Redeemed

Sunday, November 23^rd, 2014

       Lash! Lash! Lash!  Torn skin.  Throbbing back.  Cruel voices screaming.  “You’re worthless!  Worthless!  Nothing!  Worthless, I say!”  Lash, after terrible lash of the whip.  Pain. So much pain even the tears cannot come.  But worse than the pain is the shame.  Over and over the words come:  Worthless.  Worthless.  Worthless.... 

        Forcing her mind to work and her eyes open, the young slave girl woke herself out of her vivid nightmare.  It was enough that she had to endure such abuse during her waking hours; must she live through it again each night?  She lay quietly on the straw-covered floor serving as a bed, staring into the nothingness, willing her eyes to stay open.  Better a sleepless night than another foul dream, reminding her of her worthlessness. 

         “Where is she?”  

         The words spoken so softly caught the girl’s attention faster than the usual harsh tones ever had.  It came from outside her cabin.  She wondered if perhaps she had fallen asleep and was dreaming again.  Never had she heard such a gentle voice.  Suddenly she heard footsteps just outside.  She quickly stood to her feet and brushed away pieces of straw that insisted on clinging to her woolen skirt. 

          The door opened and light streamed in.  The girl bit her lip.  Surely she had slept far too late and was about to be punished.  Two men entered.  She shivered when she saw the outline of the first man against the doorway…a figure she knew all too well.  Her master.  Without even bothering to glance at the second figure she dropped to her knees and bent her chin to the ground. 

           “Do as you will,” she said through gritted teeth, “I have no excuse for my slothfulness.” 

           A mocking laugh followed her comment, and then with a sneer, “See what you are getting?  A worthless nothing…can’t even make herself get out of bed in the morning.”  

            It was her master who spoke.  But what could he mean? 

            She lowered her head, expecting a blow, but instead she felt someone kneel in the hay before her and take her hand.  The figure stood and pulled her to her feet, refusing to let go his firm but gentle grip on her hand.  When, in confusion, her eyes remained fixed to the floor, she felt his other hand lightly touch her chin and raise her head.  Her frightened eyes met eyes so filled with love and kindness they brought tears to her own. 

              Paying no attention to her leering master this man spoke directly to her.  “I have paid the required price, my child.  You are Mine once again.” 

              “Again, sir?  I have been a worthless slave here all my life…,” the girl replied.

                “Again, my worthy child.  You were mine from the beginning.  This man has no claim on you.  Come.  Come with me.  With me you will find rest.  My yoke is easy and my burden is light.” 

                 Every second she was under this man’s gaze the girl felt more and more wonderful.  She felt special.  She felt loved.  But as soon as these feelings began to surface, doubts arose.  She was not special.  She was not loved.  She was worthless.  Nothing.  This man was confused.  He must mean someone else.  The feelings of shame and insignificance returned in a flood.  The girl could not turn her head or pull her hand away, so she lowered her eyes.  She could no longer endure such a tender gaze. 

                   “My child – do you not see?  I have paid the required price.  You are worthy, to me.  That is all that matters.  You are what matters.  Come unlearn the lies with which this false master has filled your heart.  Come hear the truth.  Know that you are loved.  You have been redeemed.” 

                    Suddenly she understood.  Her eyes met His again, this time with confidence.  She was His.  She was loved.  She was redeemed.

 

_________________________________________________

 

Exodus 15:13

In your unfailing love you will lead the people you have redeemed.

In your strength you will guide them to your holy dwelling.

 

                     Though not an exact metaphor, the above story is what came to me as I meditated on the truth that Jesus has redeemed us.  Jesus has redeemed me.  Lost, worthless, undeserving, He chose to come to this imperfect world and give His very own life for me.  He accepts me as I am, yes, but He doesn’t just accept me.  He bought me with His own blood.  He loves me too much to leave me the way He found me.  He picked me up out of the mud, cleansed me, and gave me a reason to hope.  Each new day He gives me a reason not to return to the mud.  If that is not enough motivation to praise Him, what is?

