Gather 'round, dear ones. Momma's got a story to tell.
Almost two years ago I was asked by our worship leader at church if I would be willing to contribute to a service they were putting together. They had already approached a musician, a dancer, and a painter, and they wanted me to contribute something in written form. I was to listen to a song and write about how I felt when I heard it. The song was "Beautiful Things" by Gungor, and the first time I played it it instantly buried itself deep in my heart. The song is fantasically amazing. However, at the time I was asked, I was planning on going to a Homeschool Conference in Lansing for the weekend of the service in question, and so I told Moses that even though I was honored to be asked, I would not be able to do it.
Fast forward to the weekend of the service, and it turns out I was home from the conference and was able to be at church that morning. When the portion of the service came that I would have been participating in and the song began to play, I found myself squirming in my seat and feeling very unsettled. I watched these other artists up there using their gifts to glorify God, I witnessed them praising him using the talents he had given them, and I knew instantly I had messed up big time. The truth is, I could have done what was asked of me. I could have found the time. I could have made it work. It would have made me a little more busy, it would have required sacrifice on my part, but I could have made it happen. But instead I had found an excuse not to, and I went about my daily business. I realized right then that I had been called to do something by God and for God, and I had ignored him. I had put myself first. I didn't want to be inconvenienced, so I didn't allow it to happen.
Since that day, almost two years later, I have been plagued by that song, and also plagued by the notion that I missed out on so much blessing because of my disobedience and my selfishness. I would play that song, over and over again, and even though I still loved it just as much as I did the first time I heard it, I could not shake the memory of what I had let happen, and it always left me feeling sad and ashamed. I knew I was forgiven because I had asked to be, but I was also keenly aware of missed blessing and knew that the pain that accompanied it was one of the consequences of my sin. God forgives
every single time, but he doesn't always remove the aftermath. Kinda like when you're naughty, and I have to ground you from something that you love. I will always, always forgive you and love you, but you're still going to have to wait until tomorrow to turn that iPod back on.
Well, to make a long story a little less long, I made a vow that the next time I was asked to do
anything using my writing at church I was not going to say no. And then I got a phone call about six months ago from someone on the Worship Planning Committee asking me if I would be willing to write out my life story and have it read out loud in front of church while I was seated on the stage. As in, in front of the whole church. While I was up there. In the spotlight. With everyone's eyeballs looking at me. And even though
I am terrified of being in front of crowds I felt I had to say yes immediately. Because I knew better than to say no. And so I went ahead and wrote out my story, and went back and forth with the worship leaders a few times to make sure it was the right length, and went to church a few days before the service to have it recorded so they could play it over the sound system, and went home and got properly nervous and nauseous, and didn't sleep the night before because of all the butterflies that had taken up residence in my belly and my throat and my fingers and did I mention all the eyeballs that were going to be looking at me!?!?!?
Anyway. After battling my performance demons that Sunday morning I went to church a little early as I had been requested to do so we could run through the service. I opened the church doors, walked into the sanctuary, and instantly felt like I had been socked in the stomach. But in a shockingly great way. Because guess what song they were rehearsing as I walked in? Guess what song was going to be an integral part of the upcoming service? Guess what song had me bawling two seconds later because of all the redemption and grace that was washing over me? That's right, you guessed it. "Beautiful Things" by Gungor. And it was in that moment that I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing, and God wanted me to know it too. He gave that song back to me that morning. He knew how awful I felt about letting him down before, and he wanted me to know it was okay, and he loved me, and it was time to move on. Which is really ironic, because that's exactly what the song talks about; making beautiful things out of the mess. And that's what he did. He took this mess that was me and my sin and my story, and he made it beautiful for him.
So kids, I'm going to include a couple of things here for you. The first is a link to "Beautiful Things", because it's awesome and you need to hear it, and internalize it, and believe what it says about God and about you. He'll make you beautiful if you let him. Pinky-swear.
The second is the story that I wrote for church. Because, as always, I just want you to know me. And give me hugs and kisses. And hopefully the former will lead to the latter.
I love you guys, more than you'll ever possibly know.
Momma
"Beautiful Things" by Gungor
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJ4yNYY1hHM
My story. Well, I don’t feel as if I have much of a story to
tell, but somebody over here at Calvary seems to feel differently, so I guess
I’ll go ahead and indulge them.
