where waves grow sweet

When I leave my house for the beach or to see family, I turn left at the end of my driveway and hop on the freeway. Nearly everywhere else I go requires a right turn at the driveway’s end followed by a well-worn path through side streets to Irvine Boulevard, which takes me to all manner of necessary places like Target, the pediatrician and swimming lessons. When I jump in my car, I only need to spend a moment’s focus to know which direction I’m turning and then autopilot takes over while Chase and I chat or my mind wanders freely.

The trouble occurs when I’m attempting to go somewhere different; say Chase’s school, which is new this year. The directions start out the same as they would for a shopping trip – the first two turns, in fact – and then, if I actually want to get to school rather than Trader Joe’s, the path changes. Of course I know this. I’m not an idiot. And yet twice, last week alone, my car turned toward the shopping center instead of going straight toward the school. It doesn’t take too long for me to realize my error, laugh at my absentmindedness, and, as Siri would say, recalculate my directions. At that point, I have the choice of a longer route or a u-turn to get back to the one I intended to take in the first place. We get to school, on time every day so far, but I’m hoping for a new groove to be formed so we can get there more directly… every time.

This whole concept just got real for me. The past several years have been spent learning who God is and who He says I am, truths based on His Word rather than on the past experiences that previously dictated my identity. For instance, despite the fact that I was in a loving family, I had this orphan mentality that I was on my own and had to protect myself. It partly resulted from an independent streak I was born with, partly from some hurtful relationships where I should’ve been covered but wasn’t and mostly, I think, from some willfully bad choices I made that rendered me undeserving of God’s help (or so I thought for a really long time).

As I stepped out of rebellion and into a desire to do good, I would start a day/thought/action in the right direction, full of hope that I would get to a new destination that would bring blessing rather than harm. But somewhere along the way, autopilot would take over, leading me down the well-worn roads of fear, anger and self-loathing. Finding myself lost on these roads – again – with no clear sense of where I went wrong or how to get to my destination made me feel utterly powerless and alone. So, once again, I would step into self-protection mode. This looked like guarding my heart by shutting down emotions, putting on a facade of indifference or brazen confidence, using some kind of substance to fill the gaps of inadequacy and immersing myself in some form of distraction to avoid facing the “fact” of my failures.

Over the years, my mind has been transformed by truth. I now know where I’m going and I get there a whole lot of the time. There are still some detours and u-turns along the way but I rarely feel lost and overwhelmed. God has shown me time and time again that He is with me, He is for me and I’m not alone. Nothing I do can disqualify me from His grace and His help because it is based on the unfailing righteousness of Jesus. It was never about my own merit; only my trust. I know this. And yet, last week, he asked me why I was still protecting myself.

Yes, I thought. The pesky old behaviors that plague me are evidence of that. I had never connected them to self-protection but it makes perfect sense. Whenever I’m up against something that I feel unequal to, I shut down and fortify myself. It’s not something I consciously think about. I just go there. It’s such an efficient path that I can complete the task without feeling a single true emotion. Meanwhile, the fear that I won’t have enough or be enough operates in the background, like some app draining the batteries on my phone, so I guard my sleep and my energy like nobody’s business – with caffeine and sleep aids. Sugar and alcohol – in very acceptable amounts – step in for comfort or courage as needed. And of course distraction sets in so I don’t have to go to the places in my mind that will bear difficult information.

The revelation the Lord gave me was so gentle and kind. There was no shame. Just understanding that He is my protector and I can rest in that. My response, which seemed so clearly the right one, was to choose to trust Him for sleep that night. And for every night since. If I didn’t get enough sleep (which I haven’t on some nights), I figured He would give me strength or rest as I need it (and He has). I figured it wasn’t my problem to worry about.

The first few days were amazing. The need for caffeine, sugar and alcohol decreased significantly. Not that I wasn’t tired (I really was), but it didn’t mean what it used to. There were no conclusions of shortcoming or the accompanying fear. Then a day came where all I wanted was coffee and green tea frappuccinos and beer. Nothing had changed that I knew of. It was baffling. When I got quiet and played some worship on the piano, tears came. I was able to recognize some grief about letting go of my grown son, Cole, on a deeper level. Because my automatic response was established to bypass hard emotions, I didn’t even know it was there. By allowing myself to feel the sadness for a few minutes and let the Lord wash over me, my heart was lifted and the cravings evaporated. Subsequent days have shown the same pattern.

Here is the interesting thing. In acknowledging my sadness, joy has been more poignant than ever. In laying down my ability to protect myself, I’m feeling more protected than I’ve ever been. I’m learning to allow my heart to be heard, to meditate on what is good and true, to pay attention to the roads I’m taking and to invite the Lord to help me establish life-giving routes that will become my default. Because I’ve got new places to go and this time, they are places I want to be.

For a week and a half, our normally quiet existence was nowhere to be found (and, believe me, I looked!). We had volunteered to care for two boys, ages two and four, whose mom had just had surgery and was trying to secure housing. Caring for these sweet, wildly energetic kids who missed their mom like mad took everything I had to give. Actually, I ran out of everything I had to give before lunch most days and found, as I looked to God for grace with desperately pleading eyes, He strengthened me far beyond my own ability.

