I didn't leave Bible College midway through my second year. But i should have.
I stayed because i thought i should. Because someone told me to stay unless i knew exactly what i should do next and i believed them even though it went against my deep knowing that i didn't belong there anymore.
One quote rang in my head over and over and that was "you need to get up from the table when love is no longer being served."
Its strange to think of love not being extended at a bible college. But thats the way it was for me. At that table, the one where i tried so hard to sit at, love was not unconditionally served to me. The appearance of love was. But not love itself.
Not after i came out as a jesus loving yogi. Not after i disclosed to a few friends that i was gay affirming. Not after i publically said i was a feminist, and what that meant for me.
Lately the body of christ has been making me really uncomfortable. I've had many conversations with friends and pastors and other people in my life about injustices in the church and how in all honesty it makes me not want to be the church. How because of it i don't strongly identify as christian.
Within the church i've seen so much injustice. I remember sitting in church a few years ago when they announced the demomination my church is a part of would not allow women pastors and feeling angry and broken hearted. If my church wouldn't allow women to speak for God what about me?
I remember anger rising up in me when the bible college i attended spoke about the dress code and how it put men's lust on my shoulders (i am sure unintentionally) and body shaming me by regulating what i wore and said and did and putting it out there in the name of protecting our brothers in christ.
I remember all my years of youth confrences and church services and bible school chapels and how i don't remember a woman preaching, or a person of color, or a person with a disability or who didn't identify as cis gendered and straight.
I remember listening to my sister talk about black lives matter and realizing i don't live out black lives matter. The world i live in doesn't live out black lives matter.
And it makes me angry.
When we do this, we are silencing the voice of God. We are furthering the message that God only speaks through and looks like certain people. We are saying only a select group of people get to sit at the table of divine love. We are making an us and a them. We are making others.
Personally i love my others. The people who have spoken God most clearly to me have been women and people of color and gays. In my experiences these people, the people we routinely shush in church services and religious circles, best get what the gospel was trying to say. That it is for ALL of us. That we are ALL in. And there are no others.
I'm still working through my thoughts on these issues. In no way is this my perfect compiling of my thoughts. Its messy, and raw, and real. It comes from a place inside of me so filled with the knowing that the way it is isn't how its supposed to be. God is bigger and more than we've made him or her out to be. And everybody is in.
I've always said i'd rather be wrong in the name of love than right in the name of drawing lines and i agree with that whole heartedly. I want my life to be love, to reflect divine love.
I want to continue talking about this issue because it matters. I want this to be the start of the conversation around equality in the church, and in the world.
"I want to be outside with the misfits, with the rebels, the dreamers, second-chance givers, the radical grace lavishers, the ones with arms wide open, the courageously vulnerable, and among even—or maybe especially—the ones rejected by the Table as not worthy enough or right enough."
Showing posts with label church. Show all posts
Showing posts with label church. Show all posts
Friday, October 21, 2016
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
I wrote words yesterday that surprised even me. They weren't profoundly brilliant or beautiful, weren't dripping with poetic prose, but something about their honesty and truth shocked me, forcing me to put down my blue ink pen and pause over what I had just written.
This place, I wrote, is so full of Him.
...
A few days ago I heard a woman I know mention blogging as talking to a friend. She painted it as sitting across from a dear friend with a cup of coffee and catching up on life. She said when she wasn't blogging, she missed it.
My approach to blogging has always been slightly different, and has changed over the years. I did, and do, have a really hard time drawing the line between that talking-over-coffee-with-a-friend kind of blogging and the artistic endeavor of writing. I've written myself through many tough life situations, from death to finally coming clean about my story of past trauma, a faith crisis, family and friend struggles, bad relationships and (now) my beautiful relationship. But whenever I wrote, I always kept a slight distance. My personal writings are for that loud, cursing, messy kind of writing where I hash out every problem and thought. My blog is the place where I write about the storm after it has passed, when I feel as though I have some sort of offering or lesson to share. But I think I was mistaken when I thought I could have this blog and write about my life without ever really personally writing about my life.
...
I remember the first time I ever cried in church. February 10, 2013. I remember exactly what song was playing, who was singing, who I was sitting beside. It was exactly 5 months after receiving my Dysautonomia diagnosis, 5 months that had been plagued with exhaustion, grief, anger and brokenness.
This day started an epidemic, and now it is not uncommon to find me crying in church (or anywhere else for that matter).
This Sunday, my crying in church started with my crying on the yoga mat. Up until Friday, I was the kind of girl who didn't understand when people said they started crying during yoga. I would feel things, sure, but it was more so a way to give my mind some rest.
