Tag Archives: Victory

A Time Of Peace.

Psalm 76 – The Message

1-3 God is well-known in Judah;
in Israel, he’s a household name.
He keeps a house in Salem,
his own suite of rooms in Zion.
That’s where, using arrows for kindling,
he made a bonfire of weapons of war.

4-6 Oh, how bright you shine!
Outshining their huge piles of loot!
The warriors were plundered
and left there impotent.
And now there’s nothing to them,
nothing to show for their swagger and threats.
Your sudden roar, God of Jacob,
knocked the wind out of horse and rider.

7-10 Fierce you are, and fearsome!
Who can stand up to your rising anger?
From heaven you thunder judgment;
earth falls to her knees and holds her breath.
God stands tall and makes things right,
he saves all the wretched on earth.
Instead of smoldering rage—God-praise!
All that sputtering rage—now a garland for God!

God is a warrior and He has never been, and will never be, defeated. We are his warriors and even though we will win through God’ glory and grace in the end, we will suffer hard blows and devastating defeats. This Bible passage is an encouragement in those dark times. It is a picture of the aftermath of battle with a day of peace and praise on the horizon.

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Bible School Failed Me.

My church, my Sunday School teachers, my Christian School teachers, my Youth Group leaders, and my Catechism class all failed me.

I went to church growing up, both morning and evening services. I attended Sunday School almost every morning it was offered. I went down to Children’s Church and Children’s Worship and listened to the stories and sang the songs.

In high school I attended youth group regularly and my Jr and Sr year I went to Catechism on Wednesday nights.

I have attended Christian schools from kindergarten through my undergraduate degree.

I thought I had the stories down. I thought I knew all the great Bible characters. Bible trivia was never a problem for me. I even have the Old Testament books of the Bible memorized in order, and I used to have the New Testament memorized as well.

This isn’t supposed to be a list of why I am so awesome, not at all. This is to make a connection to those who have a similar background. This is to show that organized religion can organize around certain ideas and stories and leave out others that do not fit our picture of God’s love and kindness.

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I Would Like To Tell You A Story of God’s Victory. Part Two.

“I would like to tell you a story of my victory. Unfortunately, that seems to be a story of another day.” Oh how wrong I was . . .

The first post I put up on July 4th was on my other blog, ended with the quotation, and my second post ended with the full quote above. I had suffered a lot of pain that day, physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. That first post was written while my pain was still fresh and the day was still young and the second was written as a new day had dawned.

When the tears had subsided and when I had unloaded my heaviness, telling James all of the lies that I had been hearing and had been believing and might still believe, we took a nap. I woke up a couple of hours later not knowing what I would do with the rest of this painful day.

I went on my computer. Wasted some time on iwastesomuch.com and read some blogs. One of the blogs I followed had posted about a failure they were struggling with and trying to learn from, so I thought I would take my fresh pain and turn it into some prose as well. Writing “I Would Love To Tell You A Story of My Victory” on my Ripples in Culture blog.

I then moped around for a bit. Slightly uplifted from the blogs I had read and some inspirational images I had stumbled across. I asked James to make me some home-made mac n’ cheese and I started my bubble bath. This combination may sound strange to you, but James will easily tell you that this is my routine when my body and my mind need some healing.

I was in a half daze. Trying to pull myself out of this funk and yet the old me enjoying it. Like a pig wallowing in the mud, welcoming this gunk and enjoying the feeling of it covering me up so I can hide.

I hunkered down on the couch to watch James play some video games, Dragon Age 2 to be exact. On the coffee table were  the two books that I had been given by one of the members of our congregation. This lady is a wonderful and lovely woman, but I fear very misunderstood, even by me. She makes me feel uncomfortable. She likes to hug people, especially those that she knows who are hurting. And she likes to linger. She is a little socially awkward wonderfully sprinkled with lacking personal space.

She is one of the most amazing children of God I have ever met. When it comes to giving and sharing she is beautiful at it. She was there when I shared my testimony and has been reigning hugs down on me ever since. She shared with me part of her story and showed me the scar that was left from her own self-mutilation. I was then handed a card with a poem she wrote for me, a gift of a glass crystal that makes rainbows in the sunlight (I had shared how I used to love colorful gifts as a child, but had lost some of that to my dark depression), and two books called Walking With God and Waking the Dead, both by John Eldredge. She told me that they had helped her and some of what I said in my testimony had reminded her of those books and she hoped that they would help.

