleship with integrity and there are methods that are offensive to everyone involved.

But this isn’t about those details. It’s about my journey with being called to an organization I believe in, that tells me this is “part of the job”.

And part of what I’ve discovered is that it is more than just a “job requirement”. There are unexpected privileges in it – along with the other stuff.

I’ll be honest – the thought of having to “raise support” was one of the hurdles I had to get over before I moved to Georgia to work with Adventures in Missions. I was in my mid-fifties. It was this simple: I didn’t want to do it.

In the end though, it became a matter of obedience. The restlessness that I knew was from the Lord was pointing increasingly toward leaving Connecticut and had begun to point directly toward Adventures in Missions. And I reached the point where I knew for sure that to refuse to make that move because of the fund raising component would be active disobedience to what I was being asked by the Lord to do. The right question was not “Do I have to fund raise?” but “Is God calling me to Adventures in Missions?”

So I’ve learned to trust God in new ways about the hard and scary (and initially distasteful) parts of obedience.

At times I have to actively check my tendency to compare myself (consciously or unconsciously) to those who don’t raise support. There are two primary ways I can get off track here. First, raising support for my full-time, long-term job is different than raising for a specific trip or a specific project. It’s not what I thought I would be doing at this stage of my life. And I’ve realized that it’s the place where a sense of entitlement can subtly creep in. “I shouldn’t have to do this.” “I am owed a salary.” But I know a sense of entitlement robs you of joy.

So I’ve learned to not give the enemy a foothold by entertaining thoughts that in reality have to do with a sense of entitlement.

A second result of comparing myself to others is that almost without realizing it, those thoughts can feed lies I have no business believing. Lies about my worth or value. That my worth is diminished because I don’t get “paid” in a traditional way. Lies that say I can’t do anything else. That my security rests in my ability to raise support. Left unchecked, the lies can bring up the pain and baggage of the divorce. I do acutely feel the “weight” of not having a spouse to share the burden with but ultimately that can feed into a lie that I’m truly alone.

However, I know that these lies would surface (in one form or another) no matter where I was, what I was doing and whether or not I was raising support. The enemy knows where I am vulnerable and he pokes at those spots. It has nothing to do with support raising.

Therefore, I need to be vigilant in holding onto truth and rejecting lies the enemy would want to have take root in my life.

For much of my married life I was on the other side – the donor who could write the large check. I often say it’s more fun to be on that side. But while writing this, I realized I’m not as sure as I used to be about that blanket statement. I now think it was more fun to be on that side when that was where I was supposed to be. Supporting a wide range of people and causes kept me connected to what God was doing in the world. I was a part of helping make something happen even though I couldn’t be on what most people would call the “front lines”.

It was a gift and a privilege to be able to do that.

But now I’m on the other side – and to be honest, I’m so sure I’m supposed to be here that there’s not a strong draw to be anywhere else, even back on the other side of the checkbook. There is great delight in being closer to the field ministry, in seeing at closer range what is happening around the world. In using my skills and talents in a very different environment. In being utilized and fulfilled in a calling.

That I would be called to this is it’s own gift and privilege.

When I look at the big picture, when I’m not focusing specifically on having to “ask for support”, I’m no longer sure that being on the check writing side is more fun. It feels more secure, I suppose, but fun … maybe not.

As I wrap this up, I don’t want to rely on clichéd phrases. Some of what I’m about to say are things I’ve always heard from support raised missionaries. And I’ve discovered they are really true. Not clichés, not “formulas” or “the right thing to say”, but deep down true. So here goes.

Some of the good things about support raising:

It has connected me with people in wonderful ways. It’s true – the people who are nudged by the Holy Spirit to support you may surprise you. And the gratitude I feel is overwhelming. As I look at the amount that has been given to Adventures in Missions for my support, I am humbled, and grateful. It amazes me.
It gives me the chance to tell my story and Adventures’ story – and the story of my faith and what God is doing in the world – in a different way. I’m loving that.
I get to experience God’s leading, and God’s faithfulness, in new ways. I have to rely on Him in different ways. And I am stripped of any illusion that I can take care of myself. It may be scary – but there’s freedom in that as well.
I’ve had the true joy of people who have stepped out in faith to give $10 a month – where I know that was hard for them. When that happens, and when I get to be part of it – it’s such a joyful privilege. What that says to me about their desire to be part of what God is doing here – and what that says about their trust in my call – feels like a holy thing. And it brings great joy to see them take their own steps of faith.
I’ve had people say “You need to be doing what you’re good at in ministry instead of spending time support raising” and they did something which covered most of my shortages for a year. Words can’t express what that felt like.
I’ve been blessed by the people who can’t give financially but who pray faithfully for me and for my ministry. That gift really is of great value to me and I am connected to them in ways that are very similar to my connection to financial donors. I couldn’t do this without them and I love being dependent on them as well as on my financial donors.

