Good Friday

The day God died. This day, marked by suffering, pain and death, is called Good. How can it be good? Jesus, the sum of all the world’s hope, the perfect and spotless one, was tortured, betrayed, and crucified. Naked and humiliated, He cried out and bled. The most shameful death consumed the most blameless life.

Yet what would seem like the darkest defeat bears with it beauty and an ache that is undeniable. The cross is the most powerful display of love that the world has ever seen. Nothing and no one can surpass it. It fascinates me that the empty tomb is the symbol of victory, but the cross is still the symbol of love. Why does this story of sacrifice, pain, and suffering resonate with us so deeply? Why does the cross, and the story of the passion of Christ, lead people to tears all these thousands of years later? Why is it that in suffering we see love most clearly?

I was recently talking with a dear friend of mine about suffering. How we rail against it, we resist it, we pray to be spared of it - Jesus included.

He went on a little farther and bowed with his face to the ground, praying, “My Father! If it is possible, let this cup of suffering be taken away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.” Matthew 26:39 (NLT)

Jesus longed to have another way. This was a face-to-the-ground prayer. It wasn’t a trivial request - He was desperate. Like us, He wanted to find a way to victory without suffering. But He trusted the Father, and this was the path the Father chose. God suffered.

What strikes me is not just what Jesus purchased on the cross - our forgiveness & reconciliation to God, the freedom from the powers of darkness, and life that is never overcome by death. That is more than enough to inspire me to lay my life down for Him, but there is even more. Jesus touched suffering. Just like everything else He touched, He changed it. Somehow, He turns this bitter water into wine.

The cross does not remove all pain from our life, but Jesus’ presence & participation in suffering ushers in purpose. So now, when we suffer, we enter into communion with the One who suffered all.

 Surely he has borne our griefs

and carried our sorrows;

yet we esteemed him stricken,

smitten by God, and afflicted.

But he was pierced for our transgressions;

he was crushed for our iniquities;

upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,

and with his wounds we are healed.

Isaiah 53:4-5 (ESV)

This is why the darkest day in history was Good. The powers of evil thought they were winning, but as Paul says to the Corinthian church, if they’d only known God’s plan they never would have nailed the Lord of glory to the cross. Jesus took back ground. The enemy no longer owns pain, suffering, or death. God is restoring, redeeming, and repurposing even these. So whether you are experiencing suffering or victory, God is near. You are on Jesus’ territory. Love has won, and by faith in Christ’s work, it is Good.

Picking Up My Mat

Jesus healed my mind.

It's still hard for me to wrap my mind / heart / hope around. I've been contending with depression & anxiety for 13 years. It haunted and shamed me for my entire adult life. It cost me dearly, and was a formidable darkness. It wanted to destroy me and end my life. But with just one touch, one moment in worship, the Healer won my war.

Funny thing is, I wasn't even asking for healing. Oh, I have asked before, believe me. But in this moment, I just wanted Him. His sweet, overpowering, gentle, heavenly presence. I wanted to see His face, touch His heart. There's nothing and no one like Jesus. He's everything. Full stop.

Then He just healed me. Not because I did the correct 15 step process. Not because I earned it. Not because I finally learned the lesson. Just because He loves me. Just because it's what He wanted for me and I was positioned so closely to Him that I received it.

Now what?

Now I pick up my mat and go. Now I tell people about the power and beauty of Jesus. He still heals, still saves, still moves. My mat reminds me of where I was, and what He brought me out of. It also requires that I move out of my old habits and even the comforts of identifying with this disease.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit terrified. This public announcement of the most vulnerable parts of my being is a big step. For days I've been battling this fear that if I move wrong, think wrong, I might "lose" it. What if I got it wrong? What if this is just a break from the torture, not full healing? What if, what if, what if.....

Enough! My faith is in JESUS, not in my ability to "stay healed". HE is the author and perfecter of my faith, and I'm going to obey Him when He asks me to share my story. My life is His, and I trust Him to sustain me on every mountain and in every valley.

Our world is in the largest mental health crisis in history. God cares. God has answers. He has gifted us with medicine and treatment and I encourage anyone suffering to get *every* kind of help at their disposal. But I'm living proof that God's heart isn't just to alleviate symptoms. Jesus came to DESTROY the works of the devil. It was His delight to crush the depression that held my mind captive, and I haven't felt so much peace or joy since I was a girl. I'm here to proclaim hope to someone trapped in their head - keep praising. Your prison walls are shaking and they will come down. God is for you.

