Surrender.

Dear Jesus,

I mean, I’m only having a tantrum because I don’t understand what’s going on. I feel like my body is out of control with all these hormones and sugar issues and swelling limbs; I feel like my house is out of control with all the strewn boxes and stacks of paper; in fact, I feel like my whole life is out of control for so many reasons. I scream and sometimes I think You don’t listen. I cry and sometimes I think You don’t see. I don’t know if I’m coming or going with You, honestly.

But You certainly have proven Yourself to be trustworthy. Whenever I’ve asked You to work on my behalf, You have. You always send the word I need, the person I need, to get through another set of minutes. You whispered gently to me at my lowest, celebrated with me at my highest. You were at my wedding when I married the man You led me to. You will be at the birth of the daughter You promised me. You’ve held my hand when I’ve let You and allowed me to walk away when I thought I could do it better on my own. All 28 years of my life, You have pursued me relentlessly with the love and passion I sought in so many places before turning to You. You have filled my life to the brim, even in the scariest times, with joy straight from Your heart to mine.

So you can have my talents, my dreams, my desires, and I’ll find peace in a quiet corner of my heart, in an armchair with a cup of coffee and Your company, as I await further guidance from You. It isn’t easy this way, but it is possible. And as my powerlessness tries to muscle away my hope, I’ll remember how strong You are and how bowled over I am by the truth of Your love.

You know where to find me. Come soon.

Love,

Amie

Joy unspeakable.

Five years ago tomorrow, I miscarried for the first time. It’s still one of the deepest pains I’ve ever known. But tonight as I was writing and praying, I decided to go back to the letter I wrote Anna the day I found out I was pregnant. And I stand amazed again: such a powerful, loving God watches over me. He’s a God who lets nothing, even the laws of nature, stop him when it comes to blessing his children.

Wednesday, 17 April 2013

Dear Baby,

I found out a few hours ago that you’re joining our family. No news ever could’ve made me more excited: you have only existed in my dreams until now. I missed you before I ever knew you, so I can’t even tell you how wildly overjoyed I am that God has blessed your dad and me with the gift of you! You are so loved and wanted there aren’t even words to express it.

The first thing you need to know in life is how wonderful your dad is. Besides Jesus, your dad is my favorite thing about being alive. He’s strong, kind, and loving; in other words, he is exactly what every man should be. And no need to worry, Baby – he’s also unbelievably good-looking, so you will be too. I love your dad most of all in the world because he loves Jesus and he loves me. Love is hard sometimes, Baby, but your dad will do whatever it takes to love you and support you. He was in my heart decades before I knew him, kind of like you.

I don’t know anything about your personality, Baby. I don’t know the choices you will make or what you will be good at or who your favorite person will be. I don’t even know yet if you’re a boy or a girl. But I know this: you are ours, and that means we will love you forever. Even more importantly, you belong to Jesus, who is the source of all power and love in the world, so you are safe forever too. In fact, I’ve already been talking to Jesus about you, and it’s sounded a bit like this: Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.

With so much love,

Mama

Christian radio.

I’m eating vanilla ice cream at our makeshift table (a.k.a., two TV trays pushed together) because my man and I frustrated each other. And I’m trying to practice self-grace, the hardest kind, by gently reminding myself that the way to freedom was always in the other direction and that Jesus would like to take me back there. That’s why I listen to Christian radio.

It’s certainly not because I like the music. In fact, I have said for years that mainstream Christian music has a Sound – an overly bright, sticky, bubble-gum Sound – that makes my ears cry. Some exceptions apply, like Chris Tomlin and CeCe Winans. But in general, out of every ten songs played on Christian radio, I like maybe two. Sometimes fewer. Yet, I favor Christian stations these days because I find it makes it easier to hear Jesus. On nights like tonight when I’m frustrated, I’ll remember a scripture read over the airwaves – Proverbs 15:1 in this case – and hear Jesus remind me that in dealing with each other, love and peace are the more excellent way. Or when I’m at Walmart, the most mundane of places, I’ll feel like I didn’t grab enough bananas and granola bars, and then I’m not surprised when I see someone in the parking lot who needs the extras.

I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with listening to non-Christian music. More of my music library fits that category than the former. But when I turn on Christian radio, it’s just one more outlet where my mind can breathe in the power of God’s Word. It opens one more method of communication between my heart and the voice of Christ. When I’m focused on those messages, his instruction and healing reverberate in my mind even when I’m not thinking about it. It really does help keep me focused on my Jesus. If I need to sacrifice a little Usher for that, it’s worth the trade to me.

Meltdowns.

This pregnancy has a dark side: it’s churning up the noxious stuff, the stuff that reminds me what a train wreck I am. You can work around it for years, and then this teeny person, who doesn’t even have a voice, starts conjuring things in your mind. Apparently, I am carrying an intuitive little girl. Or maybe it’s the hormones.

When I went through addiction counseling, I made – and kept – all sorts of promises that allowed me to live in freedom for the first time ever. The promises gradually became habits, my modus operandi, and everything improved. My health, my appearance, and my confidence soared. No longer did my brain resort to the addiction cycle to cope with everyday life. I was in charge of my behavior, no diet necessary, and Jesus bolstered my strength to live in his provision. I felt and looked so wonderful that I attracted a very hot man who married me just under a year after we met.

Then I got pregnant. Of course, joy flooded me: it was impossible! A miracle! And of course, that’s undeniable. But there was a singsong voice in the back of my mind, like Clare Dunphy, that said, “You’re gonna get fat.” I pictured my former marshmallow-esque body. I pictured my very hot man not wanting me anymore. I pictured myself buying huge clothes. And, to make matters worse, I realized as the weeks went on that my neat and helpful counseling promises weren’t working. When I didn’t feed my fetus every three hours, my blood sugar dropped, and I became weak and dizzy. Twice I fainted. When I didn’t eat ample carbohydrates, like fruit and grains, massive headaches hit without warning and were followed by crippling nausea and fatigue. The baby was simultaneously breaking all the rules and producing purple stretch marks on my midsection to boot. I started saving for a Mommy Makeover.

One thing I’ve learned: my healing never comes until I dig into the ugliness and write about it. When I see it on paper, I can name it and deal with it. So I’ve spent hours recently writing about my addiction – how it looked, felt, sounded. I’ve been journaling and letting my introspection explain myself to me. And it’s rough because underneath it all, I am still a train wreck. I am still all the things I once was if I’m not constantly vigilant.