There are hard parts too. I still don’t love to “ask”. I still worry about putting people on the spot (and while I believe it is also giving them a chance to participate in something that matters – it’s still hard for me to do). I’ve fallen far short of where I want to be in terms of personal contact and thank yous and newsletters and updates. Finding time to do the important things (like those) in the midst of urgent things (like the daily ministry needs) has been harder than I expected. And I worry that people don’t know how grateful I really am.

So it’s still a struggle in some ways. There’s still a part of me that wishes I didn’t have to do it. But I’m learning valuable things that come as part of doing it and for that, I’m grateful.

Why Do You Believe?

I’m very aware that there are people deeply wounded by the church and by believers, and who don’t experience the felt presence of the Lord that I describe. I also know there are intellectual discussions that are worth having and I don’t mind having those. But this was written in April 2014 in response to a very specific question. And all these years later, as I repost it, I know I would answer this question – asked today – in essentially the same way.

I have friends who periodically challenge me with important questions. They are asked sincerely. They may be asked because their journey or their experience is different from mine. And they force me to articulate things I should be able to articulate – but don’t often have to.

Here’s the question one of them posed last week: “Why do you believe?”

There was a qualifier – “I don’t want to hear why I should believe. I want to know why you believe.”

Before I answer, I have to be honest about something. What I’m about to say is based largely on deep and real encounters with a God whose track record in my life is one of love and trustworthiness and transformation. A loving Father. A rescuer. An encourager. The list goes on and on.

If I didn’t have those experiences, would I still believe? Would the evidence of scripture or history be a compelling case for me? If instead of temporary “dry spells” I had no sense of His presence any more, if I cried out and begged for His presence and didn’t hear anything back, would I still believe? If I was hurt far deeper or far more often than I have been in my life, would that make a difference? If I couldn’t find my way to gratitude (which I do believe is key to allowing God to transform me), would I see no way forward on the faith journey. I don’t know. I hope there would be something to see me through to the other side, but it feels arrogant to me to say that I’m sure of that.

So, with that said … Why do I believe?

I believe because over 42 years ago [as I repost this it is now over 52 years ago], when I was a 15 year old shy, timid “good girl” who had been raised in the church, I finally heard the gospel presented in a way that told me about a personal relationship with Jesus. And when I said “Yes”, I immediately felt that I was no longer sinking but that my feet had hit a firm and solid rock. Nothing much changed in how my life looked to others (remember – I was a “good girl”, too afraid or shy to rebel). But internally, everything changed.

I believe because there have been changes and transformations in my life that can’t be explained by “self-improvement” techniques or natural growth. They are deeply connected to my experience of God. A painfully shy, extremely timid girl discovers she has a voice and that she actually wants it to be heard. A lifelong struggle with whether I am lovable yields to a deep sense that I am. Years of fear-based decision making give way to more risk taking. These changes are more characteristic of being wooed by a Lover who wants you to be your best, Who delights in you and encourages you, than they are of working hard to improve yourself.

I believe because in the midst of the most painful season of my life, I still saw great gifts in my life. Some of them were the transformations mentioned above. Some were the body of Christ holding me in very tangible ways. Some were images and visions and prophetic words – given in such a way that I now know for sure that Jesus understands a woman’s heart.

I believe because God has been personal toward me. There have been enough gifts, words, “coincidences” for me to believe He speaks to me in ways that let me know He knows and understands me. Some are funny. An image during an inner healing time of a plant placed by Him into my wounded heart that grew and flourished. I actually laughed because I knew it had to be Him healing my heart because I cannot keep a plant alive. Some bring healing tears. An image of sitting on a swing, at the bottom of a hill in the yard I grew up in, watching my parents and my sister at the top of the hill and feeling invisible. And Jesus approaches, looks me tenderly in the eyes, and hands me a diamond. A diamond had special significance at that time because my husband, the only man who had given me a diamond, had by that point withdrawn his love.

I believe because when I am suffering, or when I see suffering, I need to run somewhere and because my somewhere is actually Someone. And I find arms there to embrace me.