 

 Every day I wrestle with the voices
That keep telling me I’m not right
But that’s alright…

‘Cause I hear a voice and He calls me redeemed
When others say I’ll never be enough…

Bring your doubts
Bring your fears
Bring your hurt Bring your tears

There’ll be no condemnation here
You are holy, righteous and redeemed.

 “Greater” – Mercy Me

Accepted

Monday, October 20^th, 2014

         I stalled and stalled before writing this one.  This is a lesson I am definitely still learning, and not too keen on sharing…not yet.  You see, there’s something in me that longs to feel accepted, but there’s something else in me that is constantly fighting against that longing…something that doesn’t want to be accepted.  Something that cringes at the very thought.  Sounds crazy, huh?  After all, what sane person would not want to be accepted? 

          Well (though I’m sure my sanity could be a matter of debate), I finally admitted to myself what is causing this battle and, unfortunately, found that I am the problem.  You see, I have a very difficult time accepting myself.  In case you are wondering why, let me explain.  For starters, I have a few pretty quirky habits, most of which can chalked up to a slight obsessive-compulsive tendency.  Like when I walk into a room and immediately notice every slightly opened drawer, door, cupboard, and container – even when it’s not my own house.  And then I sit there, fingers twitching, until everyone is out of the room and I can go shut them all. 

           Once I told Kelsey, in trying to explain the meaning of “O.C.D.” that if anyone ever moved something that I had put on my desk or dresser – even if it was only a few inches from its original position – it was the first thing I would notice when I walked into the room.  Well, of course, curious seven-year-old that she was at the time, she couldn’t resist testing out this theory.  Though she did wait a few weeks, to be sure I’d forgotten our conversation.  And, as I’d promised, to my shame, the book she’d moved was the very first thing I saw when I entered the room.

            Those are just a couple of examples to add to my list of my more serious issues, like saying the wrong thing at the wrong time – way too often, not saying anything when I should have spoken up, never seeming to learn my lessons the first time, and I could go on.  But I won’t.  I have a hard enough time accepting myself…I don’t want to convince all of my readers in that direction as well!  J

             Also, this blog entry isn’t about me.  It’s about how, no matter how difficult it is for me to accept myself, no matter who else accepts or doesn’t accept me, no matter who I am or what I do or don’t do, my God accepts me.  He accepts me, not in spite of, but along with all of my quirky habits and faults and even outright sins.  You see, that’s why I didn’t want to write this entry.  That’s why I stalled and stalled.  Now the truth is out.  If my God, the Creator of the universe and Savior of the world, accepts me for who I am, who am I to stand against Him?  Who do I think I am, not accepting myself?  I have no reason, no right, to not accept a person God sees as Blessed, Chosen, Adopted, and Accepted.  And so...since now all of you share in this knowledge, too…I can’t really keep up the fight anymore…I guess this is one lesson I must, finally, after the hundred and third class, learn.

Adopted

      Friday, September 12, 2014 

      I am a pure-blooded American, by which I mean that I’m a healthy mix of Scotch-Irish, Italian, Dutch, French, and English.  I was born and bred in the heart of the United States, the Midwest.  Others may argue that the heart of the United States of America is found in its cities, such as New York, Chicago, or Boston, but I hold that somewhere among the “amber waves of grain”, fields of corn and soybeans, and flat stretches of highway for miles upon miles; somewhere in the people of small towns and farm families is the true heart of my country, what it was founded on.  I know my country is not perfect, by any means, but I have always loved it and been proud of its history and the freedom I have as one of its citizens.

      I remember discussions I used to have with my friends in grade school and junior high – we asked each other questions like, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?” and “If you could have been born anywhere else, where would you choose?”  I hated questions like these, because I always felt like my answers were so lame.  Because, if I could choose, I wouldn’t live anywhere else.  Sure, I might visit some exciting, romantic place like Italy or Ireland, but live there?  Been born there?  No way.  I’d take my country home, cow pastures and corn fields, small-town life, over those places any day. 

