Oh, to be young and brave.

I laugh when people call me brave.  They do not see my heart like God does.  I may not be afraid of spiders and snakes, but my fears are vast and intangible.  They loom over my shrinking soul with the grinning taunt of an uncertain path.  

My courage is thin: it flutters feebly against imaginary evils.

Four times in the first chapter of Joshua is the command given: Be strong and courageous.  Four times my forehead wrinkles in a frown of not knowing.  What is a brave heart, and how does one go about getting one?  Bravery is an inspiringly fearful trait.  It is not to be unafraid, but to face the fears you dread.

My battle is not against flesh and blood--I am blithely heedless of things that should concern me, much to the chagrin of my family.  I fear things like disappointment, failure, rejection, condemnation.  My brand of fear closes me off from others, shuts out the world that can hurt me, and replaces hope with dismal apathy.  It is easier not to try than to be rejected.  

While I was auditioning at music schools for college, I avoided as long as possible auditioning for the Cincinnati Conservatory, because I was intimidated by it.  I had been playing harp for only a year and a half when I was accepted as a performance major at this high-quality conservatory.  I chose not to go because financially it would have been hard, but to this day I believe it was the high ceilings and carved doors that really frightened me out of the opportunity of a lifetime.  Oh, the places that I might have gone. 

Four years later, I decided against grad school with the same ingrained beliefs in my inadequacy.  Why even try if I am destined to fail?  The mystic Yoda says that there is no try, therefore in the choice between do and do not, I do not every time.  After all these years, I am surprised to find that Master Yoda, while perhaps being technically accurate, is nevertheless wrong.  It is perhaps good to try.

The Dawn Treader passes through a dark island of fog, where nightmares come true, where Lucy clings to the deck and whispers for Aslan.  Only she hears him whisper back: "Courage, dear heart."

Courage, dear heart.  Have I not commanded you?  Be strong and courageous!  Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.  

I work next to my manager for half an hour during a slow day, silent.  I should be asking him about time off at Christmas, but I am too afraid of the dreaded and inevitable disappointment.  When I get home I find, enclosed in a letter from my mom, a quotation from Francois Fenelon.  "There is only one way to love God: to take not a single step without Him, and to follow with a brave heart wherever He leads."  My heart is not brave in this course of His leading.  It is shirking, shy, slothful to try where it does not expect to succeed.  I run from my potential because I fear not being able to live up to it.  I run from my strengths because I may be forced to learn their weaknesses.

Breathing comes shallow and Aslan's voice whispers again to my cringing soul.  Courage, dear heart.

A Caterpillar's Question

"Who are you?" said the Caterpillar.

Being told all your life to be yourself can be restricting.  Who am I?

I am only too eager to be different, if what I think I am is my identity.  I want to be smarter, wiser, more open, more gracious, always more of what I deem good and less of what I deem bad.  Less private, less awkward, less uncomfortable.  By some God-ordained miracle I escaped from the too common obsession with beauty of a physical and even sexual nature~what could I do about a flyaway shock of red hair and large hands anyway?  Inner beauty is what I have been told to value~goodness, truth, intelligence~and value it I have, to the detriment of all else more grace-filled.

Because of course, constant reminders of inner beauty reminds a young heart that she is filled only with the ugly.  Don't look.  Too dark for holy eyes to see.  "Confidence is the sign of a Godly woman," I heard sharp voices declare, ignorant of the shrinking girl at the edge of the circle.  Already fearful of letting others see, that giveaway lack of confidence grew exponentially, a cloud of anxiety darkening above a young soul.

"You!" said the Caterpillar contemptuously.  "Who are you?"

Who are you? Asked a wise, drugged up caterpillar of a confused girl.  The same caterpillar, this time dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt and carrying books of systematic theology.
Who are you?

Not good enough.
Not smart enough.
Not wise enough.

We fight a battle, not against the innocent others who speak thoughtlessly, but against the merciless, grinning forces of evil who take careless words and spin tales of such worthlessness that battle after battle in this bloody war is lost at a single withering glance.

I seem doomed to failure.  The flaming arrows have for so long pierced my thin faith that I know unmistakably my own wretched ignorance in all that I most wish to be most knowledgeable.  Words continue to come slowly when I most wish for the articulation and clarity to communicate my own thoughts.
Who are you?

Not smart enough.
Not wise enough.
Not good enough.

I don't know how to step outside of my own viewed incompetency into a better understanding of my own skills.  I try to show people what I see and am only frustrated by their dismissal of my sight as warped.  But what is true.  Who am I.  Why do I not understand the truth from outside of myself that others claim to know?
Who are you?