I asked my man tonight, “Who in his or her right mind would give me a baby?”

Without missing a beat, he said, “Jesus.”

“Then I am seriously doubting His lucidity,” I replied, quite seriously, before melting into tears again. Sometimes I am so excited for Anna’s yuletide arrival that I can barely breathe. Her pictures are so heartbreakingly perfect, and her butterfly-wing flutters feel so delightful. Other times I think, “What the heck am I going to do with a baby?” My man assures me that no one is ever ready; they just grow into it as time rolls by.

My consolation in moments like tonight is thinking about my last decade of life. I have experienced too much, enough to break me, but Jesus has brought me through it all. I shouldn’t be singing this way, shouldn’t be joyful or in love or blessed. After addiction, sexual dysfunction, miscarriage, divorce, lost friendships, and more, I should’ve been crushed. But Jesus didn’t allow that.

I also think of my personal constellation, my stars that point me home and outline the form of grace for me. My mom teaches me sacrifice, my dad teaches me trust, and my sister teaches me how to be a friend. My dear friend A.K. teaches me how to listen, my precious friend K.S. teaches me patience and faith in Jesus, and my best friend teaches me unconditional acceptance. My stepchildren teach me to play. My man teaches me to be both strong and kind. Anne Lamott would call these people my “tribe,” but they are also Anna’s. So when I hit the inevitable moments of not-enough, they will tap in for me, and so will many others. Anna does not have a perfect mother, but she will never lack love. God told me early on she exists to display his glory. And he will never not be enough for me, my husband, or our family. What can I say about such wonderful things as these? If our God is for us, who can ever be against us (Romans 8:31, NLT)?

Grace like the sea.

You know you’re pregnant when you roll your eyes at the ringing phone across the room and think, “I just poured myself a nice cup of chocolate chips and settled on the couch. Does anyone merit my attention right now?” That only happened once, I promise. And the cup wasn’t full. And I did pick up the call, but it turned out to be Charter Communications, so I had to reel myself in from throwing the phone straight through the window. Joe the Salesman wasn’t ready for that jelly.

That is the picture of pregnancy.

Of course, there is this other picture of pregnancy that I gaze at several times a day. It’s a 13-week-and-4-day ultrasound of the most beautiful developing baby I have ever seen. You guys, she is seriously, staggeringly beautiful. She is a picture of my wildest dreams. She is grace: a gift I didn’t earn and don’t deserve that was given to me anyway, to paraphrase Frederick Buechner. A hundred times a day, the thought crosses my mind, “How did I get this lucky? I am the wife of my favorite person, stepmom to two incredible children, and sixteen weeks pregnant with a grace baby.” Wow. Big time wow. Because when I was guiding my own life, I guided myself right into disaster. Repeatedly.

Barely two and a half years ago, I was in the throes of addiction counseling for compulsive overeating, a disorder that served as my prison warden for over 12 years. I ate little around others – excepting only my best friend, around whom I felt completely safe – but binged later in secret. I lied about how much I ate and how little self-respect I had. I was terrified of painful feelings, like loneliness and rejection, so I ate to smother them. After every binge, I felt ashamed and helpless, which often led me to anticipation of the next one. It was miserable and infuriating and dark.

Just over two years ago, my first marriage was officially ending. Confusion and heartbreak washed over me every morning, and I couldn’t find Jesus. Actually, I wouldn’t find Jesus. I didn’t really think He could help, as none of this was His problem. Everything was a mess, and I remember telling my mom I felt un-tethered, like my air hose had been cut and I was floating through space without anything to ground me.

I finally gave up. I don’t remember when, I just know that I did. There’s no sensational story of sobbing or snake handling or a contract signed in blood. All that happened is one day Jesus whispered, “Give me a try now?” And I said, “Yes, please,” and that was it. Peace. And now, having relinquished the pilot’s controls, I have been redeemed and made pure again. And there’s a life in me – both literally and figuratively – that is so joyful and so foreign that I hardly recognize it. But that’s what Jesus does. Every time, that’s what Jesus does.

My man and I have to rely on Jesus every minute of every day because we both have gigantic, ugly demons that don’t go away without a fight, even when the proverbial war has already been won. I would say all Christians are to some degree in this boat, since the Bible tells us Satan prowls like a lion, hoping and searching for someone to devour (1 Peter 5:8). But when I say my man and I have to fight for our freedom, I mean that my man and I have to fight for our freedom. And the worst part of it is that neither of us is perfect, or even holy. We have to borrow our victory from Jesus every single day. But most of the time, that’s what we choose to do. So in honor of our Redeemer, in honor of our testimony, in honor of the blessed-beyond-all-reason life we’ve been given, we’ve chosen to name our daughter grace like the sea. “Anna” means grace, and her middle name means “the sea.” We didn’t earn her, we don’t deserve her, but her beautiful self has been given to us for safe keeping anyway. It takes a powerful, loving, compassionate God to create something like that out of the broken, nasty selves we offered him. But that’s all we had to do. And then there he was, with all the hope and joy and trustworthy love we ever needed.

Also, happy four months of married life to my strong, sexy, incredible man. Thank God for you, my love.

Positive pregnancy tests.

I write my baby letters. Sometimes I speak them to her* when we’re in the car by ourselves. Sometimes I type and save them. Sometimes I pray them aloud so she can hear. There’s no telling what people will say to her when she gets here, so I want to make sure she’s got nine months of truth packed into her tiny brain. I tell her how much her dad and I love her, how wonderful her family is, how she can always trust Jesus. In fact, I never run out of things to tell her. The problem is I can’t seem to write about her. I wish I could tell you how miraculous she is and how much joy and wonder she’s brought us already. But every time I try, it comes out in a syrupy, overwrought voice that doesn’t sound much like mine.

I can tell you this. For a full decade, four medical professionals (three of whom are doctors) in two states assured me I couldn’t support a pregnancy past five weeks, and my body proved them right three times. It wouldn’t produce progesterone, and artificially spiking production didn’t work. PCOS seemed to be the culprit, but no one was certain. After several fruitless months of trying and three losses during my five-year first marriage, I didn’t have a reason to believe the doctors were wrong.