I believe because I have experienced gratitude that doesn’t make sense, peace when my world is in turmoil, hope in the midst of despair and joy that goes deep and lasts, regardless of circumstances.

I believe because I think what I observe in life makes the most sense if there is a battle going on that is bigger than this world. A loving God. An enemy. A people being equipped to usher in a new Kingdom. Opposition to that plan. Highs. Lows. Heroic acts of love and grace and mercy. Persistent attacks of evil. I do believe we know the end of the story, but I also believe we’re in the middle of the story.

Scripture continually tells us to “remember” what God has done. And I suppose that remembering is integrally connected to why I believe. It’s what gets me through the rough spots, the times when it doesn’t make sense, the times when God seems distant or silent. I go back to what I knew for sure in the moment when God did show up, when being with Him felt like being in a safe and loving home. And I find I believe, regardless of the current circumstances.

Thoughts About Sin Done To Us

Written in April 2014. But it’s still something I cling to – that there is healing for the sin done to us.

The cross … the symbol of one of the central tenets of the Christian faith. A particularly visible image during the Easter season. The reminder that Jesus died – and then rose again.

The reminder that Jesus did that for us. For me. For the forgiveness of my sin. To make it possible for me to be in an intimate relationship with God.

That’s Basic Christianity 101.

This is not going to be a theological dissertation. I wouldn’t even know where this fits in various theological constructs. It’s merely the musings of something that pops into my mind from time to time.

Does the cross just take care of my sin? Or does it also take care of the sin done to me?

I’m not talking about the salvation of the person who violates another person and sins against them. I’m not talking about somehow excusing or minimizing the evil that is present when one person sins in horribly destructive ways against another.

What I’m talking about is this: Can we run to the cross – can we rely on the power of what was done on the cross – with those sins, the ones done to us, just as we can run to the cross with our own sin?

My experience – and my heart – tells me we can.

One of my “cling to” verses, discovered in the midst of pain, is 1 John 4:16a – “And so we know and rely on the love God has for us.” Rely – that’s the word that originally leapt off the page at me.

I understand there are circumstances where the evidence seems stacked against a loving and reliable God. There are situations where I really don’t know what to say because anything I think to say feels less than what the person needs, it feels insensitive to the depth of pain and abuse. I don’t pretend that my experience should somehow make it easy for anyone to get past their own pain, their own distrust of God. But for me, I always come back to the fact that I can know and rely on God’s love for me. And somehow, the cross becomes the place I know that, the tangible sign of the depth of God’s love.

Maybe this isn’t a new idea to you. But when I first thought of it this way, that the cross could take care of sin done against us, against me, it was somehow more tangible than a vague pat answer about letting God into the pain or turning the pain over to Him.

I am a huge beneficiary of great counseling and inner healing. I absolutely want to always be part of a community that has a theology of healing and that encourages the use of gifted counselors and healers. I have counselors that I credit with giving me back the ability to function after the pain of what happened in my life felt as if it would crush me.

Ultimately though, my ability to move through pain and into healing seems to rest not just on great insights and technique, or gifted counselors who help me see things I wouldn’t face otherwise. When I look for the “solid ground” on which to stand, from which to heal, it goes back to being able to know and rely on God’s love – to the cross.

If the cross is about ripping open the veil between us and God, bringing us into deep and nourishing and life-giving relationship with Him – then it has to take care of anything that stands in the way of that. So it must take care of our sin. And it does.

But for some people, in some circumstances, sin done against them can distort a view of God’s goodness, or God’s desire to be close, or our ability to rely on Him, or even the perception of whether He is real and present and caring. There are stories where you wonder how anyone can survive such sustained or repeated abuse at such a horrendous level. The “easy” Christian answers don’t work. They feel trivial and inappropriate.

And the story doesn’t have to be big or dramatic for that to be true. There are lesser known stories as well, the ones that happen day in and day out to people we know and love. And the damage is the same. It is not their sin, but it gets in the way of the relationship God offers and desires.

If the cross removes barriers between us and God, in some way it has to take care of these sins done against us as well. It has to be big enough and powerful enough for this.

I don’t know how everyone gets there. I don’t know a magic formula that makes it easy to remove that kind of barrier. I’m not a gifted counselor. I know there has to be a willingness to let God into the healing – but I probably won’t know how to get you there.

In spite of that, whether I can explain how it works or not, whether I know how to help you get there or not, I still believe the cross is the answer. I believe the cross takes care of it.

