Oh For Grace to Trust Him More

I have forgotten how to happily move along this earth within my own body. I feel betrayed by her. By her heavy-laden limbs, her disease-ridden organs, the internal mechanisms that fail to work as they ought, reminding me these bones aren’t heaven bound. Only the soul within. The soul who looks at the edges of her skin and sighs.

I have forgotten how to laugh with a laugh that surprises me and bubbles out of my throat in immense joy and catches the hearer a little off guard. I have allowed my mind to be a residence for fear, and I’ve given it far too much time to relax, take off its shoes, stay awhile. I must change those locks.

We have passed through more than half of October as I write this. Today I walked around the garden, the last of the zinnias still tower over my head, unashamed to be blissfully out of place. A field mouse has eaten all of my lettuce. The garlic now sleeps beneath the straw. The field is brown, painted with that ever-present patina of autumn. The one that glistens copper in the morning frost. Under the heavy storm cloud, the trees bend and surrender. Leaf after leaf. “We are done,” they say. “We are tired and the burden of carrying is now too much to bear.”

Do you know I can’t remember the last time I sang? No, no, not for others. I mean, just for me. Just for the Spirit who lives within me. I hummed a verse of ‘Tis So Sweet the other day because I’ve forgotten most of the words. Except for these few, “Oh for grace to trust Him more.”

I think of these words as I watch the garden slip into slumber, as my children grow and learn that bruises come when you least expect them, as my husband works from 5am until midnight when his head hits the pillow, when the doctor calls and gives us some choices, none of which we really want at all, when the phone dings with a message that those we love are no longer here on earth with us.

Oh for grace to trust Him more.

I walked through hospital hallways recently, visiting a dear friend from church. As I walked the sterile corridors to her room, I passed picture frame after picture frame, photos of local parks, waterfalls, flowers in bloom in springtime, lilacs heavy on green branches. It occurred to me then how terribly empty these photos feel when you’re hooked to an IV drip in your hospital bed. Tiny, tiny glimpses of a world outside that is alive and growing. Pictures of a world that feels like a lifetime away from the beeps and alarms and smells of a hospital floor.

Not much unlike how Heaven feels here, earthside. We see tiny pictures. We think we are living our fullest dreams and lives, but really we are sick, bound to our hospital beds, imagining what a world is like where there is no suffering. There hanging on the wall, we see a picture of a world that is more alive than anything else in these four walls. Could it be true? Does it really exist?

Oh for grace to trust Him more.

We’ve received a handful of bad news lately. Not only ours, but from people we hold dear. People we carry in our hearts like family. When it all seems too much to bear, I’ve done what I do best — gather in all my pieces, my heart, my voice, my commitments, my family, quieted down, and then hide in the quiet places of my home and mind. Light some candles at dusk. Hold on to the ones I love. Face the unknowns with our hands held and enjoy some good food along the way. I dig in my heels and fight

for the beauty of the earth,
for the glory of the skies, 
for the love which from our birth 
over and around us lies; 

I anchor my hope not in what I can see or feel or measure, but in the even steady depths of my Redeemer.

And then by candlelight and broken bread, I whisper “Oh for grace to trust Him more.”

The Same Old Story

“I saw your story,” she’ll say. 
“That’s when you ran from the Lord, right?” he’ll ask. 
“You’ve come so far from when I last heard about you,” she’ll mention.

Yes, yes, I know. 

It’s quite a miracle that I’m here, alive, smiling, breathing, used by the Lord. It’s a miracle for any of us, really.

I think about the woman at the well often. You know the one — the one everyone else avoided. The woman who went to the well when everyone else wouldn’t be there because she likely didn’t want to talk to anyone. She didn’t want to hear the whispers. The other women talking about who she’s with now, whose house she was at last night, what she was even doing getting water at their well.  She’s getting water in the heat of the day when the rest of the women probably went at night. She’s avoiding the crowd. She’s had enough of being on the outside. She’s made a lot of mistakes, ok? And everyone knows it. She’s not going to go to the wells when all the other women do, because we know how women are.

I think about how she was alone. Finally. 

And then here comes a man. A man not of her nationality, her city, her kind. A man who begs the question “Doesn’t he know what mess I am?” (Hint: he does.) A man who by all appearances shouldn’t be giving her the time of day, and yet he greets her and then asks to share a drink.

I think about how he read her mail. I wonder if with every bone in her body, if she wanted to run. “Not another one,” she could think. Not again. Not here. I’m so tired. 

I’ve been this woman. I’ve been the women with a trail of bad decisions and doing my best to avoid being seen. I’ve been the hardened sinner, bitter and hiding. I told myself that finally I had become “who I was” and that this was me now — that I was no longer pretending to have it all together, no longer saying the things that made everyone in my life happy, no longer singing worship songs I wasn’t sure I believed — “this is me now” became my anthem. Life found me seeking for water in the middle of the day, avoiding anyone who might remind me how much I’ve failed. I was the Samaritan woman, for all intents and purposes, an outsider with my list of offenses, avoiding confrontation and correction, knowing I didn’t and couldn’t ever measure up again. So why bother?

Then Christ showed up. He showed up when I was tired and exhausted and my mantras had failed me. He showed up when I was bitter and removed in the desert. He spoke kindly to me there and captured my heart. 