Then on March 8 of this year, I married the strongest, kindest man I’ve ever met. And almost immediately started vomiting.

We went on the honeymoon I’ve always dreamed of – mountains, cabin, fireplace, Jacuzzi, wine. And it was good. And never did “ovulation days” cross my mind because I was so obviously, certifiably, doctor-approvedly infertile. But then sneaky things started happening. A few mornings I felt so nauseated I couldn’t get my clammy self out of bed. And with a passion unrecognizable to me, I craved red meat. As in, I literally salivated over the raw hamburgers at the grocery store one day. I might have torn the package open with my fangs and feasted if the butcher hadn’t been right in front of me, asking from a healthy distance whether I needed assistance.

Then on the 17^th of April, I put on my favorite dress, kissed my husband, and headed to work. I realized I hadn’t menstruated, an odd thing since my medicine keeps me from being even an hour late. So on a whim I picked up a pregnancy test and a decaf coffee on my way. Maybe a few prayers escaped into the air as I did these things, but mostly my mind raced with menstruation math. When I arrived at my desk, I set down my bag calmly. I sauntered to the restroom. My steady hands placed the test on the sink. Less than a minute later, I peered over and saw the two pink lines that had already formed. Two. “Oh, God,” I breathed.

People have asked if we were trying to get pregnant. Of course, the answer is no; not only were we not trying, but we didn’t think we could. That doesn’t mean, however, that my baby is a “mistake.” Even though she wasn’t part of our plan, she has always been part of the Great Design God has for the planet. Our plan is short-sighted and imperfect in a thousand ways. But this baby – the one whose mother has a reproductive disorder – is the one God has chosen. He wants a person created out of our DNA, to be parented by us, to make his compassion and power visible to others. So whether the timing seems right or wrong, whether my body seems capable or incapable, whether other people agree or disagree, my man and I will love and raise our baby to bring glory to God.

I asked God one night in an overwhelmed state, “How did this happen? And why is it happening now?” I got an answer, flashing in my heart like a marquee: For my glory. So I already know how the story turns out: God’s glory will be undeniable. What a perfect reason for a baby to be born.

* I say “her” for two reasons: 1) simplicity, and 2) I believe I’m carrying a girl. The night my first pregnancy ended, which I have already written about, I knew I would one day have a baby girl and her name was supposed to be Anna because “Anna” means “grace.” I believe I am pregnant with that promise.

Stories.

Everyone knows not to pray for patience. Let me tell you what else not to pray for: a story. One icy Colorado afternoon a few Decembers ago, my former sister-in-law, who is a reading teacher, and I were talking about stories as we drove to the city. She and her husband have the most beautiful love story, and I asked her why she thought she’d been blessed with it. She shrugged and said, “I guess because I asked.” Later that night, I prayed a prayer that might have changed the course of everything, if you believe in that sort of thing. I asked God for a story. I asked him for adventure, to be involved in something bigger than I am. I asked him to show his glory through my life. I asked for indisputable miracles.

As all the best writers have proven, if you’re going to set up a miraculous event, you need a seemingly insurmountable conflict. You need something way too big for humans to fix in order to validate a deus ex machina. Well, if you’ve read my sex blog, you know a source of deep pain in my erstwhile marriage. I’ve written about other losses and sadnesses, too; others I’ve kept private. And now I feel like I’m in that part that all the best stories have where you think, “How in the world will this turn out?” But light is pushing through the cracks, just waiting for the moment God turns it loose and crumbles the pain with a season of joy. For instance, my man’s spectacular daughter let me take care of her on Saturday while she was ill, and his son gave me a precious nickname. Light. Last week God sent me the same message from four people who don’t know each other—two of whom don’t even know me well—in a way I couldn’t question. Light. A student gave me a huge and by all accounts undeserved compliment today. Light. More light is coming. God is teaching me joy.

I’ve learned that the best thing about asking God for a story is that when he gives it to you, you never really have the luxury of heading back in your own direction. You can fling open the door and storm off in a huff, but then he chases you with this crazy, powerful love unlike anything you’ve ever dared to imagine, this grace-full love that is exactly the stuff you were hurting for…and you fall into his arms again. You can’t doubt the veracity of the miracle when you are the miracle, when your whole story is the miracle. The joy and freedom are too real.

I don’t have anything in my story, miraculous or otherwise, figured out except that there is Jesus. Because when I am weak, then I am strong. Someone has to be behind that. Someone has to be writing that, and doing a better job than I could. Someone has to be authoring these struggles, conflicts, and “imperfections” to bring a level of artistry and depth to my character that wouldn’t otherwise be there. Every time I reach a moment of pain or conflict in my story, whether I caused it or it waylaid me, I see more of him and more of me. He develops the character of Amie by adding layer after layer of healing. I wouldn’t give that back for anything.

One of my favorite quotes is something I read on a coffee mug—that I totally should have bought—in Barnes and Noble once: “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” I find that biblical: the endgame of my brokenhearted moments will be beauty for ashes. He’s promised me, and all of us, that. And that’s all the resolution my story needs.

Ears.

I have this thing with names. I’ve written about it once already. The thought of giving a blessing or honoring someone or telling a story with your baby’s name is such a precious concept to me. Many names are on my Love-It List, but as long as I can remember, my favorite name of all has been Kate. Growing up, my most beautiful Barbie was Kate. My favorite paper doll—yes, I played with paper dolls—was Kate. Just last year, I asked on FaceBook what my pen-last-name should be if my pen-first-name was Kate. It’s the perfect name—simple, elegant, and timeless.

So when I got pregnant in July 2008, I was beside myself with excitement. I kept thinking, Kate’s here! She didn’t stay long enough for me to know by way of scientific confirmation that she was a girl, but I know anyway because moms just know. When I daydreamed about what the rest of her name could be, a Buechner quote kept resurfacing: “Grace is something you can never get but only be given. There’s no way to earn it or deserve it or bring it about any more than you can deserve the taste of raspberries…or bring about your own birth.” Having for years worn that definition of grace like a pair of contact lenses, I knew my daughter could have no other name. She was something I could never deserve, something only God could give me. My then-husband let me take the reins with naming, so I chose Anna Catherine. Anna means “grace,” and Catherine means “pure,” so my baby girl would be named “pure grace.” Which is exactly what she was. But she’d go by “Kate,” of course.