When I did this amazing practice led by Morgan Day Cecil her words spoke to my heart. I've always been hesitant to use the term "God spoke to me" because I am very much resistant about that stereotypical Christianity aspect to my relationship with God, but as I sat on my mat, I heard these words spoken over me and it was enough to make me begin to cry.
"The work you are doing is hard and holy"
I try so hard to resist the hard. I say things are good, because they are. My life is beautiful and full and I can never deserve all of these amazing blessings.
But it's also hard.
Moving houses means changes, and the shift from school life to summer working is a big one, and family always has a way of getting on every nerve and the boy is spending his summer at camp, meaning our time together is squished into small snippets of moments, and while I am so blessed to have a house, and the freedom to work like this this summer and my family and my amazing boyfriend, it doesn't mean its all butterflies and rose petals.
It is hard, and sometimes just acknowledging that and realizing that this too is a battle, and part of a bigger warfare in which I am a participant is enough.
And then, on top of realizing that this work of loving and creating is hard, I realized it is also so very holy.
It is hard, but it is so full of Him. He has promised the victory, that He will guard my heart, that love will triumph and that He will go before me. He cares about these seemingly small and unimportant pieces of my heart, and writes love over all of them.
Not comfort, not human love, not ease, but the kind of love that sweeps itself over all and covers and says "I have such big plans for you. I have such big love for you."
And this place I'm in, this in between summer, this work of loving, it's not an accident. It's not bad, or a mistake. It is holy work. It is enough.
"We're not here to fight tooth and nail, to white knuckle our way through our day. Life will come at us as we deal with things that cause so much pain and suffering. These things are real. Childhood abuse, miscarriages, divorce, disease, death, disappointments of all kinds, unfulfilled longings, mean people, debt, betrayal, addiction. But through it all, friends, you are someone with honor, with character, with integrity, with hope... You will be victorious. Love will win. All things will be restored and redeemed."
...
This place, this hard and holy place, is so full of Him.
Jesus in the waiting.
Jesus in the longing.
Jesus in the hoping.
Jesus in the loving.
Jesus in the grieving.
It's Jesus in my yoga.
Jesus in my relationship.
Jesus in my family.
Jesus in my writing.
Jesus in my conversations.
Jesus in my desire.
Jesus in my wilderness.
This place, I wrote, is so full of Him.
...
A few days ago I heard a woman I know mention blogging as talking to a friend. She painted it as sitting across from a dear friend with a cup of coffee and catching up on life. She said when she wasn't blogging, she missed it.
My approach to blogging has always been slightly different, and has changed over the years. I did, and do, have a really hard time drawing the line between that talking-over-coffee-with-a-friend kind of blogging and the artistic endeavor of writing. I've written myself through many tough life situations, from death to finally coming clean about my story of past trauma, a faith crisis, family and friend struggles, bad relationships and (now) my beautiful relationship. But whenever I wrote, I always kept a slight distance. My personal writings are for that loud, cursing, messy kind of writing where I hash out every problem and thought. My blog is the place where I write about the storm after it has passed, when I feel as though I have some sort of offering or lesson to share. But I think I was mistaken when I thought I could have this blog and write about my life without ever really personally writing about my life.
...
I remember the first time I ever cried in church. February 10, 2013. I remember exactly what song was playing, who was singing, who I was sitting beside. It was exactly 5 months after receiving my Dysautonomia diagnosis, 5 months that had been plagued with exhaustion, grief, anger and brokenness.
This day started an epidemic, and now it is not uncommon to find me crying in church (or anywhere else for that matter).
This Sunday, my crying in church started with my crying on the yoga mat. Up until Friday, I was the kind of girl who didn't understand when people said they started crying during yoga. I would feel things, sure, but it was more so a way to give my mind some rest.
When I did this amazing practice led by Morgan Day Cecil her words spoke to my heart. I've always been hesitant to use the term "God spoke to me" because I am very much resistant about that stereotypical Christianity aspect to my relationship with God, but as I sat on my mat, I heard these words spoken over me and it was enough to make me begin to cry.
"The work you are doing is hard and holy"
I try so hard to resist the hard. I say things are good, because they are. My life is beautiful and full and I can never deserve all of these amazing blessings.
But it's also hard.
Moving houses means changes, and the shift from school life to summer working is a big one, and family always has a way of getting on every nerve and the boy is spending his summer at camp, meaning our time together is squished into small snippets of moments, and while I am so blessed to have a house, and the freedom to work like this this summer and my family and my amazing boyfriend, it doesn't mean its all butterflies and rose petals.
It is hard, and sometimes just acknowledging that and realizing that this too is a battle, and part of a bigger warfare in which I am a participant is enough.
And then, on top of realizing that this work of loving and creating is hard, I realized it is also so very holy.