Chase, our four year old, was part of the reason we finally applied to be a host family, stating repeatedly this past year that he wanted to “babysit and protect kids who didn’t have moms or dads, or who were lost or needed help.” He prepared for the boys’ visit by filling their room with books and toys from his own collection. His generosity didn’t fail, as he continued to share everything he owned and enthusiastically entered into this alternate universe on Santa Clara Ave. Despite the tears that regularly occurred when the two four year olds got too competitive or when Chase just seemed fried by all the activity, he continued to say that he loved having playmates and wasn’t going to let us give them back. After all was said and done, he decided that next time we should choose a kid we can keep.

John also stepped up, coming home from a long day of work to a noisy house, a tired wife and plenty of work left to be done. He played outside with the boys as I cooked dinner, trying to keep bikes, scooters and a large electric Jeep from running down our one year old neighbor who wanted in on the action. He helped with cleanup and baths and jammies and teeth brushing, and gave me a strong dose of encouragement at the end of each day. The most heroic thing to me is that he is totally willing to do this again.

I learned two things during those 10 significant days. The first is that it’s infinitely easier to cry over the hurting children “out there” – or applaud the people helping them – than it is to step into their need with our own hands and hearts. The day-to-day experiences are less romantic and more taxing than I imagined. And yet they are so much better because they are raw and real and rewarding in a way imagination could never be.

The second is that love looks a lot like investing in people. Jesus tells us that where our treasure is, our hearts will be also. Pouring my treasures of time, energy and money into these boys attached my heart to them. I couldn’t help but bond, despite how difficult some of their behaviors proved to be. The greatest reward came as they began to trust me, first by learning my name (it took longer than you’d think!) and then by climbing into my lap for comfort and affection. I can honestly say I came to love them and earnestly care what happens to them.

It makes me think about God’s investment in us, which goes so much farther than we could ever realize. It’s not a rose-colored, romantic imagination, like someone loving us (or maybe just pitying us) from the sidelines, but a tedious, sometimes heartbreaking, daily (or hourly) expenditure of all the treasure in his storehouse. He even gave His most beloved treasure, His Son (which, as a mom, is unfathomable to me). He is bonded to us, no matter how bad our behaviors prove to be, because His heart is here – in us and with us. He will continue to enter into our mess with tangible proof of His love. The best thing we can give back is our trust… to first learn His name, then to curl up on His lap in the safety of His arms and press up against the warmth of His heart.

*We volunteered through a nonprofit called Safe Families for Children which supports families in crisis and works to keep kids out of foster care.

Someone made me mad last week. Hopping mad. Poor John walked through the door just as I was discovering the offense and received the hurricane force of my reaction. It was so strong, even I was taken aback. Despite my attempts to forgive a whole lot of past wrongs, there was clearly lingering resentment which allowed for a quick leap to judgment and justification for saying a whole lot of bad things about this person that I will spare your wholesome selves from hearing.

The next day, when I hopped into the car, I turned on a CD series on marriage I had been listening to in fits and starts for several weeks. In one of those moments of divine timing, the first words out of the speaker’s mouth were about forgiving people who have done you wrong. It was mostly stuff I know and practice, and I probably wouldn’t have listened so intently had I not been in such a vulnerable place, but then..…. he told me to pray for and bless this woman who has caused me so much grief. [I am very familiar with Luke 6:28 where Jesus says to bless those who curse you and pray for those who mistreat you, but I felt excluded based on the perceived persecuted-because-of-your-faith specificity. Except it doesn’t say that. So apparently it applies to me in a daily you-hurt-me kind of way after all.]

In that moment, as I was driving down the 55, it made perfect sense. The stance on forgiveness I usually take isn’t bad – letting go of each offense and trusting God’s ability to work it all together for good. It’s an important start, but it is fairly passive. To invest my words and time and heart for the good of someone who has mistreated me; well, that is an active assault on this ugly thing that binds me.

According to the speaker’s example, after a while of blessing his persecutor, the bitterness broke and he had genuine compassion and love for that person, which sounded very appealing to me. So I jumped into this blessing thing, a little awkwardly but with enthusiasm. Every time one of those resentful thoughts popped into my head, I started blessing my offender’s life, health, relationships, finances – you name it.  It was utterly empowering and felt so good to my angry heart. And the thing that was taken from me that inspired such anger in the first place? It was replaced from a totally different source in a surprising way; almost as if God were affirming that he would take care of me as I trust in him.

That in itself was life changing, but I was hit with another epiphany the following day as I made my bed. No one mistreats, curses or judges me more than I do. I no longer experience the depths of self hatred I used to (for which I am very grateful), but measuring myself with an unholy perfectionism continues to create a consistent awareness of and frustration over all the ways I fall short. I can easily get mad at various parts of myself – my body, my mind, my looks, my personality, my abilities – when they don’t function or look the way I think they should. It would not be a stretch to say there is bitterness in some areas, and a pretty perpetual fear of failing since the self-criticism can be so harsh.

It immediately became clear that while it is a good start to forgive myself for my failings and let God love me, I am to move into that active, empowering stance of blessing myself – all the parts of me in all their imperfections. Because God has made me worthy of kindness and his love has covered every shortcoming I will ever have. If he has deemed me acceptable because of the sacrifice of his Son, who am I to withhold love? So every time a critical thought or accusation pops into my head, I am countering it with a blessing. Not to disregard sin or pretend I’m perfect, but to extend the grace that was purchased for me so that I can come boldly before the throne without condemnation and see myself as I truly am – a beloved child of God.

It has been under a week since I have begun to practice this new exercise, but good Lord, I am already seeing transformation in the way I see those who have hurt me – both this woman and myself. I pray that I will be able to press on in the aggressive act of blessing until every tie to the old way of measuring, judging and woundedness has been severed. I hope that you will join me.