Not wise enough.
Not good enough.
Not smart enough.

Wrestling with my inadequacy makes my shame ever more tangible.  Where is the confident woman of inner beauty who I am supposed to represent?  This fearful specter of some Victorian imagination haunts me with her gentle smile and perfect poise.  She understands the philosophies of ages past, recites all the grandest poetry, argues ever graciously her perfect opinion with easy clarity, and I hate her.  I hate this creature who stands by my elbow wherever I go and corrects my reality with her own falsehood.

Who am I?  Flesh and blood, faulty, hilariously real.  A sinner, bought with Son.  Entirely bought.  No longer slave to mortality and frail faith.

Who am I, asks Valjean in a far grander melody than my own.  Who are you, asks the Caterpillar with obvious scorn.

Who am I?
Not good enough.  Imperfect.  Faulty, but covered in faultless blood.  Once dead, but now alive by Grace alone (around which all other things orbit). I am holy who by her own power is only the chief among sinners.  I stand before all my imagined juries of disapproval and judgment with the grace to be brought to me at the revelation of Jesus Christ.

Keep smoking that hookah, Caterpillar.  Keep reciting your classifications and sage advice, flannel shirted one.  Keep pursuing that inner beauty, you sharp but womanly tongues.

I wear the righteousness of Christ.

The Weak Made Strong

 I once read that people who are accustomed to learning quickly may fail to play the violin, because they are not used to having to work for something.  Conversely, people who have always had to work hard in school or life often learn the violin very well, because they have the patience and tirelessness to play until it starts sounding like it should.

It seems to me that much the same kind of thing happens with courage.  One who is naturally fearless does not know how to be brave when the time comes, and one who is naturally fearful knows how to overcome the fear when the time comes.  I know, because fear has always been my life, and it has made me brave.  

In the same way, people who are always comfortable may not know how to react when they are no longer comfortable, but if every zone is out of their comfort zone, there is nothing to fear in the uncomfortable, for it is normal.  When I am constantly fighting insecurity, I am constantly exercising my understanding of Truth and using the Word of God to fence lies.  My weak insecurity therefore makes me, in many ways, more strong than those naturally secure.  My strength is only perfected in weakness, because I am too weak to be strong naturally.  My security must be fought for with tooth and nail until I stand against the lies of the Enemy with dreaded fierce joy--for joy has to be fierce to stand firm.

"When I am weak, then I am strong," says Paul, placing an oft quoted Christian enigma in front of me.  My infallibly weak self nods in agreement.  Gratitude for my weakness is gratitude for His strength.  Acknowledgement of my failure is praise to His glory alone.  

Insecurity has always been part of my life, as much as fear, as much as failure.  Thank Jesus for it, for if I was secure, and fearless, and practically perfect, I would not be as strong as I am.  

Fighting for Security

Ever since I was very young, and believed with my whole heart that I had to make up for the decrepit sin in me by being holier than other little girls, I have been a terrifically insecure human.  

Ever since I made plans to be a spinsterly aunt to my brothers' children, because I had no reason to believe a man would ever want me, I have been a terrifically insecure human.

Ever since I was seven years old and formed in my mind the theory, confirmed again and again, that people were only around me to be nice, and not out of any real interest in me as a friend, I have been a terrifically insecure person. 

Once I was taught that you battle lies with truth.  But I was taught to fight with squishy truth and a lowercase "t."  Combat, "I will never be married," with, "Someday my prince will come."  Fight, "people are only around you to be nice, and not out of any wish to be your friend," with the nicer and more pleasing, "People love you and want to be around you."  When I wondered whether a certain person was tired of me and no longer wished to be part of my life, I tried to fight the "lies" by making excuses for the other person and justifying their decisions.  It only took my entire life, but in the past few months, I have finally learned the better way to fight insecurities.  

Thanks be to God, my body seems to reject lies.  Last fall I found myself so beset by insecurity and trying so hard with these cheap bandage words to fix my heart, that I lost close to ten pounds and spent a great deal of my time nauseous, or in bed with debilitating migraines.

To heck with that.  Sometimes people don't love you, and sometimes what you wish for is not what God wishes for you.  Who is the Lord?  Maybe that Disney prince will never come.  The Lord is good.  Maybe those children you love so much in your mind will only ever be in your mind.  His mercy endures forever.  Maybe the family you love so much will fall apart.  His will be done.  Maybe that person really is tired of you and finds you lacking.  The Lord is near.