It is hard, but it is so full of Him. He has promised the victory, that He will guard my heart, that love will triumph and that He will go before me. He cares about these seemingly small and unimportant pieces of my heart, and writes love over all of them.
Not comfort, not human love, not ease, but the kind of love that sweeps itself over all and covers and says "I have such big plans for you. I have such big love for you."
And this place I'm in, this in between summer, this work of loving, it's not an accident. It's not bad, or a mistake. It is holy work. It is enough.
"We're not here to fight tooth and nail, to white knuckle our way through our day. Life will come at us as we deal with things that cause so much pain and suffering. These things are real. Childhood abuse, miscarriages, divorce, disease, death, disappointments of all kinds, unfulfilled longings, mean people, debt, betrayal, addiction. But through it all, friends, you are someone with honor, with character, with integrity, with hope... You will be victorious. Love will win. All things will be restored and redeemed."
...
This place, this hard and holy place, is so full of Him.
Jesus in the waiting.
Jesus in the longing.
Jesus in the hoping.
Jesus in the loving.
Jesus in the grieving.
It's Jesus in my yoga.
Jesus in my relationship.
Jesus in my family.
Jesus in my writing.
Jesus in my conversations.
Jesus in my desire.
Jesus in my wilderness.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
It Takes a Village
I've heard it said at baby dedications and during conversations about parenting.
It takes a village to raise a child.
But I never realized how true that was until recently.
This past little while has been a trying one for me. My heart was broken in one fowl swoop, in shattering seconds I never expected.
And the past week has been about trying to pick up the pieces. It's meant a lot of private writings, reflections, crying, mind numbing Netflix marathons when I couldn't think anymore, and sometimes brokenly worshipping.
My prayers have often sounded a whole lot like Dear God, I don't understand. I'm broken. I can't do this. Help me.
A few years ago an amazing friend and mentor of mine told me that when words fail to simply pray Jesus, and I don't think she knows how much those small words of wisdom have meant to me in these last few years, especially in the times when it feels like my heart is breaking and I have no words.
I watch relationships change and my own heart is weathering it's own personal storm and what I know about love is changing.
I sat in church this morning, coffee in hand, and it felt like the words were being whispered over my dry, barren heart:
Come to me all who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest
And I don't know which part of that sounds better - the invitation for the weary and burdened or the promise of rest.
What I know about love is changing, yes, but I realized something else this morning.
Love is everywhere. It surrounds me, exists on every corner, and maybe it doesn't look the same as it once did but maybe it doesn't have to. Is it enough to believe in love at all?
This morning as I sat and listened and cried and prayed and held and worshipped, I thought about the love that surrounds me.
I never really understood the saying that it takes a village to raise a child but I do now. I'm not necessarily a child anymore, in the throes of learning how to read and write, but I see that it does take a village to raise up a person.
Without the love, support, tenderness and care extended to me by so many I am convinced I would still be down. It's easier to lay on the ground, to not make an effort to get up, to let defeat win one more time. What a good community does is they extend their hands, reaching down, pulling you up, proclaiming a strong "No" over your desire for defeat.
Their love, found on every corner, gives me strength to believe in love again. It points me back to the ultimate source of love.
And I am so grateful.
For the ones who step in, and step up, I am so grateful for you.
It truly does take a village, and I am so lucky to have you in mine.
It takes a village to raise a child.
But I never realized how true that was until recently.
This past little while has been a trying one for me. My heart was broken in one fowl swoop, in shattering seconds I never expected.
And the past week has been about trying to pick up the pieces. It's meant a lot of private writings, reflections, crying, mind numbing Netflix marathons when I couldn't think anymore, and sometimes brokenly worshipping.
My prayers have often sounded a whole lot like Dear God, I don't understand. I'm broken. I can't do this. Help me.
A few years ago an amazing friend and mentor of mine told me that when words fail to simply pray Jesus, and I don't think she knows how much those small words of wisdom have meant to me in these last few years, especially in the times when it feels like my heart is breaking and I have no words.
I watch relationships change and my own heart is weathering it's own personal storm and what I know about love is changing.
I sat in church this morning, coffee in hand, and it felt like the words were being whispered over my dry, barren heart:
Come to me all who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest
And I don't know which part of that sounds better - the invitation for the weary and burdened or the promise of rest.
What I know about love is changing, yes, but I realized something else this morning.
Love is everywhere. It surrounds me, exists on every corner, and maybe it doesn't look the same as it once did but maybe it doesn't have to. Is it enough to believe in love at all?
This morning as I sat and listened and cried and prayed and held and worshipped, I thought about the love that surrounds me.
I never really understood the saying that it takes a village to raise a child but I do now. I'm not necessarily a child anymore, in the throes of learning how to read and write, but I see that it does take a village to raise up a person.
