There is fear.
There is hurt.
There is loss.
Even so,
We are not
Left alone.
There is faith.
There is hope.
There is love.
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Provision
Love
Quiet Time
Do You Love Me?
Despite his good intentions, promises,
And passion, Peter three times failed his Lord,
And though his doubts were not like Thomas’s,
He fled at costs he thought he could afford.
Back to the boats, the nets, the fish, the sea.
He’d tried another life, sought something more,
And made a wreck of it. Could there still be
A place among the faithful? Then from shore,
A voice familiar called, harkening back
To early days of hope and ignorance.
He asked of the supply and knew the lack,
But then he spoke, and all was providence,
For his is love no shame can e’er efface
That meets great sin with more abundant grace.
Photo by Dave Herring on Unsplash
Write
Good work is born of disciplined desire
And quiet moments staring at the page
With pen in hand, slow, stoking, till the fire
Begins to burn more steadily. The wage
Is for the workman. Work, then, holding fast
Through highs and lows of labor. There is fruit
That will outlive this age. The truth will last.
The sower’s scattered seed is taking root.
So start the process. Tell the story. Write,
And keep on writing till the final rest,
For though your work seems but a meager light
With meager warmth, yet souls will call it blessed
For helping to sustain them on their way
Through this long night to never-ending day.
Photo by Artem Maltsev on Unsplash
Day 6: A Time For Everything
When my thoughts were all
gum on my shoe-bottoms,
tripwires, and
straitjackets,
my decisions were all
running away,
confused striving, and
well-intended wounds.
Too few of my steps were right,
and I was left
at a loss for direction.
But every misguided misstep,
every freezing fear, and
every burned bridge
became a step toward
truth,
life,
and love,
and I see now
you are sovereign over time
even when I can’t tell it.
Photo by Simon Godfrey on Unsplash
Reconciliation
In fear, we burn down bridges, build up walls.
We work against the good that you intend.
Yet you account for failures, fights, and falls
And bring good anyway, and you can mend
Our rent relationships and broken hearts,
Redeeming what was ruined by these hands.
We shatter graces, scatter all the parts;
You hold all things together in your plans.
Lord, you give purpose even to our pain.
The love we tear asunder, you renew.
You see the growth to come from all the rain,
And you sustain us till we see it too,
Till chosen exile ends in holy rest
And dispossession’s fin’lly dispossessed.
Photo by Aleksandra Sapozhnikova on Unsplash
Talent
Talent is a strange thing. And if you desire to steward your talent well for the service of God and his kingdom, your relationship with it may be a bit tricky.
First, it’s difficult to affirm your own talents without feeling like you’re being arrogant. Maybe that’s just me, but even the simple statement, “I have a talent for writing” feels weird to type. I immediately fear that someone will read these words and will assume I’m attempting to draw attention to myself or am trying to make a name for myself. I don’t ever want to be the guy who loves the sound of his own voice or who takes every opportunity to talk about the work he’s doing. In the attempt to avoid arrogance, I tend to swing the pendulum so far in the other direction that I end up in the opposite extreme of downplaying or downright ignoring what the Lord has given me to steward. But if the Lord has given you a talent, then I think he intends for you to use it, and that means accepting the reality that you are talented. I think part of using your gifts for the glory of God means embracing their existence, and that means having a healthy pride in the work you do.
Second, talent requires effort. While inspiration can, and does, foster times of excitement in the work, inspiration alone won’t sustain you in the work. This isn’t novel, as many others have pointed this out, but I’ve come to understand this more clearly through my own life and work. I used to write an essay and a poem just about every week. A wise man gave me some writing advice in the early days of my blog, and one of the pieces of advice that stuck with me was his encouragement to stick to a consistent schedule. As I kept a consistent writing schedule, I grew in a number of ways, and I saw the Lord use my work in the lives of others. Much good came from that discipline. But inspiration wasn’t always present. Sometimes it struck at the right place and time, and I enjoyed a period of writing under its influence. But sometimes the schedule simply called for the work to be done, and I had to write whether I felt inspired or not. And as I did, I found what others have found before me: inspiration often follows a disciplined effort. I believe the Lord used my work in that season in some neat ways. And while I’ve seen him at work in this present season, I’ve also felt led by him to do more than I’ve been doing. In this season, I don’t keep a writing schedule, so I’m not writing as much I used to. And I miss it. The act of writing is a spiritual discipline of sorts for me, so when I don’t write, I don’t just keep my talents from those I could be serving; I keep myself from a blessing as well. And effort is part of the process.