Unfortunately, Kate faded from me on Sunday, 14 September. I cried steady, silent tears, sitting with my back against the tub. I was a heartbroken mother whose daughter had been taken in the night. I hadn’t protected her, hadn’t known how. I did the only thing I could: I crawled back into bed and prayed. At first, I heard nothing, but the tender presence of the Holy Spirit comforted my heart. Then I had a powerful, inexplicable urge to look up Isaiah 49:16, a verse I did not already know. Bewildered, I opened my Bible and read: “See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands…” My name. Kate’s name. The tears came again, but this time for an entirely different reason. The verse reminded me that I am so precious to God that when he looks down at his hands—or, perhaps, Jesus’s—he sees my name. And in a small way, I had the same thing going with my Kate. The veins in my right wrist, I had noticed as a child, form an unmistakable K. After that night, it became a sweet reminder. Kate was gone, but her name was written on my palm, so to speak, and God makes all things new. God restores.

Over time, he has restored my heart. Time, I believe, numbs pain, helps a wound scar over maybe, but God actually heals. Certainly, sadness hits me unexpectedly sometimes, or with unexpected force: it was the saddest and most unfair day of my life, being at once Mother and Not-mother. But God has guided me through the process of letting my daughter stay with him, of not begrudging the laws of nature that sent her his way. For too long, I carried her as a millstone around my neck. I feared that not thinking about her might mean she never existed. As her mother, it seemed to fall on my shoulders to acknowledge her fleeting presence. But God has taken my heart from that prison of grief into a position of grace. I do think about her occasionally, but in a peaceful, heavenly way. I imagine her spinning giddily in a white cotton dress in a field of lavender, so drunk with joy she dissolves into giggles. I imagine her sitting on Jesus’s lap, enamored with him, asking him questions with the ethereal wisdom that a heaven-born child must possess. I imagine her smiling when she sees me, if you do that sort of thing in heaven.

And tonight, when it was time for a little earth-born girl to fall asleep, she wriggled onto the couch next to me and settled into my arms. She looked into my eyes with a beautiful face lit by a grin and laced her fingers with mine. She and I do not share DNA. I do not have memories of her in the womb. She does not belong to me in the way she belongs to her mother. But she loves me, and I love her, and we both love her father more than we could tell you. She and her brother have become a part of my heart, and as I look forward to many years with the man I love, I feel doubly blessed to be their friend as well. I never knew life could be this good, this full. But when God restores life and fulfills promises, he doesn’t do a halfhearted job of it. Speaking of promises, those letters the veins in my wrists so clearly form happen to be their initials—hers and her brother’s. As someone who does not believe in coincidence, only divine winks, you can imagine how this hits me. Especially since her name is “pure grace,” too. And she goes by Kate.

If you ever wondered whether God hears you cry out, whether he knows who you are…he does.

Redemption.

My pastor says it’s pointless to judge people because 1) People have reasons—which you don’t know—for doing what they do, 2) You have plenty of your own crap to deal with, and 3) No one cares about your judgments anyway. I’ll be honest with you: judging others was something I struggled with for years because I was pretty sure I knew better than most people what they ought to be doing. It’s like Claire, the mom from Modern Family, said: “I know I can’t run [my daughter’s] life for her, but if she would let me, I’d be so good at it!” Into my early twenties, I had a judgment for everything, partly because being a Christian made me feel superior wisdom-wise, partly because I was raised to have confidence in myself, and partly because I am human.

Last Friday would’ve been my fifth wedding anniversary, which is why these thoughts are bubbling in my brain. When some people heard of my separation and divorce, they became rigidly judgmental. Some wanted me to know that divorce is a sin. Others wanted me to know that it’s fine if my heart was so hardened I had to divorce, but that I could never remarry because that would be a sin. Once I was told that divorce isn’t actually possible for a Christian. Someone else said that since we are attracted to the same type of person repeatedly, divorcing my first husband would only lead to divorcing second, third, and subsequent husbands. All I can say is thank God for my church and the grace I found in it. The leader of my Divorce Care group, a woman I deeply respect and love, was the first person to hold my hand and tell me she understood. As much as I appreciated the prayers and encouraging words of my friends and family, and I really did, the gift of being looked in the eye, understood, and shown grace was something that reached my soul.

It seems to me that to create the grand mosaic of grace, God needs those of us who have been divorced, gone bankrupt, been addicted, lost children, lost faith, lost dignity, and whatever else. He needs the women who got pregnant before they got married and the men (and women) who found someone else after they got married. He needs the drug dealers and porn stars and lawbreakers. He needs the ones who were bitter, lustful, abusive, greedy, arrogant, disrespectful, unloving. He needs the brokenhearted, mistreated, ignored, and forgotten. He needs people who can, like my Divorce Care leader, look his babies in the eye and say, “I get it. I know that story,” and comfort them in a way that mirrors his comforting of us. One of my favorite traits of my Divorce Care leader is that she is 100% shockproof. There is nothing you can say to this woman that raises her eyebrows in disgust or horror. You can tell her the worst things you’ve said and done, and she says things like, “Yeah, we tend to do that, don’t we?” The grace she has shown me, and so many others, is the very face of God. You can’t tell me God doesn’t use her story—the good, the bad, and the ugly—to reach his children.

I no longer assign blame for my divorce; it doesn’t matter. Anne Lamott says, “There are three things you can’t change: the past, the truth, and other people.” Divorce is a part of my past, and that’s that. Did I miss the will of God? Don’t know, don’t care; it's not something I can go back and change. (Although I do not at all regret my first marriage.) This is what I do know and care about: nothing I have ever done, including divorce, has caused God not to love me anymore. Nothing I have ever done has changed God’s promise of protection, healing, and grace in my life. Nothing I have ever done has made God scrap his plans for me and leave me to figure it out alone. I made mistakes in my marriage, and I live with the knowledge of having caused my ex-husband pain. But I do not have to live with guilt or shame, nor do I have to listen to other's judgments about my life. My story isn't about them or even me. It's about Jesus. I am saved. I am a part of God’s plan for humanity. And he makes all things new. New.

Adultery and Murder.

Certain words in the Christian “language” have always bothered me because I felt I should use them, but had no concrete idea of what they meant. “Redemption” is an example. My mind had always roughly equated it with “salvation,” and I didn’t understand the need for both a Savior and a Redeemer. A few weeks ago I started digging around in Scripture to see what else besides salvation might be under the jurisdiction of a “redeemer.”