Without the love, support, tenderness and care extended to me by so many I am convinced I would still be down. It's easier to lay on the ground, to not make an effort to get up, to let defeat win one more time. What a good community does is they extend their hands, reaching down, pulling you up, proclaiming a strong "No" over your desire for defeat.
Their love, found on every corner, gives me strength to believe in love again. It points me back to the ultimate source of love.
And I am so grateful.
For the ones who step in, and step up, I am so grateful for you.
It truly does take a village, and I am so lucky to have you in mine.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
When He says 'Trust me'
I didn't want to go to church this morning
I know it is on these days when I don't want to go that I need to go most. As I got up, got dressed and glanced over my notes for leading Sunday School one more time, I was inwardly grumbling. Last night I'd gone to bed after a great day only to be attacked by fear and shame and the idea of not being good enough. I woke up this morning feeling sick. I complained and said a few bad words and stomped around.
The funny thing is I don't think God is put off by my not being delighted to go to church. Of course He wants me to be excited to go, but I don't think that just because I'm grumpy He decides I need a time out and He's not going to speak to me for a while.
I think it's quite the opposite. At least for this morning it was when I was grumpy and my head was filled with worries and doubts and confusion that He reached out and touched me.
In Sunday School I was greeted with bright eyes and smiling faces and little arms reaching out for me. As the kids said their verses, I was struck by how happy and proud they were.
The singing part of church is most often my favorite. One way I experience love is through music. I love the way that music makes me feel connected, feel heard and seen, like I'm witnessing something beautiful.
This morning I just listened to the words, to the piano chords and the strumming of the guitar. And I listened to the people around me sing. And I had this mental picture of crowd surfing. Not like at a rock concert where everything is loud and chaotic, but the peaceful image of being held up by hundreds of hands.
I felt like I was being held.
I felt like God was whispering to me, "Right here. I want you to look right here."
I felt like Peter, stumbling around on the waves. Life is real and the confusion I feel right now is real and the doubts are real and all of this is real. But it's when I focus on the reality of my fears instead of focusing on the reality of my God that I begin to sink.
I don't know a lot right now, and that's scary, but I was reminded this morning that I wasn't given a spirit of fear. And when my eyes are locked on the one who walks on water, I am secure.
It's easy to say but not as easy to believe. It's not easy to believe when these very real questions are staring me in the face or when it's Tuesday and I'm caught up in the middle of this hectic life.
Right now it feels like things are hanging in the balance, and I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong. And it's like God is saying, "Trust me."
The other shoe might drop. Things might not go like I planned. The storm may rage. But that doesn't change the call: to trust Him, to look into His eyes and step out of the boat.
“Grace isn’t about having a second chance; grace is having so many chances that you could use them through all eternity and never come up empty. It’s when you finally realize that the other shoe isn’t going to drop, ever.”
I know it is on these days when I don't want to go that I need to go most. As I got up, got dressed and glanced over my notes for leading Sunday School one more time, I was inwardly grumbling. Last night I'd gone to bed after a great day only to be attacked by fear and shame and the idea of not being good enough. I woke up this morning feeling sick. I complained and said a few bad words and stomped around.
The funny thing is I don't think God is put off by my not being delighted to go to church. Of course He wants me to be excited to go, but I don't think that just because I'm grumpy He decides I need a time out and He's not going to speak to me for a while.
I think it's quite the opposite. At least for this morning it was when I was grumpy and my head was filled with worries and doubts and confusion that He reached out and touched me.
In Sunday School I was greeted with bright eyes and smiling faces and little arms reaching out for me. As the kids said their verses, I was struck by how happy and proud they were.
The singing part of church is most often my favorite. One way I experience love is through music. I love the way that music makes me feel connected, feel heard and seen, like I'm witnessing something beautiful.
This morning I just listened to the words, to the piano chords and the strumming of the guitar. And I listened to the people around me sing. And I had this mental picture of crowd surfing. Not like at a rock concert where everything is loud and chaotic, but the peaceful image of being held up by hundreds of hands.
I felt like I was being held.
I felt like God was whispering to me, "Right here. I want you to look right here."
I felt like Peter, stumbling around on the waves. Life is real and the confusion I feel right now is real and the doubts are real and all of this is real. But it's when I focus on the reality of my fears instead of focusing on the reality of my God that I begin to sink.
I don't know a lot right now, and that's scary, but I was reminded this morning that I wasn't given a spirit of fear. And when my eyes are locked on the one who walks on water, I am secure.
It's easy to say but not as easy to believe. It's not easy to believe when these very real questions are staring me in the face or when it's Tuesday and I'm caught up in the middle of this hectic life.
Right now it feels like things are hanging in the balance, and I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong. And it's like God is saying, "Trust me."
