Bodies.

For the first time ever, I was a mom for spring break. My man and I took the kids to an indoor water park for a long weekend and had an incredible time. Because I am female, I spend as much or more time as the men looking at other women’s bodies when we’re all on display in our swimsuits. My reasons differ, of course: I compare myself to them, see where I fit in the array of physical femininity, and try to decide how happy (or unhappy) my man is with my body, based not on what he tells me but on how I appraise it compared to all the others.

That’s totally sick, isn’t it?

But I spent upwards of 24 hours engaged in exactly that, and it was maddening. Usually those thoughts happen on such a subconscious level that I continue about my business barely registering them, but this time was different. I had my daughter with me, and the thought of her thinking those things broke my heart. She’s dazzlingly lovely, and I want her to know it. I want her to know that she’s perfect the way she is. She so beautifully reflects her dad’s gorgeous Italian traits set on the smooth, olive-toned Native American skin she got from her mother’s side. She can choose to treat her body kindly or not, but it’s a perfect snowflake of a body that should never be disrespected by anyone, including her. Which is precisely what I was doing to mine.

And the thing is, every body I saw was “imperfect” compared to the cinematic, airbrushed ideal. Flabbiness was everywhere. Cellulite passed me every few seconds. Moles and discolorations marked almost everyone. My body is no better or worse than the others I saw. In fact, underneath our skin we all house the same snowflake perfection I identify so easily in my daughter. Some women treat their bodies more kindly than others – I have to work on this too – but God-designed perfection is our common trait. Besides, my body does so many wonderful things: it walks, dances, swims, makes love, stretches, hugs, laughs, twirls, and bends. How could I be anything other than deeply thankful for a body like that?

I hope, down in my core, that my daughter never forgets she’s beautiful. Jealous girls and lonely boys might try to convince her otherwise, whether they use words or not. Her dad’s voice, mom’s voice, and stepmom’s voice will be drowned out on occasion. So for my own part, I’m going to be preemptive. I’m trying to remind myself that I am perfect and beautiful, and I’m trying to listen to my man and my dad tell me the same thing. Maybe if I can remember it for myself, I can role model it and help my daughter remember too. She’s worth it, and so am I.

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.

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?

Mistakes.

I am thankful for mistakes.

I was up to bat. Luckily for my team, it was knowledge of French grammar that was requisite to win, rather than physical prowess. I had a death grip on the buzzer, ready to signal my intelligence. “What is the vous conjugation of faire?” my professor asked. I slammed the buzzer. “Fairez!” I yelled. She gave me a disappointed look and said, “Sorry, no.” My face flushed. I assumed I’d misunderstood the question: all vous conjugations end in –ez, right? Obviously. But in fact, when I opened my textbook to confirm my correctness, vous faîtes stared me in the face. “Well, crap,” I thought dejectedly. But on the exam the following day, I didn’t miss a single question using faire.

You probably have a story like this as well: you missed the mark somewhere, got something all wrong, but you gained valuable knowledge or wisdom. That’s what I love about mistakes: when you start making them, you start learning. C.S. Lewis, whose work I admire greatly, once wrote, “Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn. My God, do you learn.” In the past few weeks, I have decided that there is really no shame in making a mistake. The only shame would be not learning from it. Mistakes, after all, are brilliant teachers.

Of course, some mistakes hurt. Some engender a blow to the confidence. Some are unspeakably costly. Some cause months or years of shame. But making them shows you weren’t afraid to jump in, to go after something. You were willing to do something risky. And after the fact, you became wiser. You got up and continued on—that is the stuff courage is made of. And if you did it right, you learned.


“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’” — Mary Anne Radmacher

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.

Sixth Sense.

This post is dedicated to Maggie and PM, her owner. Had I not met Maggie, I might never have taken the dog-adoption plunge. And I am very, very glad I did.

Two weeks ago, I did something I’d been wanting to do for a long time: I adopted a pet. My baby is a shih-poo, a shih-tzu-poodle mix. (Although, my best friend’s husband suggested that he be called a poo-zu, which I find much more entertaining.) Peabody is all the things that a dog is supposed to be: playful, cuddly, sweet, and totally devoted to me. Never have I had a cuter shadow. I mean, this dog trots from one room to the next, no more than a foot behind me. When I come home, whether I’ve been gone thirty minutes or all day, he can’t contain his excitement. Of the four words I’m trying to teach him, the only one he seems to consistently recognize is “bedtime” which translates to “seven uninterrupted hours of curling up behind Mama’s knees”—his favorite time of day. I’d barely known this animal two hours before I fell in love.