As it turns out, there once lived a handsome, heroic king who was everybody’s favorite. He was a warrior, a poet, and a musician—a Renaissance man to be sure. Having been anointed by God at a young age and close to God all his life, he was richly blessed with peerless military prowess, a number of gorgeous wives, endless cash flow, and the unshakeable protection of God. One day, after receiving news of another blowout victory, he sauntered up on the roof and looked with pride over his kingdom. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a woman more beautiful than his imagination could have produced. He turned to gaze on her more directly as she rinsed her hair. The water caught the sunlight, illumining her perfect figure with an amber glow. His body ached with desire, and, afraid to move, he whispered to his servant, “Who is this woman?” The latter followed the path of his vision and responded, “Oh, that’s Bathsheba, Uriah’s wife.” The name sounded magnificent as David turned it over on his tongue. Bathsheba. He knew it was fate and sent the servant to bring her to him.

It was every man’s dream followed by every man’s nightmare. The two spent a passionate evening together before David said, “You better get home.” Bathsheba regretfully acquiesced, and the two parted with wistful half-smiles and several lingering good-bye kisses. She was the subject of many a daydream of David’s, and he thought often and fondly of his one-time lover. But eight weeks or so later, his fleeting thoughts of the bathing beauty were halted: David was delivered an unsigned message that simply read, “I’m pregnant.” His heart thudded against his ribcage and he lie back on the bed, trying to figure out the best way to deal with his unwelcome surprise. Finally, he called for his servant and ordered, “Get Uriah out here.”

Uriah was a really good man, serious about both work and ethics. To begin their conversation, David praised this quality and then constructed the pretense of asking for battle news. Uriah gave him a quick rundown and David said, “You’ve obviously had a difficult stint out there; why don’t you go home to your wife and relax.” They shook hands and in no time, Uriah was on his way. But he didn’t go home. He slept outside the city walls with the guards since he knew his fellow soldiers were doing the same. David saw him the next morning and asked suspiciously, “I told you to go home. Why didn’t you?” Uriah explained his commitment to his men, and while David appreciated the sentiment, it was imperative that Uriah sleep with his wife as soon as possible. This went on for a few nights until David realized there was just no convincing Uriah to go home and enjoy his wife’s delightfully perfumed embrace. So he switched to Plan B and wrote a letter to the commander. He ordered the commander to put Uriah on the frontlines where he would most certainly be killed, forever ignorant of the news of the king’s bastard child.

The commander did not make a habit of questioning the king, so Uriah was predictably killed in battle. The commander sent word back to David that the enemy had surged in forcefully, and Uriah was among those who died. Bathsheba appropriately went into mourning, but as soon as her time was served, David sent for her and married her (II Samuel 11).

In the space of one story, David broke half the Commandments: he coveted, committed adultery, lied, murdered, and stole, all because one afternoon he noticed a beautiful woman. But instead of ousting David and cutting his psalms out of the Bible, God used the once-sinful union of David and Bathsheba to bring Solomon into the world, a man whose renowned wisdom in Proverbs and Ecclesiastes still astounds. Furthermore, God used David and Bathsheba and “the child of their child of their child a thousand years thence,”* to bring about the birth of his own Son. So the lineage of Jesus—of Jesus—includes a gigantic, five-Commandment-breaking sin, a skeleton in the closet if there ever was one. But God’s love covered the whole thing and restored it to perfection, just like Romans 8:28 promises (“God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them,” NLT.). To me, redemption is something like that.

*part of a quote from Frederick Buechner’s Beyond Words

Ducks (or Chickens).

When I was a little girl, I had this fuzzy sleeping gown covered with either ducks or chickens. I can see it in my mind’s eye as I write, but my mental vision has gone a little blurry, like Christmas lights through unfocused eyes. My bed was a heavy, antique wooden structure with four curvy posts and a lacy comforter. Every night as I scooted under the covers, my parents read to me from my graphic-novel Bible, and my dad, positioned at the foot of my bed, sang “Jesus Loves Me” with his hands protectively resting on my little, crossed ankles. I grew up knowing I had a Guardian out there somewhere who looked on me with kindness and affection—my square one as I learned about Jesus’s love. I started with “the Bible tells me so” because in my cute poultry sleeping gown, I didn’t yet know the love of Jesus. I knew how to obey my parents, sing choruses, and retell Bible stories ad nauseum, but as Jesus says in Matthew, “Whoever has been forgiven little shows only a little love” (Luke 7:47b, NIV).

Then I grew up. And as we usually do when we grow up, I started making mistakes. I lost sight of the sweetness of a relationship with Jesus. I spiritually expressed my adulthood and independence by employing what Daniel Henderson calls “Christian autopilot.” Rather than talking to God and ardently seeking his face, I checked in when things felt difficult but otherwise lived a mostly clean life on my own, going to church on Sundays and name-dropping “God” whenever appropriate. I was devoutly serious about my faith, but not necessarily about my relationship with Jesus (although for a long time I convinced myself that those were synonymous). That worked just fine until the broken dreams and failure of an ended marriage hit me face-on. I might as well have been back in my sleeping gown on the floor of my pink bedroom for all the smallness I felt. But let me tell you a little bit about the love of my Jesus.

When you mess up everything in your life so profoundly that you have trouble keeping your eyes dry, Jesus doesn’t leave. Even if you’re somewhat—or completely—to blame. Even if you spend months resisting Him. Even if you do what He directly asks you not to do. He still doesn’t leave. He has seen what you do, but he heals you anyway (Isaiah 57:18). He leads you along…with kindness and love and stoops down tenderly to care for you (Hosea 11:4). He sends out His word to you and heals you (Psalm 107:20). He forgives all the smut that originated with or in you (Luke 7:48 and throughout the Gospels). In love and mercy, He redeems you (Isaiah 63:9). He erases your sins…and never thinks of them again (Isaiah 43:25). He restores your joy (Psalm 51:8, 12). He looks down at His palms where He has written your name (Isaiah 49:16).