The other shoe might drop. Things might not go like I planned. The storm may rage. But that doesn't change the call: to trust Him, to look into His eyes and step out of the boat.
“Grace isn’t about having a second chance; grace is having so many chances that you could use them through all eternity and never come up empty. It’s when you finally realize that the other shoe isn’t going to drop, ever.”
Friday, October 31, 2014
15 on Friday
Over the past few weeks, God's been growing me.
I've been stretched, pushed and pulled and spread out. I feel all this space surrounding me, all this uncertainty and wondering and openness. The whole thing just feels too expansive, too much for my small hands to hold.
I remember a few weeks ago a friend saying that it feels like there is such a heaviness over this place, like we're engaged in this battle.
Yeah, I thought, I feel that
I feel the heaviness of fighting against myself. I feel the space when I am walking through those times where I feel out on my own. I feel the tenderness of my heart as it feels like it is being rubbed raw.
I'm questioning, flailing, stumbling, trying to navigate my way through this expansive wilderness.
Over and over I seem to echo a similar cry: Dear God, I want to hear your heartbeat
And gently He's been teaching me
One thing He's been showing me about His heart is His love for people
And I've never been a strong one, one good at walking into battle, but in this growing time I've become more open to hearing His voice and I can't ignore it when He whispers These are my people
This afternoon I bundled up in boots and a sweater and began walking. I walked my usual loop around the city, and then I came upon the church.
The church step was the only sitting place without snow, and so I sat. And though I am not strong I began to pray, my voice shaking, for His church.
For myself and for my friends, for church members and the community in which I live, I prayed without knowing words, feeling empty within myself, lacking eloquence.
And something changed.
I stayed on the church steps for 15 minutes, interceding on behalf of this community and His church, begging for His hand of provision over us, His mercies to fall, His grace to overwhelm. I uncurled my clenched fists and asked to be held. Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes and as I walked away 15 minutes later I knew I'd heard the sound of His heartbeat.
His heart beats for these people, too.
I've been stretched, pushed and pulled and spread out. I feel all this space surrounding me, all this uncertainty and wondering and openness. The whole thing just feels too expansive, too much for my small hands to hold.
I remember a few weeks ago a friend saying that it feels like there is such a heaviness over this place, like we're engaged in this battle.
Yeah, I thought, I feel that
I feel the heaviness of fighting against myself. I feel the space when I am walking through those times where I feel out on my own. I feel the tenderness of my heart as it feels like it is being rubbed raw.
I'm questioning, flailing, stumbling, trying to navigate my way through this expansive wilderness.
Over and over I seem to echo a similar cry: Dear God, I want to hear your heartbeat
And gently He's been teaching me
One thing He's been showing me about His heart is His love for people
And I've never been a strong one, one good at walking into battle, but in this growing time I've become more open to hearing His voice and I can't ignore it when He whispers These are my people
This afternoon I bundled up in boots and a sweater and began walking. I walked my usual loop around the city, and then I came upon the church.
The church step was the only sitting place without snow, and so I sat. And though I am not strong I began to pray, my voice shaking, for His church.
For myself and for my friends, for church members and the community in which I live, I prayed without knowing words, feeling empty within myself, lacking eloquence.
And something changed.
I stayed on the church steps for 15 minutes, interceding on behalf of this community and His church, begging for His hand of provision over us, His mercies to fall, His grace to overwhelm. I uncurled my clenched fists and asked to be held. Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes and as I walked away 15 minutes later I knew I'd heard the sound of His heartbeat.
His heart beats for these people, too.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Time In Between
In Sunday School this morning, we were talking about hearing God's voice. I'll be honest, at the beginning I almost laughed. I mean, really? I'm supposed to sit around for an hour and listen to people talk about when they heard God's voice and how He made everything ok for them and showed them the right path? Obviously I was getting the wrong idea.
Instead, I realized some pretty important things in that Sunday school class, which I'll try to (briefly) summarize here.
The main thing I was reminded of is "Trust what you know and not what you feel." It's been something I've gone back to a lot in these past 3 years, that even if I don't feel God, He's there. Easier said then done, right?
I was reminded of the time back in July, before I got a diagnosis but had a sense of what was coming. I remember feeling such a peace. Looking back now, I realized that that peace isn't a reflection on the lack of faith I have now (Lack of faith compared to then) but God's presence, Him taking me by the hand and saying, "Ok, Alisha, this is going to be tough, and it's going to hurt like crazy. But this is the right thing, this is where I want you to be. I've got you, I'm not letting go of you." Also, today something was said about in the Bible, God promising never to leave us. I've grown up in a christian home, I've gone to church all my life, I've known that promise, and yet why did it seem so new to me when I heard it today?
