Wounds bring healing.
We are not whole. We are broken.
My pride lets me sit in the lie that I am whole. I sit in this untruth as a broken and empty vessel.
Broken and empty we run, for He makes the vessel whole. By His wounds we are healed. We cannot hold anything of substance unless we are healed and then filled by Him. In our running to Him we are healed. In our sitting with Him we are filled.
I have been broken again and again.
Again and again He has healed me. He has proven Himself true. So I run continually to Him. In running to Him, I find healing and rest.
It is said that the sweetest thing to a person’s ears is the sound of their own name. Perhaps God is the same way. He is not bashful or self depracating. He is the Lord who speaks truth. God knows who He is. Because He knows who He is, He seeks His own glory. Because He knows who He is, He can speak my identity to me.
“I call you by name… I equip you… I the Lord speak truth; I declare what is right.” (Isaiah 45)
How can I speak someone else’s identity over them when I am so unsure of my own?
How can I speak their name when I crowd out of the soft whisper of my name?
If the sweetest thing to a person’s ears is the sound of their own name, then I want to hear my name from the lips of my Savior. When He says over and over again that He calls me by name, the words shower my soul. Calling my name. Yes, the Lord knows me. He knows my identity. I rest in this.
He works for His own sake.
He works all things together for the good of those who love Him.
I love you, Lord, and I choose to believe that my good is a part of Your glory.
“To whom then will you compare me, that I should be like him?” says the Holy One. “Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name, by the greatness of his might, and because he is strong in power not one is missing.”
Isaiah 40: 25-26 (ESV)
Not one is missing…
How often I feel unseen and unheard. I speak and wonder where or if my words fall to good, yet
Not one is missing…
How often I sit in a place feeling ignored or unwanted. Do they care, these people who claim friendship? Do they love me, these people who claim to love Christ? Yet
Not one is missing…
How often I lay in bed wondering if I will ever have a family to call my own, wondering if someone will lay beside me, wondering if I’ve been forgotten. Yet
Not one is missing…
How often I work and work towards good, towards what I believe is Your glory. How often I put my fingers to task day by day in order to bring Your renewal and feel left behind in my dreams. How often I feel like everyone can accomplish their life goals, yet
Not one is missing…
You do not miss me.
I do not escape You.
Even when I do not feel it, this is the truth of the situation. Even when I do not want it, it still remains.
You do not miss me.
I do not escape You.
Your hand is here on me reminding me of Your Presence and Your strength. Your hand is here reminding me that yes,
I see the sun.
It shines brightly on my world, heating my skin and blinding my eyes. I see its light each morning as I wake. The sun is inescapable and inevitable.
But it isn’t until I see the sunbeams that the moment feels sacred. When the morning sun breaks through the sheer curtain and casts its light onto the hardwood floor, when I watch the dust dance around in its light, I watch as the sun penetrates my every fiber. It is in watching the beams that I set my heart on You again. It is in watching the dance before my eyes that I direct my soul to You again. I am so easy to leave this space with you, to forget Your Presence. And when I’m angry, You sit there and breathe, “Okay.” And when I’m sad, You hold me and Your tongue. And when I’m lonely, You look me in the eye and caress my cheek in reassurance. When I love You, when I hate You, when I’m happy or sad, when I’m hurt or glad, You sing a redemption song over me.
The clock ticks away reminding me each minute passes, drawing closer to the time I must go. I hate the clock and its ties. The chains bind me, when all I desire is to sit here in the sacred with You, to sit here in the mystery and let You love me.
But I go. I leave to my responsibility and to love this world, and as I leave, Your Presence goes before me. The truth is that You never let me leave Your Presence because You are faithful. So I forget the beauty of seeing the sunbeams, but I live forever in Your Presence.
Act in mercy. Act in strength. Act in strength by acting in weakness. Be vulnerable. You are clean so wash off the shit. Stop doing the evil in your heart. Pursue God. Pursue healing. Pursue Christ. Doing good is not easy. It’s a learning process. Stay in the classroom to learn. Learn to do good. You will fail, but you will keep going. You are not a failure because He succeeded. He succeeded so you succeed. Seek justice. Correct oppression. Many around you are hurting and remain on the fringes because of what people have done to them or made them believe about themselves. Correct that by empowering people. Help those who are unable to help themselves. Pick up the weak. Plead their cause. When others take their voice, seek to give it back. Speak because people hear you. Speak for those who go unheard.