Who does that? Who else not only listens but actually longs to listen to you for as long as you’re willing to talk? Who else floods your life with so much grace you practically drown in it? Who else speaks so deeply to your heart that you feel His words? Who else heals, not just mends, your broken heart? Who else keeps track of every tear that falls (Psalm 56:8)? Who else forgives you before you ask? Who else sees your heart in its entirety and loves you regardless? Who else wants to hear the banal details of your day, even though He was there, just so He can see them through your eyes? Who does that but Jesus?


The most rewarding relationships I enjoy—and all of the best people in the world happen to be in my life—are all to a certain point limited because they are human, but that is not so with Jesus. Jesus’s love extends beyond human capability, beyond human reason, to remind me every minute of every day that I am just as precious to Him—my broken, inexplicable, sinful self is just as precious to Him—as the little girl in the ducks-or-chickens sleeping gown is to her parents. And infinitely, infinitely more. Infinitely more. Because nothing—not death, life, angels, demons, fears, worries, present things, future things, my own darkness, or darkness stretching toward me from hell—nothing can ever, ever separate me from the love of my treasured Redeemer (Romans 8:38, 39). Who else loves like that but Jesus?

Teenagers.

I am thankful for teenagers.

They’re my job security.

But, of course, there are more important reasons than that.

There’s a song by My Chemical Romance that repeats the line, “Teenagers scare the living [feces] out of me.” Many people seem to agree: I’m always hearing about how frighteningly they drive, what attitudes they have, and their egregious sense of entitlement. There are days I agree on all three accounts, especially the driving. But often I think adults shortchange teenagers simply because that’s how we’ve always interacted with younger generations.

I think about the girl who told me a couple of weeks ago that her life was shattered because…wait for it…her boyfriend of two weeks broke up with her. I know, I know—“How could she love him after two weeks?” “It’s lust, not love.” “She’ll get over him in twenty-four hours.” “Teenagers think they invented love.” “There are so many other boys out there.” But here’s the thing: while the love of a teenager is different than the love of an adult, they’re loving to capacity. They’re expending their whole heart’s energies on their special person. Whether it’s Love or “love,” it feels the same to a teenager, and it’s crushing when it’s over. It sometimes leads them to unwise decisions and heartbreak, sure. But it’s also admirable. They do love like they’ve never been hurt. I don’t, not if I can help it. I love cautiously, sometimes pessimistically, even in non-romantic relationships. I’m always wondering, “What if I let myself trust these people, even rely on them, and then they leave?” My brain has people moving or passing away before we’ve spent two hours together. A teenager, on the other hand, loves recklessly, fiercely, enthusiastically. Their love might be fickle sometimes, but it’s also beautiful. Teenagers love first and ask questions later. Kind of like God.

And I love their honesty. Ask a teenager a question, and you get a real answer. “So, Josh, did you do your homework?” “No, I didn’t want to.” (Not that I’m suggesting we shirk responsibility. It’s the candor I admire, not the laziness.) We adults beat around the bush so often that we end up sugarcoating even when it would be beneficial to us to simply tell the truth. We tell the guy, “I didn’t call because I was busy,” rather than just being honest and saying, “It’s flattering, but I’m not interested.” We take on more than we can handle because we can’t bear for others to know we’re overwhelmed. We agree to go out to dinner or on vacation with friends when we know we don’t have the money, just so we don’t have to say, “I can’t afford it.” Perhaps the place that most desperately needs a dose of teenage transparency is the church. Why don’t we just say to each other, “I need you. Help me.” Or, “I screwed up, and now my heart is broken.” Or, “I can’t do this anymore.” We wouldn’t have to spin our wheels and internalize so much if we just got it out.

In short, I guess my favorite thing about teenagers is that even though they’re just as messy as adults are, they often aren’t afraid to let their messiness show—their big emotions, their confusion, their heartache. Their words don’t always come out right, they don’t always make the right decision, and they don’t yet have all the information and wisdom it takes to live successfully. But they go for it. They build things, start things, jump in. They’re scared, beautiful, weird, passionate, and goofy. And I am thankful for them and love them with my whole heart.

Bubbles.

I am thankful for bubbles.

My first memory, albeit a blurry one, is pictured off to the side. When I was twelve or thirteen, I was looking through family albums with my mom for a school project, and when we got to this picture, I gasped and said, “I remember that!” According to Mom’s note on the back of the photo, I was a little over a year and a half old at the time it was taken. Now, I have to admit: I do not remember what we were doing that day, I don’t remember any conscious thoughts, and I don’t remember what anyone said to or around me as the picture was being made. But I definitely remember the moment. The strength of my dad’s arms holding me up, the smile on my mom’s face lighting me up, and pure, uncontainable happiness spilling over within me. You can see it in my eyes. And I remember that it felt like bubbles—millions and millions of bubbles filling me up and running over.

Before writing this, I considered other “bubbly” moments in my life, and it turns out that many were from childhood: sitting on Pastor J’s lap during the children’s sermon at the church where I grew up; watching SEC football with my parents, sister, aunts, and uncles at my aunt’s house; mini-golfing with my “grown-up” friend AM; Christmas the year I was ten when my parents got me a personalized teacher’s bag; receptions after piano recitals when my beloved piano teacher AC would dote and brag on me; I could list 130 others at least. Perhaps this is why Jesus was so insistent on our need of childlikeness in his Kingdom. Being bubbly requires wonder, joy. It requires innocence, hope, and love. All the “adult” things people sometimes do—myself included—trying to feel bubbly end up pushing us in the other direction: buying things we don’t need, getting into relationships we shouldn’t be in, swallowing diet pills and/or overindulging in food and drinks, and so on. In my life, the bubbles have always come from connecting with other people. From peace with my place in the world and the condition of my spirit. From acceptance of myself. Those are a whole lot harder to come by than a boat or a one-night stand.

There’s a beautiful poem by William Wordsworth that starts with an often-quoted (and often-misattributed) phrase: “surprised by joy.” All of a sudden, a million bubbles. My favorite bubbly moments are those—the ones where you’re going about your business and then out of nowhere…joy. When you’re sitting on the porch swing in the peaceful twilight that follows a productive day and joy rushes over you. When your puppy curls up on your lap and sighs with contentment. When someone gives you an unexpected compliment. My wish for us as we end the year is to experience millions and millions of bubbles and the best of friends to celebrate them with.

“Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.” — Henry David Thoreau

Lessons.

NOTE: There's a PG-rated word in #3.