Who is the Lord?  There is my hope and my security.  When I look every day to Who the Lord is, my insecurities and fear of others mean less.  I felt inferior to an entire church body, until the Truth of Who God is meant more than human thoughts of my worth.  I saw people in January whom I feared, and in May, looking at Who God is, I see my joy full because of His presence, and people-judgment doesn't scare me anymore.  
Jesus knows me intimately.  He loves me intimately.  Who fears human judgment when the Lord declares Truth and you hear it?  He reigns forever, and I am but a breath, to pass away in the next moment.  

Whom do I serve?  "One God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible...."  (The Nicene Creed)

The fight goes on in my heart, and some days I am not victorious.  But I still serve the Victor, and that Truth must be enough for every day.  

One Year Ago

I walked out of the sanctuary and Wendy reached out for me.  I burst into tears, overcome by so many emotions at once, not knowing what to think or feel.  The woman who had spoken to us about freedom seemed to fly down the church length to fold me up and speak directly to my heart.
"That was one of the most beautiful, open, vulnerable, stirring testimonies I have ever been privileged to witness." Her hands cupped my tear stained face firmly and she looked boldly into my eyes, daring lies to try to take me now.
"You are a beautiful picture of redemption," she told me, into my years of aching heart, "you take one of my cards and stay in touch with me."  I had a ministry and a gift of communication that God was going to use, she said, as the tears would come and I didn't even try to stop the sobbing.  There was a freedom in not holding myself in.  This woman I respected held me close and prayed for me and spoke the dark away and I could not speak because my heart was too full and my voice could not be found after its loud confessed proclamation.

It has been a year since I stood in front of a church of women and told them the truth I had concealed so well all my life.  People knew before that I was a sinner, but I had to tell them just how much of a sinner stood in their midst, opening her heart and giving them a target for their arrows of judgment and hostility.  But grace always surprises me.  My smallness was made big and I heard chains breaking and felt lives shaking and not only was I blessed to witness the changes, but I was overwhelmingly blessed to be part of their freedom stories.

All those years of deep pain and inability to feel closeness--and fear, always fear, of people knowing me.  Suddenly all of it took on meaning I could never have dreamed.

And all this time later I ask God why the heartache and hurt of the now, and He reminds me of His past works and even my sin is sovereignly declared from the beginning.  So much changes, always changes, but He is the same.  Into His sameness of reality I will walk, ever closer to a Truth more true even than myself.  I take those deliberate steps through trembling, and He always knows what He has prepared for me.

There is now therefore, no condemnation...

One stare was all it took.

Yet another uncomprehending look and the idea dropped away

To give place to memories--all I saw were things I could not say.

A star glitters behind a storm

Alone with its thoughts.

This too familiar scene in which I always push ahead

Saying that they’ll understand, at last, if I just try again.

But not now.

Clouds move fast, but grey stretches far across the sky.

The old infected discontent is only faintly seen but felt

At such a light, so slight and gentle touch.

The dam is burst and through it swirls the muddy stale lies and frustration.

The star gently sparkles behind the moving branches.

There was a girl at whom I glowered, threatened, watched her as she cowered.

Discouragement muttered bitter, low, calling forth dancing,

Unwholesome names shrouded in black to grin at their fallen foe.

The wind shrieks. The twinkle will be lost.

I opened my mouth to speak while into the corner she shrank.

The lash of my whip she knew and shielded herself from my blows.

No pity stays my ruthless heart so hard—“Inadequate. Useless. Incapable girl!”

The star blinks sadly behind the tangled thorny clouds.

It will never be seen.

The clouds are too dark, the night is too fast.

The storm is at its healthiest illness.

Light.

I pause with my arm upraised to strike, someone fighting for my mind.

I try to ignore a relentless voice, but pain at last makes me pause.

A voice from a story.

Don’t touch my girl.

A girl drops the whip and watches it writhe, twisting words and truths.

Don’t say that about my girl, The Voice goes on,

She is beautiful.

I fashioned her long ago and form her spirit now.

She’s come so far and here you are

Disgracing, ashaming that which is Mine.

Don’t say that about my girl.

From the corner where my own words have left me, hurt and angry, I see

A star.

Through the window it shines.

Just a star, revealed and waiting.

“Let Truth shine through,” it whispers.

Falling stars through the pain of rebuke

Glitter and drop from my eyes.

The Voice speaks into the old, fresh wound,

Don’t say that about my girl, He says,

I have called you by name, you are Mine.

The star disappears behind the darkness. Its purpose here is served.

I have my own star to protect from the storms.

I have my own star to reveal.

“No more, father of lies,” I say aloud with brightening eyes,

“I am chosen. He has done it. Death has died.”