Third, your talent is more than just a hobby. I used to think of writing as a hobby: something I enjoy doing that may or may not be enjoyed by others. When I thought of it, I didn’t necessarily see it as anything more than a personal interest. But over time, I began to see that writing was a kind of ministry, perhaps one that the Lord had equipped me to do. So I started working at it, pursuing growth in the craft. And as I did, I saw how God used my work to bless others. I still struggle to accept this reality for myself (see my first point above), but I readily see it when I look at the talents of others. The songs and stories of Andrew Peterson, the music of The Arcadian Wild, the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, the essays of C. S. Lewis, the tales of J. R. R. Tolkien — all of these have brought comfort, encouragement, joy, and wonder to my life. I have been helped by the talents of others, and I have seen the Lord use their works to minister to me. And while I don’t presume to place myself on the same level as these artists, I do recognize the opportunity to participate, in some smaller measure, in the same work, in using the talents God has given me to create things that he may then use in the lives of others. Your talent may not be only for you.
In a way, all of this boils down to one word: faithfulness. To be faithful with my talents means to see what God has enabled me to do and to affirm it as good. One podcast I listened to focused specifically on this idea, and for good reason (look up the Call It Good podcast by Matt Conner). I can’t steward well what I deny exists. But affirming one’s talent as a good thing is only step one. To be faithful with my talents means I must work at them. I must put in the time and effort required to hone my craft, to grow in my abilities, and to produce works that are good, beautiful, and true. Rather than waiting for inspiration to strike, I must strike first, in faith that God can bless my faithfulness regardless of whether I initially feel inspired in the act of creating. And finally, to be faithful with my talents means seeing them as gifts not just for me but for others. My writing is one way that I love the Lord my God with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength and love my neighbor as myself. This means I should be careful before I ignore my talent. Again, if God has given me something, I think he wants me to use it. And if that’s true, then I should probably be slow to stop working.
What about you? What talents do you possess? What has God given you to steward in this life? And what can you do with it this week?
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Mercy, Grace, and Love
I have known hope and known despair,
The warming and the chilling air,
And I have found that you are there
With mercy, grace, and love.
I have succeeded and have failed,
Have waited patiently, have railed
‘Gainst you, who held me e’en when veiled,
With mercy, grace, and love.
I’ve witnessed victory and loss,
The finest paint, the cheapest gloss,
And o’er it all still stands the cross
In mercy, grace, and love.
So should my path lead up or down,
To unknown name or world renown,
Remind me that you wear the crown
With mercy, grace, and love.
Photo by Hillie Chan on Unsplash
Truth is not so broken
My mind disfigured your face in my mind,
Painted piercing eyes, uncompassionate,
Shaming, in place of those you said I’d find.
My view of you and you were disparate
Persons, known too well and not well enough.
“You” imposed a self-imposed prison cell,
Held hopeless standards, always called my bluff.
I was always guilty, not free, unwell.
Thus I assumed from this false gospel, lie
Of law’s freedom. Truth is not so broken.
You are love. Your yoke brings rest, peace, a sigh
Of relief, rooted in words you’ve spoken:
“I have overcome the world.” Now I see
Your overcoming work extends to me.
Photo by Jaleel Akbash on Unsplash
Sovereign Over OCD: Some Lessons Learned
OCD, or Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, is an anxiety disorder that affects my thoughts and actions and that attaches to what I care about. Scrupulosity, as I mentioned in part one, is a religious form of OCD. In my experience, OCD most often latched onto my relationships. I noticed it in romantic relationships as it convinced me God didn’t want me to date the people I wanted to date. I noticed it in my friendships as it convinced me God wanted me to step away from certain people or to cancel certain plans. I noticed it in my approach to community as it convinced me I needed to confess my thoughts and attitudes to anyone I might have wronged by those thoughts and attitudes. I noticed it in my work as it told me I needed to turn down jobs, stop writing, and pass on opportunities to get experience in my field. In each case, I thought I was being tested like Abraham was. I thought God was testing my faith by asking me to give up good things and trust him, to die to myself and be sanctified. And in my head, it checked out. If I was feeling conviction and if the Lord was giving me directions regarding which steps to take in response to that conviction, then I didn’t need to understand it or like it, I just needed to trust and obey.