And I’m not the only one: he’s melted the hearts of everyone who’s met him so far. Last weekend my mom and I went on a road trip to see her side of the family. Since it’s a long trip, we stopped several times on the way to let Peabody do his business. At one stop, he walked right over to a homeless man who was sitting on the ledge around the gas station. Peabody stopped in front of him and paused, as if waiting for something. The man reached his hand out and began petting my dog lightly on his head. His eyes filled with tears as he smiled and choked on a chuckle. He said nothing, not to me or to Peabody, but I could tell his day had been made. After a moment, Peabody looked up at me as if to say, “Alright, Mama, we can go now.” As we walked away, I turned to look at the man. He was still grinning and wiping the tears from his eyes.

Call me crazy, but I believe animals can sense more than we give them credit for. I’ve heard several times about dogs that began sleeping at the foot of their mistress’s bed when she got pregnant. Countless stories circulate of dogs showing special devotion to a sick family member. One morning shortly after I adopted Peabody, I was upset, and that dog crawled into my lap and put his head right next to mine—something he hadn’t done before and hasn’t since. I think, in the case of the man at the gas station, Peabody could sense his loneliness and somehow knew he could brighten the man’s day.

John Grogan published Marley and Me several years ago now. I read it and loved it before I was a dog owner, but I found one part kind of silly. Grogan writes that he learned something about love from Marley: “Give a dog your heart, and he’ll give you his. It’s that simple. How many people can you say that about?” To be honest…I don’t find it silly anymore. Having now experienced the canine sixth sense for myself, I too feel like I’m learning from my dog. Would I have gone over and talked to the man at the gas station had I not been dragged there by Peabody? No. And yet the man clearly needed a reason to smile. How was my dog more sensitive to this than I, a fellow human, was? Perhaps Peabody could teach me something about being more perceptive and more willing to be someone’s miracle.

My dog is a genius.

Hospitality.

When people find out I’m a French teacher, most of them respond one of three ways: 1) “I could never teach high school,” 2) “Bonjour!…That’s about all I remember,” or 3) “Why did you choose French?” In general, I’m sure people mean the third question benignly, but since humanities programs are slashed from universities like crazy of late, what I hear is, “Why in heaven’s name did you choose that?” In my French courses, in both college and grad school, the fact of being in a discipline that requires a constant fight for relevance was a frequent topic of discussion. It’s an increasingly prevalent opinion that students’ time would be better spent on science or math. So I do a preemptive strike on the first day of French I. I tell my students that the only reason our planet is of any consequence at all is that there are people on it. And the only way these people can get anything done is to communicate with each other. The more people we can communicate with, the more efficiently and effectively we can get all our things done. And since the brightest people in the world are not concentrated in one country, they speak different languages. Ergo, we learn languages. That is the pragmatic argument anyway.

But that wasn’t compelling enough to 17-year-old Amie to make her choose French. I usually tell people that French chose me, in fact. My French textbook called out to me: “You love to travel? Countries on five continents claim me as their national language. You love to read? Study me, and you can read millions more books. You love words? I’ll give you a whole new set of words to play with.” Clearly, 17-year-old Amie was persuaded to study French by selfish reasons. But as I got further in, I discovered that learning another language isn’t about speaking so much as listening. Conversing with someone, when you think about it, is pretty darn magical. Language, mere sounds your mouth makes or lines and dots scratched from the tip of your pencil, translates your feelings and thoughts into something others can understand. So the act of learning another’s language communicates, “Understanding you is important to me.”

If that hadn’t already hit home for me, it certainly did while I was in the hospital last week. One of my technicians was named Jacotte, a kind, lovely Haitian woman. On the second afternoon that she came in to check my vitals, she said, “You speak French.” Surprised, I said, “I do. How did you know?” She smiled. “The way you say my name. I said to myself, ‘Jacotte, that girl called me by my name. She speaks my language.’” From that point on, barely two words of English were exchanged between us. At one point Jacotte told me, “It feels so good to speak my language. I don’t get to do that much.” So Jacotte and I had a constant exchange of hospitality: she took attentive care of me physically, and I let her relax into her linguistic comfort zone for a few minutes each day. Following my surgery, Jacotte was the one who took me walking to keep my muscles in motion. She introduced me to everyone, saying, “This is my friend. This is mon amie.” And when my mom went to the desk to ask for Jacotte’s help, she said, “Yes, yes. Anything for mon amie.” I didn’t say anything special to this woman. I didn’t do anything extraordinary for her. But because she was able to communicate in her natural way, because I was willing to be at a linguistic disadvantage, Jacotte showed me every kindness she could.

I believe in studying math and science. I believe in studying organic chemistry and calculus and medicine and physics. But if we let go of language study—as many universities are now wont to do—vital lines of communication will be broken. International trust will be harder to win. Cultures will have trouble understanding one another. Why not study math and science alongside the way to communicate them? This way, we will continue to discover our friends, our amis.

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.