schooled.

I've been prayed for by email. By telephone. By text. In tongues, and in English. In shouts, and in whispers. Hands on me, hands off of me. In church, in coffee shops, in homes. And now, in parking lots.

The memory is sweet, and I'm smiling because God has been so gracious to me.

After four months of what has been intense trial, I feel fully alive again. I've learned some things along the way.

I can't do faith alone.

As I stood in the parking lot with my friends Steve and Mona, they prayed, and I smiled. Earlier that week, a dear friend of mine (one with whom I'm not always so careful to be dear), took me for chicken noodle soup, and stepped into the situation to help. On Friday, I resumed my volunteering--it has never felt so good to spend a few hours with a group of people before, ever. A few days before, I sought out some wisdom from a couple of Christian woman whom I very much respect. And all of that together brought new life into the despair that I had been feeling. Allowing people that opportunity to pray for me, to know the truth about how dark things had become, changed the situation entirely, and convinced me that I cannot do faith alone. He never intended for me to do so. I'm so grateful for the chance to rebuild the people around me, and to step back into the community of wonderfully faith-filled, and wise believers who minister to me.

There is such a thing as spiritual darkness.

I am generally the first person to turn a funny face to the suggestion of "spiritual warfare" or "evil," but I've learned that those things are real. And they're not generally like the movies. I wonder now if one of the ways that Satan propagates darkness is in letting people think that evil is just all of the spookiness, and gore of big-box horror movies, and television dramas. Because I have no seen any blood in the last four months, but I had been taken into something darker than I've ever known. It wasn't depression. It wasn't like anything I've ever known. But it was dark, and heavy, and poisonous. I let it grow, and it affected everything about me--the way I treat other people, the way I treat myself, the way I understand faith and God. It was real. And in its absence, I sense that reality all the more.

Obedience is everything.

I've never been a fan of the idea of obedience. I was educated to be "free-thinking," and exploratory. My perception of the term "obedience" was framed by psych experiments in which people did terrible things to other people, all in the name of authority. I missed the finer points of what it looks like to be obedient to something benevolent, all-knowing, perfectly wise, entirely sufficient in grace, peace, and compassion--the finer points of surrender to Christ. So my responses to God have often been things like, "Maybe," or "If it seems to work out..." or "When I get things figured out." But I'm learning that faith and obedience are friends. Faith is built when obedience to God displays His power to engage the impossible and the mundane alike. From that faith comes hope. And obedience becomes easier as the cycle turns. But it all comes to a screeching halt when we refuse to step out, to say yes, to be trusted with little that we might be trusted with much.

I'm grateful to be learning. I'm humbled by my complete inability to pull myself out of the dark I've been in. I'm seeing my faith grow as He shows me His mercy. Sleepless nights, and stomach cramps are not the ways I would choose to be refined, but He is faithful, and He is good, and our closeness now makes the whole of it well worth the pain.

I will most likely forget that particular lesson during the next trial, so if you think of it, pray for me via blog comment.

these will be yours.

Sometimes, I feel as though I've given up quite a lot to believe in Christ. I know that that's rubbish, but...

Inside of two years ago, I had a plan. I had an academic pedigree. I went to a great school, I had a neat little resume with a neuroscience fellowship, and I did my undergrad research with one of the world's top experts in his (and my) field. I was offered the opportunity to come to Missouri to work with another of the field's well-published professors, and I was so certain of the future. I'd go on for the Ph.D., and then do what every academic dreams of doing-- something fresh, something new, something that launches you into a career of teaching, and publishing, and speaking engagements, and being known.

And now...we're here.

Two years later, I have no real plan, and the plans I do have are entirely dependent on the prompting of an entity I cannot see. I find myself concerned with things like holiness, and broken over my separations with God. I'm making decisions that are terrifying, because they don't always make rational sense, and I wonder, "How can this road get me to that one when I can't see the connections?" I keep checking back into my own heart to find again and again that things have changed. What I once believed I no longer do, and what once seemed impossible to believe is now so true. Sometimes I'm failing, but I'm always coming back. And I know that I'm about to be pushed over into something new, into a bolder faith than what I've known. (Is it ok to be scared?)

Back in March, my church hosted Chris Tomlin. The music was good, Louie Giglio was awesome, but the point is that in the middle of it, God spoke.

Eyes closed, and arms aloft I sang--it was total worship, and totally wonderful. I opened my eyes. My friend to the left was lost in worship. When I turned to the right, I saw one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Thousands of faces, hands, voices lifted to heaven, bathed in golden light, entirely surrendered to the God I love. Friends. There aren't words. As I watched, God spoke. More clearly than I've ever experienced. He told me to get ready--"These will be yours. I'm giving them to you to care for, and to lead." The imagery was of a flock, it called forth a sense of protectiveness. The message was unmistakable--get ready, prepare yourself to do it well.

