When I'm anxious, God can seem somehow absent. If I continue this belief, there is a resulting darkness of which I am not easily persuaded out of. Does God not see? Am I beyond His omniscience? Graciously, these questions prompt the Spirit's voice, reminding me that I indeed have a God who sees.

If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.

If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night," even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.

For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. - Psalm 139:9-13

It's easy for me to get inside my own head. Because of this, I have to untangle fact from fiction by leaning on God's Word. Moreover, I need the community of the redeemed to remind me that this too, shall pass. God is present. And He knows.

I’m a really good worker bee. I’ve known this about myself, but I’m really just now understanding my relationship with work. I work hard, and for the most part, I succeed because of it. While this fits the American, pull yourself up by your own bootstraps kind of ideal, I think an over reliance on work is deceptive. That is, sometimes I think that because I work hard, I should be shielded from certain negativity, like criticism. As if working hard gives you some kind of immunity. This is a false belief that I have wrongly internalized. For Christ to say that we who labor and are heavy laden are to come to Him because His yoke is easy and burden is light speaks to the worker bee in me, inviting me to trust in a Savior who ultimately gives us rest (Matthew 11:28). My work can never save me, and yet it’s such a tangible activity that draws me to rely on its merit. Thankful for grace and mercies that are new each morning.

Much of life fluctuates between joy and sorrow - sometimes in alternating seasons, and at other times sorrow lingers and joy is elusive. In times of sorrow, there is longing for deliverance, which is usually met with the consolation that "time heals all wounds." But does it really? Does it ever completely remove my sorrow?

Scripture contends that while there is a time for everything (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8) God is the Ultimate Restorer (1 Peter 5:10). He will make all things new (Revelation 21:4) and He will one day wipe away all our tears. At present we are comforted (2 Thessalonians 2:16-17), giving us joy that one day will be experienced in full when Christ, our blessed hope returns (Titus 2:14).

When I return to something I haven't done in awhile I feel this sense of condemnation for having neglected it for so long. The newness of it again reminds me that time passed now reveals an unfamiliarity that is altogether uncomfortable. I don't like that I can't just pick up where I left off. Instead I have to really work to get back to where I once was. The prospect of this keeps me from really wanting to revisit anything ever again. This is true in so many things I want to go back to, but this year I decided to just deal with it and after more than a decade, I am lacing up my skates and getting back on the ice again. (Now rereading the above, the lead in to this disclosure seems way too dramatic for whatever skills I formerly possessed). My first time back on the ice exposed that predictable insecurity that comes with having not done something in a really long time. I hated that feeling, but yet I went back the second week and laced up again.

I'm learning to embrace the wobbliness and be okay with it. That's a win for the perfectionist in me.

When we come together with like others there is a kind of unity. Unity seems to find strength when values and beliefs of that like-minded group are challenged. We see this with each trending hashtag on social media that ignites a bandwagon of response. I would think that Christian unity is more than just precipitated by some cause or event. In Jesus' high priestly prayer in John 17:20-26, He prays that we (believers) may be one just as he and the Father are one. Jesus repeats this petition for oneness three times in His prayer. Part of this repetition perhaps speaks to how difficult this is, and that Christian unity is more than the occasional unity we see displayed in our world. In fact, its example is found in the very Godhead. And this unity holds an expressed purpose so others would know Jesus.

Unity is a hard ask when there are so many reasons why it's difficult for me to be one with another Christian, especially when my idea of one is often just me. And yet there is the love of the Father and the Son extending to an unlovely me. 

Father, help me to love as you love, and that we as a church may be one as you and Jesus to declare your saving grace to the world.

I think what's most unsettling in the recent tidal wave of allegations of sexual misconduct amongst prominent public figures is that these wrongs have largely taken years (in some cases, decades) to surface. The chorus of "me, too" in the aftermath of all these revelations says that there is something pervasive about this issue that makes me wonder then, how many other evils are there that go unaddressed? What I am certain of is that Scripture doesn't gloss over pointing out what's wrong (e.g., Colossians 3:5-10, Romans 13:13) and exhorts us to live upright, godly lives (Titus 2:11) as people redeemed by Jesus Christ. We must acknowledge that there is in fact a badness that resides in all of us, and when all comes to light on that day that Christ returns, we shall see in full the greatness of our rescue.