From start to finish, my life will be a testimony of God's goodness and faithfulness. Every dark and evil thing that has come against me has to bow at the mighty, holy name of Jesus. In every moment of suffering, He has been present. In every temptation, He has offered a way out. In every loss, He has redeemed and restored. Nothing is wasted. No tear, no prayer, no ounce of faith. Like the woman who poured out her perfume and tears, I want to be fully spent on Jesus. Every gift, every beautiful thing in me. And every ache, every disappointment, every broken thing in me. Jesus, you can have it all. All the glory, honor and praise is Yours, in heaven and on earth! You are so GOOD!

Grace Street

It's funny how a place - inanimate, silent, objective - can feel like a partner in my memory. The Grace Street house saw so much.

The week we moved in, I felt a peace there, a warmth. It didn't match the temperature of my marriage - I knew something was wrong with that. But I was certain that as we settled into a new season, all would be made right. This house felt like it could become home.

As I unpacked the boxes, the lies started to unpack as well. Those walls heard months of two voices, mostly mine. Unanswered questions, pleadings for connection, appeals for honesty, met with paltry deference at best, silence at worst.

“What's wrong? Why won't you look me in the eyes? What can I do? Who is texting you? Where are you going? Why were you gone all night?”

The truth came, and my foundation cracked. The Grace Street house stood steady.

The walls heard my wailing, now. Choked sobs of a young mother desperate for air. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The Grace Street house hosted my own personal hell, as I stared for hours at her ceilings, sobbed into her floors. She held no answers, but she held firm. Women streamed in and out of her doors. Meals, gifts, listening ears, comforting arms. A flood of sisters stood between me and despair.

Those next months were a lifetime. As the trauma gave way to grief, I was both soft and strong. My veneer stripped away, the Grace Street house got to see me. The real me. Tear washed, clear eyed, grace filled me. I suffered honestly, deep diving into the pain that occupied the place love once held in my heart. The Grace Street house watched me repack boxes of his things, as I sorted through years of memory and family, trying to make sense of what was his, what was mine. I had thought it was all ours.

My babies, oh my babies! Their wonder and perfection and innocence filled those rooms just as much as my anguish. We started to find a rhythm. The Grace Street house witnessed daily miracles as I found the strength to tickle them every day to make them laugh, to feed and bathe and read and rock them to sleep when they were with me. She saw my tears when my arms ached to hold them on nights they were gone.

That house surrounded me in moments of breakthrough. I found deeper faith. A love that lets go and forgives. A confidence that no matter what is done *to* me, I choose what comes *through* me, and I chose Jesus. The Grace Street house probably got saved, hearing me pray to such a sweet savior. I devoured the Word, immersed myself in worship. My life was held up moment by moment, crying out to the One who never left me. As He walked with me through the fire, I never felt more at home. Every time I turned onto our road and saw that street sign, I was reminded about His grace that never lets me go. One of my best friends, named Grace, lived a few houses down the road. Our boys would play together and she would listen and listen. Grace upon Grace, hemmed me in on all sides.

The Grace Street house echoed the first songs I had written in a decade. Healing washed over me as I poured out my heart, playing that out of tune old piano. The songs started to change from goodbye to longing for the next.

As I healed and strengthened and steadied, that house heard me laugh again. She started buzzing with more activity. Friends and church family and band mates came and went. My sister & her family of 6 moved in with us for a few months after their time in Canada, and we started to look for a bigger house. Not everything was about the divorce anymore. I got a second job and began to think about what was next for me. The mirrors in the house witnessed as I got all dolled up for my first date as a single mom. I bet she saw the light in my eyes - I knew I was a catch.

In God's amazing timing, I met Severin. As I reflect on my time in that home, I am so grateful that we started building our love while I was still there. The same walls that saw my life fall apart, saw it come back together. I already felt whole when I met him, but it didn't take long to see that God would make us stronger together than we'd ever been apart. The place where I have some of my most bitter memories is also the place where I have some of the sweetest.

Echos of God's grace followed me through years and miles and memories. The birth of my daughter, whose middle name is Grace, was another signpost of God's goodness. Unmerited favor, woven in and out of every season. I used to live in a house on Grace, and now a little firecracker bearing that name runs through the halls of this new home.

It's been years since I've seen that house, but I pray that whoever lives in that cute little bungalow on Grace Street is wrapped up in the same Grace that has followed me my whole life long.