I know that sounds crazy. I know I'm completely unfit for any type of pastoral leadership, ever. I could be entirely wrong about that message--and trust me, I'm not too proud to know that, and if I am wrong, I will print out this page and literally eat my words. But that was the message. Not now, but soon enough. Not these exact people, but some. Prepare yourself.

That's not the first time I've gotten that message or something similar. It's also not the first time I've ignored it. Coincidentally, this is the first time I've been honest about it. Because I'm scared. Because I imagine that anyone reading these words will think that I'm foolish, will say, "Does she realize how completely inadequate she is in Christ to ever lead another person?" The answer is yes, I do realize.

But I also realize that I serve a God who changes lives from dark to light, and takes hearts that are broken, and arrogant, and foolish, and turns them to strength, and humility and wisdom. I know that I love a God who is faithful to His promises. I know that my God works miracles, and does not spread lies in the hearts of His own, but truths--whole, beautiful truths that would in fact be foolish or impossible without His power.

Now is the time for honesty, with myself and others. I've been hiding, and in that, I've been falling. I realized this week that my own unwillingness to do what He asks has twisted things, and taken my heart off course. I start to feel like I've given up so much--because I'm not stepping into all that I've been given. I have not allowed God into my life to be God--to do the impossible in my heart, my mind, my friendships, my work, my finances.

It's time to get ready.

living dead.

I've been thinking about death a lot lately. I've been having some health problems, and after a thorough exploration of my symptoms on google, Cancer is the only answer. Which led into a now staunch belief that I will be dead inside of a year. So then, of course, I started thinking about how I should live life differently, given my upcoming funeral. If I really only had a year, I'd live much differently.

I would say crazy things, like telling my heartbroken friend that only Jesus can overcome the pain she's telling me about. I would sing LOUD, and put in all the runs and octave changes I always hear in my head. I'd lift my arms in worship ALL the time, including during the first chorus and the instrumental bridge, when no one else seems in the mood. I would pray like a crazy person--like I hear it in my head--loud and passionate. I'd enroll in seminary.

Seriously. Other Pentecostals would shoot ME weird looks. They'd be like, "What's she on?" And I'd be like, "A death sentence."

But see, that would not be a death sentence. That would be a sentence to Life. Because the impulse to worship extravagantly isn't motivated by impending death, but is an outpouring of the freedom to live. So it's a life sentence. And I already have one of those.

So why do I live dead sometimes? I'm not talking, by the way, about my silly obsessing over my imaginary diagnoses. I'm talking about the way that I don't share life with people when I should, that I sing softly, and that I keep my arms to myself in worship.

I live dead when I don't trust, and when I don't hope.

I can't be the only one.

Maybe, just for a day, in reverence to my short year on this earth, I'll live one day completely alive in Christ.

Tomorrow? If I make it that long...

an honest hope

I started writing this blog with the idea that I would always be honest, no matter who read it, or how many who's. No matter how my thoughts changed, or what happened to my heart. I started attending church with somewhat the same idea. I vowed that I would be honest with people when I agreed, and when I disagreed.

That honesty got harder the more involved I became. It's easy to be honest when you're anonymous. Not so much when you know people, when you see them in the hall, and then when you're suddenly on the big screens talking about Jesus, and then applying for a job and seminary, and chatting with the pastors.

But my honesty in faith has brought me this far. It must be valuable, important.

My heart is a mess right now.

I'm walking this funny line, and on the one side is an excitement in faith that seems ready to carry me into the best life--this side is the side I've been promised, the possibilities I've hoped for. At this same exact time, there's this other side, that's threatening to drag me into more darkness than I've ever understood.

How can my faith be both so ready for incredible growth, and also so close to collapse?

I'm not in a desert. God has become more real, and more powerful to me over the last few months than ever before. I cry through services not because I'm defeated, but because I'm sensing something in Him that's new, and gorgeous. Because I'm learning.

So how then can I be in this place of such total vulnerability to life-altering sin? The last six months have seen one trial after another--it almost feels intentional. As though someone is cherry-picking these situations to poke my softest places. My relationships are being tested, and my heart is found weak. I'm thinking and feeling things about friends that are so far from loving, I can't believe that God can exist in the same heart that feels them. I'm being tested with alcohol, and sex in ways that have been totally off the radar for the past two years. I have at times been so miserable at this job that I have prayed to God that I wouldn't wake up the next morning--but I'm not depressed!

It's all so crazy, I just step back, and think what in the WORLD is going on?

And then...Father, will I make it through these trials?

I've been thinking a lot about wisdom, and how I know that prayer, and time with God are the wise answers in these moments. But what's knowledge unless I'm truly acting on it? Thus...wisdom is truth in practice, in action.

Father, I'm giving you all of the sin, and all of the tests, and all of the possibilities, and all of the pride. Please bring me what I need in each new moment.