—

A few months ago I sat back in the Texas heat at a restaurant with a friend. She was someone who knew me in the middle of it all. Years ago, in a small group where I confessed what a mess I was, she was there. In a church where I didn’t know up from down, she was there. As a church leader and a friend, she saw the span of mess to messier to redeemed.

We talked about my story. How I wonder sometimes if it’s even worth telling anymore.

And she reminded me of the story of the woman at the well. 

The woman who had a messy and messier story on her hands until Christ changed it. Then she did something that was evidence of her faith and his life changing power — “So the woman left her water jar and went away into town and said to the people, ‘Come, see a man who told me all that I ever did. Can this be the Christ?’….Many Samaritans from that town believed in him because of the woman's testimony, ‘He told me all that I ever did.’” (John 4:28-29, 39)

The very things that identified her as a sinner and ostracized her from the crowds are the very things she stood on top of to shout the name of Christ. There is no one who heard her speak who probably also didn’t end up hearing what he revealed about her. The more honest she was about her mess, the more amazing and incredible Christ became.

— 

Recently, I met someone I looked up to in the Christian world of who’s who. Within 10 minutes of talking, they made a statement that alluded to the fact that they knew my story. They knew I had screwed up years ago. That I had wandered and failed. 

It’s not like it’s a big secret, but it was a quick and sharp reminder that it’s always there. I will never be able to walk into a room and impress the crowd. A quick Google search will expose all my sin and they’re all penned by me. I’ve gone first, lowered the bar, let out the skeletons. There are some who have said I should stop talking about it. That I shouldn’t write about it at all.

But I want to make the name of Jesus great. In fact, at the cost of my own impressiveness and reputation, I want people to believe in Jesus when I say “He told me all I ever did.” I’m not interested in telling any story that doesn’t reveal who I am in light of Him. For the rest of my days, I might be “that woman who did that thing”… BUT CHRIST.

So maybe I won’t ever have a season of my life where I won’t be known for what I did. Maybe I will continue to sit at restaurant tables with strangers and friends and have my worst sin become fodder for dinner table talk. As long as Christ is revealed, as long as maybe someone believes, someone sees, someone hears my voice carry across the wells to say “He saw me. He told me everything I did. He is the Christ.”

—

Wells of water seem to be a place where things happen in scripture. Do you know what happens at wells in the Bible? Betrothals. The man travels from a foreign country and comes to a well where he meets his bride. An ancient reader would’ve been familiar with this scene. They know where it leads. It is no coincidence that Jesus has come to this world and meets a certain kind of woman at a well — he reminds us his bride may be broken and world weary, but she is his. 

I will forever tell how he met me, exposed me, and then set me free. That is my soapbox. Come, see a man who told me all that I ever did.

It's Been 13 Years Since I Died

I was 22. Careless in my accountability. Lawless in my imagination. Arrogant, isolated, and in full-time ministry.

So it should not shock you when I tell you that 22 landed me deep in the fire of sin through an affair with a married man. My tendencies to try and be “the savior” to the hurting and also a deep desire to be loved and wanted led me straight into the lion’s den.

And I did not make it out alive. Not really. I died in there. The old Andrea did. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her reputation. Her purity. They all were torn to shreds. Torn by the teeth of the one who devours. Torn by my own hands. Torn by the slicing words of other Christians who whispered behind closed doors and made up their own stories of how I got there.

As I died 1000 deaths within me, I faced the scrutiny and shunning of the local church. I desperately searched for rock bottom but it wouldn’t find me for a few more years. I had a free fall in to darkness and somewhere along the way, I tried to make peace with it. I searched the scriptures for reasons that I was ok. I sought out teachers who wouldn’t tell me I was in sin. I tried to blame it on this thing, or that thing, and tried to answer the question that everyone else was asking — “How did this happen? Right under our noses?”

It happened under our noses just as any sin does. I wonder if Eve walked around the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil frequently. I wonder if she strolled past it and wondered how that fruit tasted. I wonder if David knew where Bathsheba lived. I wonder how many times he was with her in his head before he demanded her body. Even Lot’s wife looked back.

We tell the world they need to repent but then we make our quiet, private sins our pets. The things that seem like no big deal. The thoughts that linger too long. And we don’t hate these things. We deem them harmless and raise wild lions in our own homes, imaginations, hearts. We give them nicknames. We love them, really.

Until we hate sin, we will not long to be free from it. We won’t want freedom if our jail is home. Until we find God beautiful, we will not hate the things that dim our vision.

It’s been 13 years since my public moral failure. 13 years since I disappointed everyone I loved. 13 years since I died.

But grace.

The grace and mercy of Christ who never lost me. I may have tried to throw myself off the cliff, but he wrapped me around his neck and carried me home. He resurrected things I thought were dead. He gave me back what I thought would never return. Restoration after repentance has been long, and may always feel like an unfinished work in my heart, but He never left me. Someday when I get home, I'll lock my eyes on Him forevermore.

The mercy and kindness of God reveals sin and brings us to repentance. Before you’re caught, before the lions circle you, come clean. Kill your darlings. Be ruthless about your head and heart. Ask the Lord to help you hate that which you currently call harmless. Suffocate your sin before it devours you.

Behold the beauty of a merciful King.

Lord I believe; help my unbelief.