I have a vagina. I am proud of it. Part of that means that 12 times a year for a week a time, my body attacks me; and I come out on the other side of it stronger. It means that sometimes I have crazy emotions, but I hold up half the sky. I work hard, and I will have to work 20 times harder than my brothers to tread the same paths and make the same accomplishments. It means that a large amount of people believe that I should be silent simply because I don’t wield a penis. It also means that some believe they can objectify me in this patriarchal society, but I will remain steadfast. It means that I can grow out my hair and no one thinks of me differently. It means that if I choose to, I can carry life within me. I am a woman.
I love to hear the crickets outside the open window singing their evening song. I love sitting in the hay field at night with the large, clear sky showing off the distant stars and watching the lightning bugs illuminate the hot, summer nights. I love heat storms and long drawls and “fixin to’s” and “might could’s.” I appreciate the blood that was spilled on my land to give equality. I am proud to call myself a Memphian and walk along the Mississippi River. I like the grit of the city and how friendliness is a value. I am a Southerner.
My pasty skin burns extremely easily. I am a mut from a dozen European countries. I listen to singer-songwriter music, and I can’t dance to save my life. I’m the last to hear the “up and coming” slang, and I use words to look cool after my friends of color have been using them all along. I wear my aviators like they’re going out of style, and I eat hummus every week. I even drink too much coffee and watch too much Netflix. I am white.
In and of themselves these things are not offensive. They do not stand against anything or anyone. I do not apologize for being a white, Southern female. I can’t because I can’t change those marks. But there is apology that needs to be made.
I am sorry that in being white I have feigned ignorance at my privilege and fed so deeply into the systemic racism that keeps my friends of color down, that takes away their worth, and that seeks to keep them silent. I am sorry that I allowed people to raise a flag that stands a strong symbol of hate to you, for I do not desire that any my brothers or sisters stumble over my silence of this cheap piece of fabric as so many of my acquaintances claim “history.” I am sorry that I thought I was fine by not having the narratives of people of color in my day to day life. I am sorry that after having a safe place of worship taken away from you, my Facebook friends defended their rights. I am sorry that I have remained silent and failed to fight for you.
I am sorry that in being Southern and evangelical, I did not stand up for your equal rights. I am sorry that my brothers and sisters made you feel less than and of less worth just because you desire marriage. I am sorry that in remaining silent on this issue, I let their voices speak louder. I am sorry that in being LGBTQ, you were labeled as disgusting. I am sorry that many of my acquaintances are against you, yet have no personal experience with your narrative or any like it. I am sorry that simply by using the phrase “hate the sin but love the sinner” you were automatically qualified as “other.” I am sorry that I turned a blind eye and failed to fight for you.
If this flag is hate to you, I will bury it with love.
If this system is hate to you, I will bury it with love.
If this people is hate to you, I will bury it with love.
If these actions, these fingers, these words are hate to you, I will bury them with love.
If these eyes, these feet, these laws are hate to you, I will bury them with love.
For there was a day when God came and dwelled. He went to the cross to defeat death, and He came out of the grave with the keys of death in his hand. And He declared this, “Death is no longer. The cross is empty, and there indeed stands an empty tomb. I seek to live among you. I accept you as you are. I do not wait for repentance to love you. And when I hear you, I do not hear a white, black, yellow, or red voice. I do not hear a heterosexual or LGBTQ voice. I do not hear the voice of a male or female or one who can’t find their gender. Indeed when I hear your voice, I hear the voice of a piece of my creation, one made in my image. I love you, so believe that you are no longer an orphan. For if you desire, you are my child. I have freed you. Come to the table, for invitation is here. Yes, I have freed you indeed.”
For I believe Christ came to fulfill the law and not demand what was right or wrong. He is here to declare what is life and death. I do not seek to stand against you, but to lead you to life, my brother. I do not seek to stand against you, but to hold your hand, my sister. I stand with you, my friend. And I hope for a day when my community will say to this world in one accord, “Come home.”