I can be paralyzed by decision making just as much as the next person. I blame my tendency to want to make the perfect decision and avoid failure. I recently heard that if you are 100% sure about a decision it's likely you're making that decision too late. This makes me think - how certain should you be before deciding?  I'm not talking about daily decisions that you really shouldn't be stymied by. Like what to eat for lunch. It's a low stakes decision. So you choose wrongly. The next day you have the opportunity to make a different (perhaps better?) choice (as I write this, the fact that you can even choose what to eat for lunch is a privilege). 

The decisions that I'm referring to will cost you more than your lunch. I'm not sure how many of these you have to make daily, weekly, or monthly. I would say that if you're not having to make these decisions regularly you're really not getting yourself out there enough. That said, if you do have one of these decisions to make, how sure do you have to be? 

I'm learning to take a chance with 51% certainty. What I mean is, when there is a whole lot I'm not sure of, but enough to compel me in a certain direction, even if only marginally. It is here where faith emerges - faith that God is sovereign, and that you are making a choice with the faculties you've been given. "Commit your way to the Lord; trust in Him and He will act" (Prov 37:5). This is a reminder to me after a trepidatious decision that yes, He can be trusted (trepidation for me being 51% certainty, for others, maybe less, maybe more). 

I think many outside the Christian faith would find the idea of spirituality admirable, even desirable. It has this idea of transcending reality, and I think most would agree that reality isn't often what it should be - brokenness, pain, violence, etc. The problem is, even Christians would say that the spiritual life is elusive, and yet we have the Holy Spirit, the third member of the Godhead, to magnify the saving work of Christ in our lives (Eph 3:16-21), reminding us of the victory that is ours and a future hope to come. Consequently, we are well equipped to live for an eternity beyond this life.  The truth is, we don't feel victorious everyday. We struggle outright with sin, and with ourselves. And we crave a spirituality that transcends all of that. But the Christian faith is described as something we strive for (Heb 4:11), a race (1 Cor 9:24), and a fight (2 Tim 4:7). In other words, the spiritual life is one that is continuous, and not only that, it is met with resistance such that it won't come easily. 

I think a realistic view of sin gives us a better idea for how we are to view the Christian life, and our salvation. Spirituality, then, becomes less of this idealized, often longed for state, and rather one that sees us struggling to live holy lives in a depraved world, knowing that sin has no final victory over us (Romans 6:5-11). 

I used to think for a time that I was good with change. Perhaps it was that there was so much change that I was just numb to it, being the one constant in my life. With each change I became a trained survivalist - dealing with it and moving on. It was a routine that repeated itself many times over.  It wasn't until a couple of years after that season that I learned with each change comes loss (i.e. what was before is now different, thus there is a resulting loss of what had been). Inevitably there is grief attached with each change as you deal with that loss, however big or small. 

Since being told that change implies loss, I've learned to better grieve through change, to give myself grace, and recognize that change isn't easy. In fact, it can downright suck, and that survivalist mentality of mine isn't always the best answer. 

*Breathe* 

Even as change takes away, our Father of lights remains unchanged (James 1:17). 

*Exhale* 

There is this temptation to take matters into our own hands when things are ambiguous rather than trust in God. The Israelites were prime example of this, saving leftover manna rather than trust in their daily provision in one instance (Exodus 16:19-20). And then making a golden calf an object of worship when Moses delayed coming off of Mount Sinai (Exodus 32).  I am one of those people who leaps to action to get something done. I can't stand when things are murky and there's something within my reach to (seemingly) move things forward. It's a pride issue (believing I can manufacture something to happen), but it's ultimately fear that is beneath this. I'm fearful there will be no provision. 

When stripped of all my faculties to do something on my own, there's a vulnerability that exposes that, I am after all, needy. And while that would ordinarily send me into hiding, the reminder that the God of this universe cares for even me (Psalm 8:4-5) - the once wretched, still sinful me - I feel safe, now able to more bravely face what I cannot yet see.