Every New Year’s Day from the time I was 19 until I was 25, I took a few hours to think back over what the past year had taught me. I’d come up with a list that was as long as my age—19 lessons the year I was 19 and so on. I did it seven years, skipping it for the first time this past January. Because I am a sucker for fresh starts, I decided the beginning of the school year was a good time to resume my neglected tradition. But I’m not doing 26. Six is enough.

1.     When you reach out to people, they reach back. This summer I’ve made it a point not to turn down invitations. If it was possible for me to go, I went. I’ve gone out with larger groups than I’m used to, ridden in a race, reconnected with old friends, had long conversations with people I’d just met, and spent time with people I don’t know well. This may not sound like a big deal, but my introverted self has felt the growing pains. Luckily, I’ve noticed that when I leave my comfort zone and reach out to others, they meet me halfway.

2.     Worrying is a complete waste of time. This lesson came as a result of my exams and a friend’s wisdom. Knowing that it was the day before my writtens, my friend asked how I was doing. I had let worry consume me: my hair was falling out, everything I ate went straight through me, I couldn’t sleep, I was irritable, and I’d developed a slight tremor. My friend commiserated but then said, “Amie, the results of your exams aren’t in the hands of your examiners. They’re in the hands of the God you belong to.” I kept repeating that incredible sound byte verbatim in my head until it hit me that worrying was not only unnecessary but also at odds with my faith in God. My friend added in amusement, “80% of the stuff you worry about doesn’t happen anyway.” How true.

3.     Rubbing alcohol stuns fleas so you can pick them off your dog. My least favorite creature on the planet right now is the flea. Before I had a dog, I gave little thought to the pests. Now their tiny, insidious, jumping bodies send me into a flood of ire. I want to smash them with a hammer. It seems that after you treat your sweet puppy with FrontLine, all fleas should fall off, surrendering their weapons and cowering in fear. Not so. Word to the wise: if your dog is tormented by fleas, try alcohol. It makes those little jerks your bitch’s bitches.

4.     I am brave. I always considered myself a huge coward, and sometimes I am. But I did have the cojones to stick out a graduate program in French at a tough school. And I did go to France last summer, rent an apartment, and live in a city I’d never visited. And I do spend my days with 85 (and some days 101) needy, impressionable teenagers. I’m no John McClane, but I’m not the wuss I always told myself I was either. Yippee-kye-ay, y’all.

5.     Everybody screws up, and it’s no cause for alarm. We humans sometimes cause ourselves—and others—a lot of disappointment. A few weeks ago, a friend and I swapped stories about major screw-ups in the classroom. I told her about a situation I handled so poorly in my first year of teaching that I’m surprised the teaching gods didn’t break into my classroom immediately and shred my license. Although she agreed that I’d made a mistake, she said, “I guess the only thing left is forgive yourself.” Every day across the globe, our flaws lead us to do and say stupid things. And of course, we are free to judge, condemn, and gossip about people’s mistakes. But why do that when we’re all in the same boat? We’re all screw-ups. That’s why we need a Savior.

6.     People really know how to love. The epigraph to a book I read this year declared that we often tell ourselves a myth: that if people really knew us, they wouldn’t love us anymore. The fact is, however, that “if people really knew you, they could really love you.” All my life I feared my secrets, my mistakes, my flaws. For years they kept me from getting close to others: I believed that if someone got to know me too well, they’d see all the scum beneath my semi-polished exterior. The fact is that as I’ve trusted people more, not a single person has said, “Oh, I didn’t realize you did that. Eesh.” All I’ve been met with is grace and acceptance. It makes sense, right? The more we let each other in, the more opportunities we have to show each other love. And I can say with complete assurance that none of my friends or family could ever do anything to change my love for them. Love is about who a person is, not what he or she does or has done. If Jesus forgives and loves past the flaws, I have to make it my business to do the same.

Thank you to the numerous hearts in my life that make lessons learnable and life livable.

Hope.

dedicated to my dear friend J.S.

I am tired.

In the last six years, I graduated college, returned for a teaching certificate, endured my first year of teaching (complicated by no student teaching, an absent administration, and two students trying to get me fired), bought a house, married, fought my way out of sexual dysfunction with the help of myriad professionals, transferred jobs, miscarried more than once, moved away from my hometown, dealt with depression, dealt with serious relationship difficulties, and graduated with a master’s degree that felt like a mini-doctorate. In the space of ten days at the end of May this year, I moved back to my hometown, crashed my car, and landed in the hospital.

It’s been a long six years.

Do I bring this up to drum up sympathy? No. I bring it up because in the midst of all of this, I am constantly reminded of my Jesus. The fact is that everyone goes through this. Everyone experiences sorrow, loss, conflict, and pain. But regardless of who appears and disappears from my life, who strengthens me and who ignores me, Jesus is my hope. Because I know how fervently and unconditionally He loves me, I am able to revel in the cool water of His peace. As my friend J.S. reminded me today, He promises joy on the other side of the pain, joys upon joys. And He has already given me the joys of a loving, supportive family; the most loyal, dependable friends on the planet; and a job that utilizes my interests and allows me to work alongside amazing coworkers. These are not coincidences: they are gifts from a loving Parent who has my best interests at heart. Whatever I deal with, He is my strength and my song (Exodus 15:2). Whenever darkness threatens me, He roars, “This far you may come and no farther” (Job 38:11). He prays for me (Isaiah 62:1), delights in me (Isaiah 62:4), and rejoices over me (Isaiah 62:5). That is the God I love.

And sometimes my Lord speaks in an unexpected voice. Like a spider’s. I watched Charlotte’s Web last night because that’s what I do when I’m feeling down. (Or when I'm really down, I read it.) Early on, Wilbur’s destiny is uncertain: as a spring pig, he is likely to be cured ham by Christmas. One of the animals references this fact, which nearly gives Wilbur a heart attack. “Charlotte, should I be worried?” he asks his best friend. She chuckles a bit. “Of course not. What good would that do?” Tears sprang to my eyes as I looked upward. God might as well have been in my room, winking at me, smiling, and saying, “That goes for you too, my love.” And if you ask my heart, he was.

Glossolalia.