One passage I've come back to a lot over the past little while is the one where the Israelites wander around in the desert. I think we, or at least I, tend to focus on the cool stuff Moses did to rescue them from Pharaoh, and when Joshua and everybody walked around the city and the walls fell down. But it's the time in between I didn't really look at before... or at least I didn't until I was stuck in a wilderness of my own.
When the Israelites left Egypt and escaped Pharaoh, I'm pretty sure they thought they were free. God was going to bring them to the promise land sometime in the next little bit, and life was going to be good. Instead they wandered around in the wilderness, for 40 years. They suffered, a lot. One thing that stood out to me is that the Israelites were God's chosen people. And yet they ended up suffering big time. And then, when God finally decides to step in and take them to the promise land, they find out that their enemies live there. I can only imagine what they must be thinking then. I can actually imagine it's pretty close to what I've been thinking this last month.
"Ok, God, I did what you asked. I've wandered around in the desert for years, I've suffered greatly, I've done my time, you can come rescue me now."
What is it that makes us think that, after we've suffered greatly, everything should just be smooth sailing from here on out, that God should just hand us everything on a silver platter.
I was undiagnosed for around 3 years, my own form of walking in the wilderness. Maybe I expected too much when I thought that once the diagnosis came, life would be smooth sailing.
I think I'm a lot like the Israelites in that way, that I've wandered around in the wilderness for long enough, that once I get delivered things shoudl be great.
But things aren't great. The Israelites encountered enemies in their land, and it turns out getting diagnosed isn't just a free ride, it hurts, A LOT.
I keep saying, "Ok, God, where are you? Why haven't you rescued me yet? Why am I still suffering so much?"
And then I hear Him whisper, "I'm right here, waiting until you trust what you know and not what you feel. I've never left you, not when you wandered in the wilderness and not now. I never promised life would be easy, but I promised you would never be alone. Just wait, the best is yet to come."
Instead, I realized some pretty important things in that Sunday school class, which I'll try to (briefly) summarize here.
The main thing I was reminded of is "Trust what you know and not what you feel." It's been something I've gone back to a lot in these past 3 years, that even if I don't feel God, He's there. Easier said then done, right?
I was reminded of the time back in July, before I got a diagnosis but had a sense of what was coming. I remember feeling such a peace. Looking back now, I realized that that peace isn't a reflection on the lack of faith I have now (Lack of faith compared to then) but God's presence, Him taking me by the hand and saying, "Ok, Alisha, this is going to be tough, and it's going to hurt like crazy. But this is the right thing, this is where I want you to be. I've got you, I'm not letting go of you." Also, today something was said about in the Bible, God promising never to leave us. I've grown up in a christian home, I've gone to church all my life, I've known that promise, and yet why did it seem so new to me when I heard it today?
One passage I've come back to a lot over the past little while is the one where the Israelites wander around in the desert. I think we, or at least I, tend to focus on the cool stuff Moses did to rescue them from Pharaoh, and when Joshua and everybody walked around the city and the walls fell down. But it's the time in between I didn't really look at before... or at least I didn't until I was stuck in a wilderness of my own.
When the Israelites left Egypt and escaped Pharaoh, I'm pretty sure they thought they were free. God was going to bring them to the promise land sometime in the next little bit, and life was going to be good. Instead they wandered around in the wilderness, for 40 years. They suffered, a lot. One thing that stood out to me is that the Israelites were God's chosen people. And yet they ended up suffering big time. And then, when God finally decides to step in and take them to the promise land, they find out that their enemies live there. I can only imagine what they must be thinking then. I can actually imagine it's pretty close to what I've been thinking this last month.
"Ok, God, I did what you asked. I've wandered around in the desert for years, I've suffered greatly, I've done my time, you can come rescue me now."
What is it that makes us think that, after we've suffered greatly, everything should just be smooth sailing from here on out, that God should just hand us everything on a silver platter.
I was undiagnosed for around 3 years, my own form of walking in the wilderness. Maybe I expected too much when I thought that once the diagnosis came, life would be smooth sailing.
I think I'm a lot like the Israelites in that way, that I've wandered around in the wilderness for long enough, that once I get delivered things shoudl be great.
But things aren't great. The Israelites encountered enemies in their land, and it turns out getting diagnosed isn't just a free ride, it hurts, A LOT.
I keep saying, "Ok, God, where are you? Why haven't you rescued me yet? Why am I still suffering so much?"
And then I hear Him whisper, "I'm right here, waiting until you trust what you know and not what you feel. I've never left you, not when you wandered in the wilderness and not now. I never promised life would be easy, but I promised you would never be alone. Just wait, the best is yet to come."
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Blessed
I am blessed. I've been trying to think of a word that describes how I'm feeling right now, but the only word that fits is Blessed.