A Sermon to Myself About Busyness and Spiritual Dryness

Originally published March 2014. The pace of the job has slowed down considerably in recent years, and I’ve recognized areas where it was right and healthy to build some new margins into my life, but I feel the need to stay vigilant.

I love what I do. This job fits me better than any other I’ve ever had. And I’m good at what I do. Good in the deep down “right fit” kind of way. I’m in a season of life where there are few non-job demands on my time. There’s no one at home waiting for me. No one gets “hurt” if my work week creeps up to 70 or 80 hours a week or if I do emails at 3:30 a.m. Aside from some attention to physical well-being it seems okay to work at this pace.

Especially because I love what I do. Especially because staying busy eases the loneliness.

I spent Saturday on a silent Lenten retreat. For most of the day there was no talking, no TV/music in the background, no electronics, no phone or email or Facebook. Just me, my Bible, my journal and the Lord. It’s a practice that used to be part of the regular rhythm of my life and I realized some of what I’ve lost as it has disappeared from my routine. As I’ve decided I’m too busy to take that time.

In the quiet and the rest, I realized that my overly busy schedule has brought me to a point of spiritual dryness. I no longer slip quickly and easily into my heavenly Father’s lap. I no longer feel the freshness of the Lord bringing scripture alive on a daily basis. My prayer life is more mechanical. There have been far too many “catch you later when I have more time” conversations with the Lord.

It’s not that I haven’t been growing. I have. And it’s not that I feel like I’m in a spiritual desert. I’m not. But there’s a dullness where there should be a brilliance.

I recently spent a few days in Rome and had a chance to see the Sistine Chapel on a “before hours” tour. No crowds, a few small tours totaling about 50 people in the chapel before opening hours. And when we walked in my guide gasped and said “I’ve been doing these tours for 14 years and I’ve never seen the lights on.” Apparently they normally don’t turn on the brightest lights. But there was the Director of the Vatican with a small group of priests and the lights were on. The colors were brilliant. A great experience was made even better. Later in the tour, after opening hours, we circled back through the chapel on our way out. It was crowded, packed with people. And the lights were off. The Sistine Chapel is going to be amazing no matter what. But the crowding and the lack of lights created a dullness that hadn’t been there in the early morning.

A dullness that I might not have noticed if I hadn’t seen it uncrowded and with the lights on a couple of hours before.

That’s what my spiritual life feels like right now.

And there are implications to being there.

It dilutes my focus in the job that I am called to and that I love. It could ultimately impact whether I lead the way I know I’m capable of leading. I have a tendency to want to please everyone rather than operate out of the confidence and wisdom available to me from the Lord. Old insecurities move closer and are ready to pounce if I give them space to do so. Using busyness to keep them at bay is only a short term solution.

There is always going to be a tension between busyness and rest.

It’s right to bring our best to a task, to work hard, to respect the urgency and need represented in our jobs. It’s right to be pushed to be accountable for our work hours and even our work performance. It’s right to grow and expand our professional capacity. It’s even right to go above and beyond the call of duty when serving an organization. Those are appropriate expectations.

But there’s an unhealthy side to busyness as well – and for me it is fear based and fed by unwise decisions. It’s being afraid to set healthy boundaries because the praise of men matters too much. It makes fearful assumptions about what I “need to do” because it feels as if my own efforts – by themselves – determine my value and my future. It sets “busyness” up as the highest value, and our “bragging rights” become how busy we are.

Our effort does matter in how we live and work and interact. We have to be able to say that without being accused of a works-based righteousness. And “the Lord told me …” or “I’m learning to not find my worth in my performance” should never be an excuse for sloppy work or laziness. There are going to be necessary busy seasons. But scripture is also full of instructions to rebalance and re-set. There’s the Sabbath. There’s the Year of Jubilee.

When I neglect the non-job things that nourish me at a deep level, I make an unwise decision. When I take the easy route after a long, hard day – when I mindlessly flip on the TV as my default option for “background noise” – I make a choice to accept the appearance of rest instead of the reality of deep, nourishing and true rest.

Despite my busyness, when I’m brutally honest, I do have time to choose true rest. It may be an act of trust to do that. It may take self-discipline to exercise or write or bake rather than zone out in front of the TV. But those will be wise decisions in my life if I make them.

And I hope that waking up early this morning, that taking the time to write, begins a new season for me. That doing these things ultimately make me a better worker and a better leader. That I begin to move out of spiritual dryness. That I think well about busyness.

Because I miss the spiritual “brilliance” in my life.