Initially, questioning my thoughts and feelings felt sinful. I genuinely believed I was pushing back against God’s work by looking into OCD. But as my friend explained more of what OCD is and how it can show up, my experiences began to make sense. Where I thought God was convicting me, I began to recognize anxiety. Where I thought God was directing me, I began to recognize intrusive thoughts and some bad theology. Where I’d struggled to see any fruit from the steps I was taking, I could now see why: God wasn’t actually the one behind these directions. I thought my problem was spiritual, but it turned out to be biological. And because it was biological, I began to hope. Maybe God hadn’t been closing doors all these years; maybe it was me all along. And maybe, in time, some of those doors could be opened again.
Where was God in all of this? If he wasn’t the one leading me to take all these uncomfortable steps, why did he allow it go on for so long, especially when it caused so much hurt for me and for others? Admittedly, while I know the answer to the first question (he was here all along), I don’t fully know the answer to the second question. But I believe he is sovereign, even over my OCD and over the timing of this season, and I believe he allowed me to wander, to wrestle, and to fall how and when I did. And I believe the season wasn’t wasted.
So what’s my proof this season wasn’t wasted? What did God do in this time, and what has he been doing since? More than I know. But here are a few things I think I can discern.
God taught me that I can be okay in silence and solitude. While the reasons for withdrawing from people weren’t healthy, the lesson learned there was needed. For years, I’d grown used to busyness. I thought I knew how to rest, but really I was only ceasing from my normal work to engage in recreation. As I felt compelled to step away from friends and family and to just be by myself with the Lord, I found that God was present there and that I could find rest apart from the things I used to distract myself with.
God taught me that his provision doesn’t depend on my effort. I backed out of job opportunities, turned down classes where I could get teaching experience, stopped using my talents, stepped away from friendships, rejected someone I wanted to pursue a relationship with, and initiated conversations that could have created further division and discomfort. In spite of all of this, the Lord has provided for me. He’s given me friends who were faithful even when I was difficult. He’s given me teaching opportunities even when I thought the doors might not open again. He’s sustained me. He’s restored friendships and opportunities I was afraid were lost. As I’ve begun to work through this season and to explore how my mind and heart work, I’ve been met with an immense amount of grace. God’s proven himself faithful and good over and over again, providing for my needs and giving good gifts along the way.
God’s showed me that he cares about my desires in a way I didn’t know was possible. I’d heard Psalm 37:4 before: “Delight yourself in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” I always read that verse as if it came with an asterisk, though. Sure, it was true. It’s the word of God, after all. But I didn’t really believe it was true for me. Or at least not in this season. My desires to write, to teach, to pursue a relationship, to talk to my friends—each of these desires seemed to be required of me at some point in my experience. I could affirm that they were good things, that they weren’t sinful things, that they could glorify God. But I believed God had called me to give them up. As I worked with a mentor, I realized I had a misunderstanding of self-sacrifice. I was “dying to the wrong things,” to quote Peter Scazzero (read Emotionally Healthy Spirituality for more on this idea). And as I began to grow in my understanding of God’s goodness, I began to take steps back toward those things I’d left behind, and I watched God restore the things I’d laid aside and lost. He has granted the desires of my heart, and he continues to do so, drawing me ever deeper into gratitude and delight in him.
God taught me to think differently about faith and sovereignty. I used to think walking by faith meant getting clear directions from God and then following those directions in spite of what you saw or felt or thought. I’m learning, however, that walking by faith is more like exercising wisdom and trusting God with the unknowns of life. It’s not necessarily about receiving some specific divine guidance as much as learning to walk in faith that he’s at work in and around you, guiding your steps as you seek to honor him in your decisions and redeeming your mistakes when you misstep or fail. Similarly, I used to think of sovereignty as more of a conceptual thing related to decisions and directions and wills. I’m learning that sovereignty encompasses everything, our good decisions and our bad, our joyful seasons and our seasons of suffering. The “all things” in Romans 8:28 really does mean all things, even those things that feel so beyond our control.
In short, this journey has been one of adjustments, some major and some minor. I’m rethinking my assumptions, examining my thoughts and feelings, and pursuing growth on many fronts, and I think I’m finding some success. I’m new to all of this. I’m very much still learning how to walk. But I’m seeing fruit in this season that I believe has grown from the soil of difficult seasons. I’m seeing God at work, and I’m finding peace and joy as I try to join him in that work. I’m making progress, by his grace, and learning to trust in his sovereign care for me.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
as i learn to walk 