I wonder if I can describe the incidents that led up to my heart being so full, or if I should even try.
This morning was church.
For the first time in what seems like forever (Probably only a month or so) I sat with my friends. I sat next to one of my friend's, who is pretty tall. I'm pretty tiny. So whenever I sit next to him I feel extraordinarily small. There are two different outcomes that can come with a situation like this, either I will feel super self concious about my height, or I'll feel protected. Today, it was the second. Sitting there, I did feel tiny, but I also felt safe, and protected, and comfortable.
The sermon today was on getting out of that spiritual armchair. It was about trusting God, even when you can't see the next step. It was about prayer, fasting and fellowship.
One of the examples used is when Jesus prayed, before He was taken away to be crucified. In a moment when He was totally man and totally God, seeing the future and not wanting to be there if there was any other way. He prayed, and asked God that if there was any way He didn't have to do this, that it would be shown to Him. He didn't want to be there, He knew it was going to be filled with pain and hurt, and yet He surrendered to God's will and followed.
Isn't that where I'm at? Isn't that where I'm standing, asking God is there is any other way, because I know the road ahead is going to be filled with pain and sturggle? And yet, God said no. God said, "I want you here for a reason." And so, my answer is, "Ok. I trust you."
After the service was over, I met with one of my favorite people. She worked with the youth this last year, she's in my parent's small group, and she's going to have a baby in September. She also gives the best hugs, so I always look forward to seeing her.
She asked about our holidays, and school next year, and then she asked how my doctor's appointment went at the beginning of this month.
It's been something I haven't told a lot of people about. I didn't even tell anyone we were going until the morning before, when I emailed a friend of mine to let her know, and asked her to pray. I've only told a few people about the appointment, as I said, and never out loud. It was always by email, or text message. So saying the words out loud, saying where I'm at, it was healing for me.
And when I said the words out loud, a small bit of their power slid away. Yes, like Jesus prayed in the garden, I don't want to be in this place because I know the road ahead, and yet the words don't hold any power over me. They don't define who I am, or what my life is going to look like. I've already chosen who holds the power in my life.
It's these kinds of moments I think I could miss if I blink in the wrong instant, these moments I would never have gotten if I wasn't walking the road I am.
I am so incredibly blessed, and right now there is no place else I'd rather be.
I wonder if I can describe the incidents that led up to my heart being so full, or if I should even try.
This morning was church.
For the first time in what seems like forever (Probably only a month or so) I sat with my friends. I sat next to one of my friend's, who is pretty tall. I'm pretty tiny. So whenever I sit next to him I feel extraordinarily small. There are two different outcomes that can come with a situation like this, either I will feel super self concious about my height, or I'll feel protected. Today, it was the second. Sitting there, I did feel tiny, but I also felt safe, and protected, and comfortable.
The sermon today was on getting out of that spiritual armchair. It was about trusting God, even when you can't see the next step. It was about prayer, fasting and fellowship.
One of the examples used is when Jesus prayed, before He was taken away to be crucified. In a moment when He was totally man and totally God, seeing the future and not wanting to be there if there was any other way. He prayed, and asked God that if there was any way He didn't have to do this, that it would be shown to Him. He didn't want to be there, He knew it was going to be filled with pain and hurt, and yet He surrendered to God's will and followed.
Isn't that where I'm at? Isn't that where I'm standing, asking God is there is any other way, because I know the road ahead is going to be filled with pain and sturggle? And yet, God said no. God said, "I want you here for a reason." And so, my answer is, "Ok. I trust you."
After the service was over, I met with one of my favorite people. She worked with the youth this last year, she's in my parent's small group, and she's going to have a baby in September. She also gives the best hugs, so I always look forward to seeing her.
She asked about our holidays, and school next year, and then she asked how my doctor's appointment went at the beginning of this month.
It's been something I haven't told a lot of people about. I didn't even tell anyone we were going until the morning before, when I emailed a friend of mine to let her know, and asked her to pray. I've only told a few people about the appointment, as I said, and never out loud. It was always by email, or text message. So saying the words out loud, saying where I'm at, it was healing for me.
And when I said the words out loud, a small bit of their power slid away. Yes, like Jesus prayed in the garden, I don't want to be in this place because I know the road ahead, and yet the words don't hold any power over me. They don't define who I am, or what my life is going to look like. I've already chosen who holds the power in my life.
It's these kinds of moments I think I could miss if I blink in the wrong instant, these moments I would never have gotten if I wasn't walking the road I am.
I am so incredibly blessed, and right now there is no place else I'd rather be.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
This is the Church I go to
This morning I got myself out of bed, got dressed, and went to church...
After this particularly rough weekend, I was greeted by smiling faces (And coffee!)