       I’ve always been proud of my family heritage, as well.  Every time my parents or aunts and uncles tell stories about their childhoods I am all ears.  I wish I could just curl up on the floor at their feet and listen to them talk all day long.  My dad’s side of the family is Italian, and proud of it.  My ancestors even came over from Italy on the boat through Ellis Island, New York!  I felt like I was living right in the middle of ancient history when I heard about that.  I loved it when my dad talked about growing up calling everyone “Aunt” and “Uncle” even if they weren’t blood-relatives.  His life as a kid sounded straight out of a book.  My mom’s family is where the Scotch-Irish comes from.  They were all about tradition and faith.  They even started their own town in northern Illinois to keep everyone together, following the same rules and living the same lifestyle.

         I loved my heritage, I loved my nationality, and I loved my home.  But then I began hearing in church and Sunday School about God’s chosen people, the Israelites.  I knew I was a Christian, and that God had chosen me and loved me, but to be a part of His chosen nation?!  Now that was a heritage.  I began telling people that if I ever wanted to be anyone else with any other history, I wanted to be an Israelite.  I was still proud of my own family and origin, but it was my dream to have been one of them. 

          So when I first heard a lesson on Romans 8:14-17 I was so ecstatic I could hardly breathe.  I was one of them.  I was.  Not by blood, no, but through adoption nonetheless.  I was adopted by God.  I was His chosen child, one of His chosen people.  A fellow heir with Christ.  I could hardly believe that my dream had already come true, and I hadn’t even known it.  I’ve always loved the idea of adoption and greatly admired those who are courageous enough to take part in it.  But I couldn’t ever understand being on the other side…being the one waiting to be adopted.  Wanting to be chosen.  And then the joy that comes when the adoption process is finalized, and they finally belong.  Though I will never fully comprehend that, feeling a desire to be part of another heritage has helped me come a little closer to understanding, and putting myself in the shoes of such children.  Adopted.  I am not only BLESSED and CHOSEN; I am ADOPTED. Adopted into God’s family, God’s heritage, God’s people.

“He predestined us to adoption as sons through Jesus Christ to Himself, according to the kind intention of His will, to the praise and glory of His grace, which He freely bestowed on us in the Beloved.”

Ephesians 1:5

Chosen

     Tuesday, August 12th, 2014

      Remember when you were a kid, standing in a line, back to the wall, as you waited for one of the team captains to pick you?  Dodgeball, tag, capture the flag; no matter the game, that wait was always the worst part.  Nervous sweat running down your face, hands clammy, stomach churning in turmoil.  Names being called, kids leaving the line on both sides...would you be picked?  Would you be the last one standing there?  Did anyone even want you on their team?  Your breaths came faster as you started to panic.  Then finally, you heard your name.  Relief flooded over you, nearly weakening your legs to incapacitation.  Somebody wanted you.  You had been chosen.

       Though I was always one of those whose turn to be picked varied (sometimes I was first, sometimes I was last), I know that feeling well.  That feeling of relief, joy, and pride that washes over you when you know someone wants you after all.  Someone thinks you are worth choosing.  It is also the feeling I get when I read the following passage:

"'You are my witnesses,' declares the Lord, 'and my servant

whom I have chosen, so that you may know and

believe Me and understand that I am He.'"

Isaiah 43:10

 

        This isn't just talking about a game of tag.  This is the God of the universe speaking, and He has chosen me to be on His team.  Lil' ol' me.  Just as the knowledge that I am blessed humbles me, this truth uplifts me and gives my life meaning.  If I ever again wonder what I'm doing here and why in the world God ever chose me, the answer is right there.  He chose me so that I may know and believe Him.  So that I may understand who He is.  If I am working toward that goal, as His chosen one, nothing else matters.  He has chosen me.  I will choose Him.

 

"The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; You hold my lot."