So I picked up Walking With God and started to read. It only took one page and I wanted to cry . . . and to laugh.  I also wanted to chuck the book across the room and forget it existed. The words hit too close to home. I had been opening myself up, or trying to at least, to the Spirit. I had been pouring out concerns and hopes to our mentors trying to figure out why God still has us living in Fargo. We have been here for two years now, and I had only been thinking we would be here for one. I wanted to move to Chicago, but every year when our lease is up for renewal we find a good reason to stay. We renew again next week.

I mentioned during my last post that I had been seeking, but had not been finding. It was my fault. I was not really opening up. The part inside of me that likes to do things on my own was taking over. I should be able to fix myself. So with that and the lies of the demons I was made deaf.

This book was all about how to seek intimacy with God, how he craves that from us, and how we should seek to hear him, and how we should crave that as well. Darnit, my crappy day was bound to get better.

I read and read and read. Stopping only for a moment as we got ready to drive out to a campground to visit our friends, our mentors, and their family for some campfire, somes s’mores, and some games. I read in the car down there. We hung out, and I was okay. I actually smiled and felt happy. There was very little time for serious talk, so I was not able to discuss in length the problems I had been having that day, too many other people around. But I was still doing alright. We played some pinochle, and of course girls rule and boys drool, we crushed them.

I read on the way home. I was hooked. I was mesmerized. My eyes and ears were starting to be opened. During the car rides that day, while I was reading, my ears would perk up to a song here and there. We had our radio tuned to the Air One station, it plays some awesome Christian music. And every time my ears would perk up for a song, it was one that was a song that my soul longed to sing. Music can be such a counselor and such a healer sometimes.

By the time I laid my head down that night I was a new person. I no longer wanted to recede back into the old me. I no longer believed Satan’s whispered lies. I wanted to run the race set out before me, full sprint.

And tomorrow would be a new and wonderful day, with a new gift from God. . .


I Would Like To Tell You A Story of God’s Victory. Part One.

Blooming Rose

Ask me again in twenty years, and I will probably tell this story differently. Ask me again in a week and I may have a different view. But ask me at any time what I did yesterday and I will tell you that I started to celebrate real freedom.

Yesterday was the 4th of July! A day for being patriotic by wearing American flag shorts. A day for being with family and blowing up a bunch of things together. A day to celebrate no work by boating, bbq’ing and guzzling beer. A day, where I did none of that. This fourth was not a typical one for me. I did not dress up or really spend much time outside. I neither watched or launched fireworks. I did have a few sips of a beer while playing Pinochle I guess.

What I did on the fourth of July was watch a terrible day unfold into a turning point. I started to experience freedom in a way that I had never had before.

Bright and early on the fourth my husband, James, and I woke up and dressed to run the 10k we had signed up for with some friends (if you want to read about it more in detail you can go to my other blog here). I fell apart during the second mile and the race was a crushing defeat to me mentally. We came home with me limping, as my right foot had opened up old blisters and formed some new ones during the race. We came home with my eyes filling with tears, even more tears than the ones shed when I had to stop and walk that morning. We came home to all of the brokenness I had been facing in the past weeks crashing down on me in the form of every single old lie that was whispered to me during the worst days of my depression.

I wobbled toward my bed, my leg muscles beginning to stiffen from the run, and I crashed down into it. When my husband joined me I started sobbing, admitting defeat, and repeating all the lies that had been running through my head. I was done. I was not a runner and I should not be running races. I was passed by the old and the young, the fit and the unfit, we ended the race with only a few behind us. This was not meant for me. I am weak and pathetic. I will NOT run another race again.

Then the rest of it came pouring out as well.