Here is my deepest embarrassment as a girl raised Pentecostal: I have never spoken in tongues. It’s not for a lack of trying. I have listened to infinite how-to sermons on the topic, and at the end of each, I have traipsed down to the altar and done exactly as I was told, which varied wildly from preacher to preacher. One instructed us to interminably repeat one word – he suggested “hallelujah” – so that when the foreign words came, God wouldn’t have to surmount whatever complicated prayer we were praying. Another admonished us to stand with hands raised; God must see us praising – in exactly this manner, apparently – in order to be convinced of our desire. Another gave a three-step formula that even God can’t resist:  1) Confess your sins, 2) Surrender to God’s will, and 3) Ask sincerely for his Spirit to fill you. One of the aforementioned preachers vowed he would not leave the building until all seekers had spoken in tongues, but he lost interest with me after what felt like hours of coaching. He asked me if my heart was right, if I had any lingering sin. When I realized I was confessing sins I hadn’t even committed, I assured the man I’d done everything on my end that I could. He left that night with at least one devotee who hadn’t spoken in tongues.

God never did bless me with the gift, even though I wholeheartedly cast every preacher-advised spell on him I could. The unwillingness of my tongue to break free caused me stress and frustration for nine infuriating years. Six years ago, when I graduated with a B.A. in French and English, it intensified. I had never longed for the gift more: I’d spent the last few years of my life studying language, and I desperately yearned for the ability to use God’s own words to praise him. I had learned how to speak another people's language; why could I not do this with my Lord? How many times did I pray, “God, please let me speak in tongues”? Each time it didn’t happen, I was crestfallen anew.

If you don’t understand why this is a cause for embarrassment (rather than mere disappointment), let me explain. In many Pentecostal churches, such as the one I attended for eight of those nine years of frustration, my lack of speaking in tongues meant that I had not been filled with the Spirit. Therefore, I was not a full-fledged Christian because I didn’t have the power boost that his Spirit gives you. Essentially, the “other half” of my salvation was hanging in the balance. Speaking in tongues was not a choice. And I craved it besides.

I learned in a college class for my minor that this Pentecostal doctrinal stipulation on salvation comes from the Acts account of the Day of Pentecost (2:1-13, NLT): On the day of Pentecost all the believers were meeting in one place. Suddenly, there was a sound from heaven like the roaring of a mighty windstorm…Then, what looked like flames appeared and settled on each of them. And everyone present was filled with the Holy Spirit and began speaking in other languages*, as the Holy Spirit gave them this ability…When [others] heard the loud noise, [they] came running, and they were bewildered…“How can this be? These people are all from Galilee, and yet we hear them speaking in our own native languages…about the wonderful things God has done!” So the thought line is this: when the Holy Spirit fills followers of Jesus, speaking other languages ensues. Note that the church has relaxed the prerequisites of the “mighty windstorm” and the “flames,” but the speaking of other languages is still a requirement.

One May afternoon a few years ago, I was reading the Bible and happened upon 1 Corinthians 12, part of which declares: All of you together are Christ’s body, and each of you is a part of it…First there are apostles, second are prophets, third are teachers, then those who do miracles, those who have the gift of healing, those who can help others, those who have the gift of leadership, those who speak in unknown languages. Are we all apostles? Are we all prophets? Are we all teachers? Do we all have the power to do miracles? Do we all have the gift of healing? Do we all have the ability to speak in unknown languages? Do we all have the ability to interpret unknown languages? Of course not! (vv. 27-30, NLT). My head reeled, and I read it several times more: “Do we all have the ability to speak in unknown languages?…Of course not!” Oh, wow, I thought. I put the Bible down and lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. Wow, my brain kept saying. I can’t explain the overwhelming grace I felt. And you are a teacher, my Lord whispered to my heart. And I am so pleased. It was too much for words, something inexplicable and glorious and freeing and joyous.

Later, when my heart realigned with my brain, I did some thinking. No doubt, God did a beautiful thing on the Day of Pentecost; what modern-day church wouldn’t want it? People verbally exploded in praise, such that sticking to their own languages couldn’t describe the bubbling of the Holy Spirit inside them. That’s holy and God-given and divinely lovely. However, to require a reenactment of such from every believer – and from the God they serve – is constricting and unholy. God will not be forced into doctrine because it so pleases the church overseer. God works as God desires because only he has complete wisdom. Furthermore, as God is anything but one-dimensional – look at the rainbow of his actions and words and emotions throughout the Bible – so should our reflection of him be. In the church he raises up apostles, prophets, healers, teachers, etc., and each of these roles reveals a little more about the God we serve. If we were all unknown-language-speakers, where would our interpreters and leaders and miracle-workers be? The wisdom of God is manifold and diversified by definition.

I have been filled with the Spirit for years. I never dared believe it until I read the 1 Corinthians passage because my experience did not include the linguistic manifestation; nonetheless, I know it’s true because I do things that reach people. And the reason for that is the Holy Spirit’s stirring in me. My victories with students, for example, come from the pouring out of the Holy Spirit’s wisdom in me. Pieces I have written that have blessed someone are from the Holy Spirit’s words in me. He uses me, and I am filled.

In my experience, conservative Pentecostals do not agree. A well-read Pentecostal layman a few years my senior is insistent that I am missing a “higher power” in my walk with the Lord because I don’t speak in tongues. He explained to me a few years ago that two things have held me back; namely, that I didn’t want it enough, and after so many missed opportunities, I have now closed my heart to the possibility. My response is two scriptures: 1 Corinthians 14:33, God is not a God of disorder but of peace, and 1 Corinthians 12:11, It is the one and only Spirit who distributes all of these gifts. He alone decides which gift each person should have. The first verse speaks to my years of disorder, confusion, and anger over not speaking in tongues, contrasted with my now perfect peace over not having that particular gift (at least, not now), but being blessed with others instead. The second verse dovetails with this, explaining that the Spirit gives the gifts as he deems necessary. He’s the only one doling them out, and he has not seen reason as of yet to allow me to speak in tongues. In the same way that he doesn’t give everyone the gift of healing (nor does the church doctrine require everyone to have it…), he’s not giving everyone the gift of unknown languages. Should he see fit one day for me to speak in tongues for a moment or for the rest of my life, I will be open and willing. In the meantime, I will simply learn to trust his judgment.

*Although this is somewhat of a side point, I think it’s important to note that the languages spoken on the Day of Pentecost were earthly languages. The gift of these languages brought others to the scene where God’s power could be displayed.