This month is a month of one-year anniversaries for us. One year since I felt like my world fell apart. One year since I started walking through this dark providence. One year since God rescued me. One year since we experienced our quick and traumatic move to America. One year since saying good-bye to dear friends. One year of being a single mom. I have cried more during this past year than I ever thought possible. But I was thinking recently, that rather than marking my days of sorrow, I should rather mark them under God's grace. Afterall, I have one year of seeing God's faithfulness. One year of the comfort of the Holy Spirit being poured out in ways I had never known were possible before. I have more than 365 mornings that God has literally lifted me out of bed and set me on my feet. He has pushed me through every day, seen every tear, provided for every single need, given me every ounce of strength needed. And not only that, he has given us a measure of healing. Restored some joy. We have seen, especially in the last month or so, the sun start to peek out again. He has allowed my trauma brain fog to be lifted and a measure of restored hope that I will indeed "look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living." (Psalm 27) I've come to the conclusion that marking God's time is more beneficial than marking my own days of sorrow. It encourages me keep the eyes of faith which see God and say, "He is enough." This picture is from the Entebbe airport parking lot. The big kids and I were struggling with a broken suitcase and weighing the luggage. And in that moment, the littles were struggling with broken hearts and the weight of all that was happening. But when I looked over at them, I knew that one day they'd be okay because in their own personal desperation, they had dug out their Bibles from their backpacks and were soaking in the Psalms while they sat waiting for us to finish.
One year later, I can say that God has never failed us. No, not once. The pain has been intense, but so has his love. I have one more big day that is coming that I'm still struggling to see my way through: May 27 --what would have been my 20th wedding anniversary. I'm asking that you please pray for strength to walk through it, that I'll keep my eyes on Christ, and that God will wrap his arms around me on that day, just as he has done so many times this past year. I have also seen this past year how he has continually used the prayers and love of his people to minister to my heart and this upcoming day just feels like a big one right now that I need a lot of prayer for. So thank you! "The Lord is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth. He fulfills the desire of those who fear him, he also hears their cry and saves him." Psalm 145:18-19.
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Ellizabeth Elliot once said, "In acceptance lieth peace." I've been pondering that quote lately. Aren't we all on a constant quest for more peace? Trauma brings continual temptations to freeze-up, run away or fight. The quest for peace can feel nearly impossible at times. Because really, how does one begin to accept the unacceptable? The sin, the shame, the pain: no one of God's daughters should ever have to face that. But here I am. Whether I like it or not, the unacceptable came. As I've pondered what it means to accept, I've come across three truths. I need to accept the dark providence that God has brought. The unacceptable is a whole lot easier to accept when I acknowledge that it too, is from the hand of God. God's sovereignty runs deep. Everything is completely under his control...the good, the bad, and the ugly. If I say that this trial is not from God, then God has no power to stop it and if God has no power to stop it, then God ceases to be God. If I'm on a quest for peace, that would be a complete dead end. So, I trust the loving hand of my father God and accept what he has brought. I may not ever understand it on this side of eternity, but God's sovereignty, even in dark providences, remains a soft pillow to lay my weary head on. I need to accept the instability that continues. Trauma brings so much instability. Life becomes completely unpredictable. That instability can last a very long time. Instability piled on pain can feel like constant tectonic tremors that leave you expecting another big earthquake. And you constantly have in the back of your head the question of whether or not you'd actually survive the next big one. I'm a gal that really likes my day in and day out routine. But that is clearly not the kind of life God has called me to for this season. I continue to press in to the instability, accept it and try to roll with it, knowing I'm gripped by God's grace. I need to accept the time to rest in the particularly close shelter of the Most High. There were times in Uganda where I would take a boda (motorcycle taxi) to town, only to get caught out in a true African down pour. When it rains in Uganda, everyone immediately takes shelter and waits it out. The Ugandans are usually all chill under the shelters, laughing and talking and enjoying themselves, no thought given to the time. But inevitably my American self would be pacing on the inside: ready for the rain to stop so that I could go about and do what I wanted to get done. And as the rain slowed to a drizzle, I may or may not have, on more than one occassion, tried to convince a boda driver to get going: "oh Sebo, the rain is only small, small. Please, can we go?" (and I was usually responded to with, "oh mama, the rain is still falling" or a request for a higher fare. haha!) I was thankful for the shelter, but I was ready to get on with life. And so it is now. I am in a particularly close shelter. When a Christian goes through a deep trial, God pulls her in more than normal. As Christians, we always abide in God's shelter. But during such raging storms? The shelter becomes particular and full. This is God's grace to suffering believers. And I am so thankful to be in God's close shelter because I know I'm safe, cared for, and loved, but at the same time part of me still fights back: I don't want to be in this shelter because it means the rain is still falling and the war is still raging and hurt still comes. Acceptance means being content with the storms raging and letting God keep me in his close shelter for as long he wants. I'm learning to accept this season and the grace that it brings. So there it is. Three things to accept when the unacceptable comes: dark providences, instability and the continuing need to stay in God's close shelter. Rather than freezing, fleeing or fighting while experiencing trauma, we can focus on what we can accept. Then even the painful stories can become more fully a part of the one Great Story and we can find peace to rest in. These were Benaiah's ducklings in Uganda who reminded us, while we watched them grow, to rest deeply in God's care. Despite all the threats to their fluffy little lives from dogs, cats, snakes and rats, they waddled around without a care in the world.
Some mornings I still wake up angry. I never quite know how much is righteous and how much isn't, so I prefer to put it all to death through prayer. I continually pray for protection from bitterness settling in as a squatter. I don't want to wake up five years from now and have bitterness claiming squatters rights in my heart, so I aim to push him out every time I see him. This morning these unwelcomed guests came rolling in with full force.
"How can one man make choices knowing how profoundly they would detroy the one he claimed to love?" Bitterness tries to lay a rough blanket down. Anger sets his luggage in the corner. "Oh God, he's destroyed my life." "No," speaks the tender Father, as he picks up the blanket and luggage to push them back out. "Only I have that power. No man does." "But I don't like this story! It's awful!" "It's not a story, it's merely a chapter" He reminds me, as the soft, tender comfort of the Holy Spirit is spread out on the table with his beautiful china and soothing tea. "Your story isn't finished. This chapter is a dark and terrible one, but it won't define the book. I'm the one writing the book. I'm the one that writes the ending. I'm the one that decides what kind of story this is. Only I have that power. It's not his to take. Trust me." And so, in the light of His power, Bitterness gets up to leave and takes Anger with him. I am suddenly once more aware of another familiar guest at the table. It is Grief. But Grief will remain as a welcome guest at the Holy Spirit's table until she decides on her own to leave. I know that she won't claim squatters rights. While she will probably stay for a few more nights, one morning I'll wake up and at her place will be joy. The story maker has promised. "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." Psalm 30:5 |
Behold, I am doing a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. Isaiah 43:19 Archives
August 2020
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