I was born here, and perhaps I’ll be buried here with many miles traveled beneath my feet. Tennessee is marked forever on my spirit. It stirs pride and love within me. I am loyal to the Southern drawl and the sweet tea. My quilt will always be my favorite blanket, and sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair will take me into my gray hair. I bleed for this ground and for these people. I long to bless this space.
Bless.
More than just an exasperation or interjection expressing complete confusion at a person’s decisions. More than a cover to the latest scandal and gossip. Yes, even more than a quick bowed head and prayer before a meal. What does blessing something look like? Doesn’t it go deeper than mere gifts from God, for what do I truly have to offer?
Psalm after psalm, poem after poem we are encouraged to bless God. Yes, O my soul, bless the Lord. I am stirred in spirit to say that blessing is more than gifts. I am stirred to say that blessings are more than the new babe that entered the world, more than the vows taken in front of friends and family, more than the food on the table, and more than a hashtag when something wonderful happens. Even in my darkest moments, I want to feel blessed.
Perhaps blessing looks more like awareness. God says, “I see you. I adore you, and in my adoration I look unto you. I am acutely aware of you, my love. I see you in your single days and your married ones. I see you in the classroom as a student and as a teacher. I see you when you receive phone calls and when you dial the numbers. I see you when you teach the best lesson you’ve ever taught and when you wonder to yourself if it was just a wasted day. I see you when you click away at the keys of your keyboard and when you talk with your friend at the coffee shop. I see you when you are hurting from the pain caused by suffering and when you are taken over by a fit of laughter. I see you. I have a deep and intense awareness of you.”
In His awareness He blesses us, and by this we are free to bless Him. We are free to bring him into our cognitive thought and bring unto Him our thanksgiving and blessing. We are free to say, “Lord, I am ever more aware of Your presence, ever more aware of Your adoration of me, ever more aware that You sit with me here. I consider, Lord, that You are here with me in my distress and in my laughter. You are here with me when I feel loved and beautiful and when I feel despised and forsaken. Yes, I am ever aware of Your presence in my loneliness, in my comfort, in my steadfastness, and in my anger. I am aware, and in my awareness I bless you. You are with me. You sit with me. Lord, I thank you.”
Yes, this is a blessing that will change our meals as we break bread together. This is a blessing that will bring down our idols and our gods. This is a blessing that will make us thankful in childbirth and in childlessness. This is a blessing that will change the world because that is what the resurrected Messiah has already accomplished.
He does not withhold suffering, but He is aware of us so He indwells with us in it. He does not always bestow gifts, but He constantly bestows His presence. And that is what the waiting world longs to hear.
And when you don’t feel it, my love, pray to be made more aware of His presence, for He is ever with you.
Whatever your name for it, it makes us quake. These forces take away our ability to reason or even to focus on what is deserving. We make rash decisions from them, and they inevitability lead to death. They are not life-givers. They are life-takers, life-rapers. They steal (or attempt to) our humanity.
Our Father looks to us and asks, “Do you feel healed?”
I feel but a shell of a person. I feel once a whole person, and now each piece of me eaten by the ravens. They have feasted on what they could. I feel pruned to the root in the ground, void of feeling anything but loneliness and despair. I believe I will grow again not out of hope of it being actually so. I believe I will grow again because I want to see you prove that You are who You say You are. I know I will grown again from this ash, yet I know not when.
Then the resounding chorus offers its hope. We are but life-givers. That which attempts to take from us cannot because of the power that we have. We have been given our humanity, and it stands within our grasp. This resounding chorus is what I wish to hear to no more. How do we reconcile being life givers when the world within us is in turmoil? When we don’t feel like or quite honestly just don’t want to give life? What do we do? How do we not give into terror and fear and agony? How do we let this resurrected Messiah invade?
I begin to believe that perhaps silence and rest is what space my mind needs. I intentionally create that space just to find that it indeed has had too much space to roam free in its thoughts and intentions. Perhaps laughter with friends will satisfy this need, but it only lasts for a minute. It turns into reminders of what I don’t nor will I ever have. To be alone is devastating. To be in company is devastating. Where does my hope lie?
This is what I offer you:
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)
Invitation.
Hear the word sweetly caress your soul.