Psalm 16:5

 

 

 

*If this is your first time reading my blog, you may wonder what in the world this entry has to do with Haiti.  Though I am currently in the U.S.A., planning to go back to Haiti soon, I have felt God leading me to share some of the things He has been teaching me in the last few months.  Most of them might not necessarily have a "Haiti focus" but they are truths that God has used in my life to better equip me for serving in Haiti and wherever else He will call me.  Please read my entry titled "I Am Who God Says I Am" for further explanation.  If you want to read about my adventures in Haiti, please enjoy reading my older entries (beginning in 2009).

Blessed

Friday, August 1, 2014

 

 

"I will sing to the Lord, because He has dealt bountifully with me."      Psalm 13:6

 

 

     A while back I read this verse, and it became more of a challenge for me than a praise.  In fact, my immediate response shocked me.  My first inward reaction to the truth in this verse was "Yes, I guess He has, especially compared to 'so and so.'"  "Yes, I guess I am blessed, since this didn't happen to me, like it did to 'so and so.'" 

   

     When I realized where my thought pattern was leading me I forced myself to come to an abrupt halt.  What in the world was I doing?  And was this always my response to the truth that God has blessed me?  The deeper I dug I saw that, unfortunately, this was my typical response.

    

      Why?  Why do I have to compare myself with others to feel truly blessed?  Why don't I feel like He has dealt bountifully with me unless I mull over the trials others are going through?  What it all comes down to, really, is that I have an extremely inadequate understanding of God's grace.  I always have.

 

       Since I was little grace was defined to me as "God giving us what we do not deserve."  What do we deserve, anyway?  Death.  Separation from Him for all eternity.  Sounds a little harsh, huh?  Overwhelming?  Yeah, I thought so, too...probably because it is, for our human minds.  So I always chose not to give it too much thought, 'cause, well, it didn't apply to me, anyway.  I was one of His.  I didn't have to worry about all that stuff that could have happened to me.  I was safe.

 

       That's where I went wrong.  By choosing not to think about where I'd been, where I'd come from, what I did deserve, I'd become calloused to His gifts, undervaluing His blessings.  I didn't recognize His blessings because I didn't understand His grace.  I thought I had to compare myself to others in order to feel blessed.  But God doesn't tell me to "feel" blessed.  He says I am blessed.

 

        So I sat down and began compiling a list of my blessings.  Something I should have gotten around to doing long before now.  It's a long list, and still growing.  I think of more every day.  But you know what?  Even if my list wasn't long, even if it wasn't even a list...even if it only had this one thing: Jesus died for me...as my pastor always used to say: that would be reason enough to praise Him for all eternity.

 

Jesus paid it all

All to Him I owe

Sin had left a crimson stain

He washed it white as snow

 

        That is grace.  I am blessed.

I Am Who God Says I Am

     July 22, 2014

     Years ago I participated in a Bible study that took me on a journey through God's promises and also His character.  Through this study I came to realize that though I believed in God I very rarely believed Him.  Or at least I rarely lived as though I believed Him.  That study changed my life. 

      It still is changing my life, for since I am human, and lack the super power of "remembering-everything-I-learn-the-first-time-around-and-acting-on-it", God is frequently obliged to gently (sometimes not so) remind me of the things I was taught during that study.
 
      One of the truths that I most often need reminding of is that "I am who God says I am."  Contrary to my understanding that He sees me as a miserable failure, a maniac suffering from O.C.D., and socially inept (all ways I commonly see myself), God's view of me is flattering, humbling, and exhilarating.  In fact, to Him I am BLESSED, CHOSEN, ADOPTED, ACCEPTED, REDEEMED, FORGIVEN, and most of all LOVED.

       As God and I together take each one of these truths and break them down, going in deeper, until I can get them through my thick skull (my words, not His) and truly believe them about myself, I would like you to join us.  After all, these are also truths about each one of you, not just me.

       I hope you can learn something, too, and that these little musings will somehow bring glory to the One who inspires them.  That goes along with another truth God has lately been reminding me of: we're not in this alone.  He doesn't teach us so that we can keep our lessons to ourselves.  In fact, He expects us to share them with others...something I have been neglecting of late.  And so, He has told me, it is high time that I again include others in my thoughts, in my life, in my faith, and in my Journal Entries.