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?

Pity Parties.

I am thankful for “pity parties.”

Of all the potential best friends in the world, my JB ranks in the 99.9^th percentile. She is a genius. She is hysterically funny. She is supportive and dependable and sarcastic and a terrific wife and mother. She’s one of the best gifts God has sent me to date, and I will lose my mind if she ever has to live far away from me. Although, after 12 years of friendship, we have dozens of memories and traditions, one of our enduring favorites is the “pity party.” We established said parties during our senior year of high school and have indulged in them infrequently but when necessary ever since. They’re based on two fundamental beliefs: 1) Sometimes you just want someone to listen to you complain, and 2) Chocolate is delicious.

If I describe the glory of pity parties, I realize I’m running the risk of everyone—or at least all the like-minded women—wanting to attend. But I’m going to do it anyway because they are wonderfully therapeutic. It goes like this: a 2-liter of soda + Swiss Rolls + moaning and complaining until you feel better + someone listening sympathetically as long as it takes + Bridget Jones’s Diary (optional humor booster) = pity party. I assure you, it cures all evils. JB and I have had pity parties to get through breakups, family/work stress, procrastination, and general disappointment. We even had a pity party over the phone while I was in graduate school. Lost your job? You need a pity party. Your boyfriend cheated? You need a pity party. Your car was stolen? You need a pity party.

While I realize it’s not the healthiest idea to wallow in despair and gorge yourself on Little Debbies, I assure you both are side notes in a much lovelier story. What makes the pity party work is the loving support of a friend who cares deeply about your hurt or frustration or confusion. Pity parties are about reminding yourself that you’re not wandering in the dark. You’re connected, loved, and integral to someone else. That’s what JB tells me all the time, directly and indirectly, whether we call an official pity party or not. And that’s one of the 3,000 reasons I love her. So here’s to pity parties! Which translates, of course, to, “Thank God for friendship.” And chocolate. And most importantly, in my case, for JB.

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

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.