You have invitation into the Loving Embrace, where terror and fear and agony do not reside. You have invitation where loneliness flees from His presence and darkness gives way to light. You have invitation where community around a table will last into eternity. You have invitation to feel healed again, to watch the flowers bloom into a beautiful array of flowers full of life and vibrance showing to all the deeds of His hands. You have invitation to take part again in the resounding chorus speaking hope into the lives around you.
And of this I am certain: you can.
I believe one day you will be the scent of roses upon our Lover’s hand for He has dealt tenderly with you, not allowing thorns to be your identity. Yes, I believe in you. And perhaps that is just what you need- to know that God believes in you and I do too.
This day is for the joyful, the glad, the content, the broken-hearted, the discouraged, the depressed, and the oppressed. It is for those who believe they are loved and those who don’t hold to that truth. It is for those who have experienced the deepest of losses and force the courage each day to open their eyes once again. It is for those who are physical and emotional orphans and those who have been shown how worthy they are. It is for those who are barren and those have a full quiver, for those who have mothers and those who are motherless, for those who have little to celebrate and those who have much.
This day is for you because you are woman of valor, a woman loved by God, a woman who has authority and freedom. You are woman with a unique identity, a woman with a unique gift to share, a woman with unique griefs and struggles.
No one else has lived your life and seen your days. No one else is intimately acquainted with your ways, save your Lover. He has known you with a tender knowing, and He has loved you with a fierce love. He fought for you to the death, and He came from the grave with the keys of death in His hand. He is a victorious and mighty Lover placing His strong hands upon your heart, caressing your soul with His truth.
There is a dungeon where we all reside. Stone walls, rusty bars, a shit filled corner. It smells of piss and shit. Nothing to stay the sickness. We heave a dryness at our feet for our stomachs have not been filled. The chains on us give us just enough room to move to relieve ourselves of what nourishment we have been given, if we have the strength to crawl. We sleep with our backs against the walls, watching the rats grow from our filth as they nibble on our gangrenous toes. The locks tight and bonds uncomfortable. The guards can’t even stand our stench as they curse us to damnation in condemnation. They slide moldy bread to us that tips onto the floor soaking up the cursed dung and a water bucket partially filled, enough so we won’t die. Living in this filth is what we were destined to do, and the guards give us just enough to survive.
Then there is a great earthquake so that the foundations of the prison are shaken. Light breaks in and blinds our eyes. We raise our hands to cover our sight because the light is so foreign, but the light breaks through victoriously. It will not be kept out. Immediately all the doors are opened, all the bonds are unfastened. The Messiah has risen again to free us from our chains! The guards run scared when we realize we are free! He steps in, reaches down, and looks us in the eye. He comes to offer healing. We look up at a Christ who took on pain to free us from ours. I lift a small finger to touch His hand for it is all I can muster, and a change happens. I am no longer broken. I am clean. He has cleansed me for eternity.
Jesus, our Brother, constantly comes to us, and in the midst of our stench and filth, He slides loosened chains from our feet. Yes, he even reaches out and takes our hands. He carries us up to the table full of feast, where our Dad has been sitting lovingly and longingly. We come to nourish ourselves with His Presence.
Sometimes we look around, and we don’t see our brothers and sisters sitting there at the table. We look to God and ask, “Where are they, Dad? Aren’t they hungry too? Don’t they want to sit here?”
“Yes, my love,” He answers softly. “The invitation is always open. i always desire to sit with them. Would you mind going to get them?”
So we leave the table and go to the dungeon. There sits our sister in her filth again. In that moment we don’t run and find Jesus and ask for help. We don’t yell at her or berate her to just stand. We don’t scream from across the room telling her to come. No, we walk to her and gently place our hands on hers. We take the loosened chains that she is fidgeting with and trying so hard put back on. We cast them off. We wipe the shit off of her that she smeared into her skin. We lovingly place our hand beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to meet ours as a tear runs down her cheek, and we say, “Dear sister, our Father waits. He has already declared you free. He sits at the table where you are chosen, approved, and accepted. He told us to come get you because He desires our presence together. Won’t you come? The invitation is here.”
Indeed God does call us out to declare freedom and feast. And indeed when our brothers and sisters are hurting, we have authority to bring them to the table with us.
A Lady of Many Names 