There was one of my youth leaders. She sent me a message on Friday, saying she had missed me at youth and had a hug waiting for me. That's what I was looking forward to as I stumbled into church that morning. And as she gave me a hug, I felt myself relax. It was as if my body was saying "It's ok, you can rest here. You don't have to pretend." So, for the first time, I talked honestly about the struggles that I've been facing this weekend. I was leaning in, being real and honest. I wasn't standing alone trying to face the storm, but leaning in.
And during the service, the pastor was talking about doubt. He said "For the next two minutes, talk to someone next to you about the last time you doubted."
I was sitting at the end of the row, and there was two other people at the opposite end of the row. I figured they would talk amongst themselves and I was ok with just reflecting, because I knew the last time I'd doubted (It was actually yesterday!) But then this guy came over right into the seat next to mine and looked me right in the eye and said, "When was the last time you doubted?"
And I don't know what it was that caused me to be honest with this guy. I'd never seen him before, he was probably twice my age (Not quite, probably in his twenties, though) but it was like the words came out and I was real and I told this guy (Whom I'd never met) that it was a rough weekend and that I was doubting God when He said He knows the plans He has for me, and that He knows what he's doing. And then this guy shared with me about the last time he doubted that God knew what was best.
And during the service, I got this text. I opened it, and found a message from Paula. (Yes, we text each other in church, but this one was good, trust me!) And it was a Bible Verse. It was Hebrews 11:1-3, talking about faith being sure of things we can't see. Another reminder, another moment when it was like God was saying to me, "This is for you."
This Sunday was a whisper from God, saying, "It's ok, you can rest here."
And that's what the Body of Christ is, isn't it? A place where you can rest, and a place where you don't have to pretend. It's love and it's hope, and it's moving and touching those places in my heart I thought were growing cold and it's whispering, "You are loved, you belong here, it's safe here."
This is the church I am proud to go to, a church that loves and whispers the hope of Jesus. It's ok to be in a rough place, it's ok to doubt and to wonder. It's a safe place to be real and lay your burdens down at the feet of Jesus.
You can rest here, it's ok, it's safe. Here is a place where you belong, where you are loved. You don't have to pretend, come as you are. Rest here, lay everything down at the feet of Jesus, and know that you are so dearly loved. You are not an island, you are here, among the body of Christ. You belong here.
After this particularly rough weekend, I was greeted by smiling faces (And coffee!)
There was one of my youth leaders. She sent me a message on Friday, saying she had missed me at youth and had a hug waiting for me. That's what I was looking forward to as I stumbled into church that morning. And as she gave me a hug, I felt myself relax. It was as if my body was saying "It's ok, you can rest here. You don't have to pretend." So, for the first time, I talked honestly about the struggles that I've been facing this weekend. I was leaning in, being real and honest. I wasn't standing alone trying to face the storm, but leaning in.
And during the service, the pastor was talking about doubt. He said "For the next two minutes, talk to someone next to you about the last time you doubted."
I was sitting at the end of the row, and there was two other people at the opposite end of the row. I figured they would talk amongst themselves and I was ok with just reflecting, because I knew the last time I'd doubted (It was actually yesterday!) But then this guy came over right into the seat next to mine and looked me right in the eye and said, "When was the last time you doubted?"
And I don't know what it was that caused me to be honest with this guy. I'd never seen him before, he was probably twice my age (Not quite, probably in his twenties, though) but it was like the words came out and I was real and I told this guy (Whom I'd never met) that it was a rough weekend and that I was doubting God when He said He knows the plans He has for me, and that He knows what he's doing. And then this guy shared with me about the last time he doubted that God knew what was best.
And during the service, I got this text. I opened it, and found a message from Paula. (Yes, we text each other in church, but this one was good, trust me!) And it was a Bible Verse. It was Hebrews 11:1-3, talking about faith being sure of things we can't see. Another reminder, another moment when it was like God was saying to me, "This is for you."
This Sunday was a whisper from God, saying, "It's ok, you can rest here."
And that's what the Body of Christ is, isn't it? A place where you can rest, and a place where you don't have to pretend. It's love and it's hope, and it's moving and touching those places in my heart I thought were growing cold and it's whispering, "You are loved, you belong here, it's safe here."
This is the church I am proud to go to, a church that loves and whispers the hope of Jesus. It's ok to be in a rough place, it's ok to doubt and to wonder. It's a safe place to be real and lay your burdens down at the feet of Jesus.
You can rest here, it's ok, it's safe. Here is a place where you belong, where you are loved. You don't have to pretend, come as you are. Rest here, lay everything down at the feet of Jesus, and know that you are so dearly loved. You are not an island, you are here, among the body of Christ. You belong here.
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