You see, I had painted a target on my own back during the last couple of weeks, and the weekend before to be sure. I had issued a challenge to Satan during the last month of my life. My husband and I had started to take some big steps in our faith walk together. Our relationship with God was really blooming as we prayed more, read the Bible more, and talked more about our faith. We had found some wonderful spiritual mentors. We had made friends with a couple in their 30’s, who act like they are in their 20’s, and have created a family bond with them as we go over frequently to play games and to be mentored by them. They are blessed with many spiritual gifts. Him being the pastor of our church and her being his wife who is like me in so many ways it is scary! (But scary good!)

And last weekend was just adding the cherry on top of this Satan maddening sundae. Our church, both the traditional morning group and our international afternoon group, held a Prayer and Restoration conference. Our pastors wanted a time for us to step outside our normal church experiences and allow the Spirit to move and give us time to pray silently and come forward and have others lay hands on us and pray for us. We were thrilled to attend every service, one on Friday, two on Saturday, and two on Sunday, each of which lasting about 2 hours filled with listening to many people share their testimonies and singing praise to God. We also got an overload on doing what we love, singing and playing guitar for our praise team. That weekend was full of practicing as we had three services to sing for, each of which needing a half an hour of song.

Then, on Saturday, I stood before a mixture of our congregation and the international group and aided by an interpreter I shared my personal testimony. For the first time, I spoke out about my struggles with depression and cutting. I shared how God helped me learn to trust in him, to give my hurt to him, and to not struggle on my own. And I shared something I had only shared with six people before this. I shared the miracle that God gave to me.

I was warned by my mentors to prepare for what I had opened up. For what pleases the Lord angers the demons in our lives and the joy that I was riding on that weekend was probably going to be assaulted. So war struck up against me during my weakest moment, limping along on a 10k that I had been worrying about for weeks.

Along with the worries of my run I had been carrying a lot of weight concerning my future. I had recently left the comfy job at the bank to pursue my passions and to search for what God is calling me to do. So far, this has included putting in 10 hours a weak helping a Christian counseling center with marketing, social media, event planning and fundraising, putting my writing into practice with my blogs, and looking into a public speaking career. I had been searching for guidance, and hearing very little. This lack of guidance was more me putting most of my faith in myself and thinking of my gifts as my talents, not putting my faith in God and seeing my gifts as the blessings he has given me. It was not his silence, but my lack of listening.

After the sobs for the 10k started to cease and I had shared how worthless I had felt that morning, my husband could do nothing but hold me as a new onslaught began and through my fresh tears I vented all. That 10k had been symbolized my life as I ran it. I had started out with a promise, with a hope. I had showed that I had some talent previously and now I should be able to do better. I should be able to finish stronger. But instead I watched as others did better, were rewarded, and enjoyed their run. They did not deserve it. I deserved it. I was more athletic than them, I was prettier than them, I was more talented than them. . . . or was I? No, I am losing at this race, losing at this life, and being passed by others because I am worthless. I am a failure. I am ugly. I am nothing.

The thoughts of my depression in high school. The lies Satan has whispered to me more times than I could count transferred over into my new life. “You will not succeed at this new marketing job. Sure it is what you love and what you went to school for, but you lack the talent and lack the drive. So don’t try to hard, for if you try really hard and you fail it will hurt and everyone will be disappointed in you. Writing? Ha. You gave that up years ago. Sure your high school English teacher loved your words and encouraged your talent. But you learned the truth in college when others were better and your professor was shocked by your misuse of punctuation and sentence structure. A public speaking career?!?! Are you serious? You think your measly experience on the speech team will help you with that? What about that one year when the rest of your team made it to sectionals and you cried like a baby outside because your name did not appear on the list? You have no talent there. . .”

Whisper. Whisper. Whisper. “Give up. Survive like you did in high school. You are raw and you hurt from this past month of opening up and trying to grow. It is useless. You hurt. So scab up. Take the old shield of fake smiles, sarcasm, and social norms that you hid in during high school and live behind it again. It hurt less then. It disappointed less. If you do not try, you cannot fail. You hate being a failure right? So why set yourself up for it?” Whisper . . .

If you had clicked over and read my other story of this day, the one I had written after waking up from my nap that followed my run and my tears, you had seen that I had entitled it “I Would Like To Tell You A Story of My Victory” and I had ended it with “I would like to tell you a story of my victory. Unfortunately, that seems to be a story of another day.” Oh how wrong I was.