I became a Christian when I was 27 years old. Which is quite
surprising really, considering I had an upbringing that lends itself quite
easily to finding Jesus almost right out of the womb. I grew up in a Christian
home, went to Christian elementary and high schools, participated in Sunday
School, catechism, youth groups, Bible studies, and mission trips, and on a
good day even dared to talk about Jesus to my friends. Out loud. So they could
hear me. I know, gutsy right? I did all the right things and knew all the right
Bible verses and could recite the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostle’s Creed and a
whole slew of Psalms on command. I had myself and everyone around me convinced
that I was a good girl, following the right path, with the box marked “heaven
bound” checked off the list. I was right on track. Nothing to worry about over
here, unless I counted that vague notion that appeared every once in awhile
prompting me to wonder if I really did have it all figured out, if maybe there
was more.
After high school I left Holland and went on to a state
university for college. I didn’t take college very seriously. I had always
loved animals and reading, so I figured I would pursue a major in Fisheries and
Wildlife with a minor in Women’s Literature, because I was sure there had to be
a huge market for that qualification set. I got by in school doing as little as
I could, enjoying the social atmosphere much more than the academic one. While
I didn’t learn as much about Ornithology and Sylvia Plath as I should have, I
did learn very quickly what the cover charge was at every nightspot within a
three mile radius, and which pizza joints would deliver to my apartment after
hours.
Jesus didn’t come into play much for me during those years.
I knew on a very real level that I was not living the life I was taught to
live. I understood that what I was doing was wrong, and on the rare occasion
when I would slow down long enough to recognize the nagging in my heart, the
guilt that followed would become overwhelming. I would cry out to Jesus, asking
him to forgive me, begging him to help me make better decisions, promising him
that if he would just show me how, I would change. But I never gave him the
opportunity. By the time I had dusted off my knees and put my Bible back on my
nightstand I was already feeling better. Better enough to go right back to the
life I was living, the life I thought I had a handle on. And after six years I
eventually left college with no degree to show for it. Enter my shame, and my regret.
After college I moved back home with my parents, and used
what little knowledge I had gleaned from my sporadic class attendance to go to
work for a local veterinarian. I also began dating a nice, quiet, Christian boy
from Zeeland whom my parents loved, and I surprised myself by finding out that
I did, too. Being back in my hometown and being in a relationship with Jason I
found it was easy to slide right back into my role of the good, church-going
Christian girl. And on a good day I even dared to talk about Jesus to the
people around me. Out loud. So they could hear me. I know, gutsy right? I did semi-regular devotions, prayed
when I needed something, and began planning my future. I systematically ignored
the ever-pervasive pull on my heart that maybe something in my perfect
Christian life was lacking, and being busy with wedding planning and house-hunting
made those suspicions easy to ignore.
Not too long after that, Jason and I were married. We
pledged our eternal love for one another before our friends, our family, and
God, and settled into a comfortable life together. More and more in those days
I became aware of an unsettling in my life, a sense that things were really
good but they could be even better. However I couldn’t put my finger on what it
was that was missing, and so once again those feelings were set aside. That fall
two things happened which would change my life. The first one was that we found
out we were pregnant with our first child, our daughter Dana. The second was I
started attending a Bible Study which my mom and sisters had been asking me to
join for years, but I had always found an excuse not to go. This study was different
in that it centered only on the Bible, no outside sources, and it required me to
spend time reading and reflecting on it every single day. And it was there, in
that study but more importantly in his Word, that I finally met Jesus. And it
was in finally meeting him that I realized all those years when I thought I had
the whole “Christianity” thing down pat, I was all wrong. Over the course of
that first year’s study I gradually came to learn that it wasn’t about
memorizing Scripture, and going to church regularly, and feeling semi-comfortable
enough to bring up God in my everyday conversations. No, that was all part of
it, but not the part that mattered. What I found out really mattered was knowing him. And craving him. And
allowing myself to let him work in my life. It was about studying for myself
what he meant when he claimed to be faithful, and good, and just, and it was
about letting myself truly believe that he truly loved me. It was about talking
to him, even when I didn’t know how to, or had no idea what to say. It was about
slowly changing from being uncomfortable in his presence to feeling as if I were
seated next to a friend. At the end of the day, it was about getting out of my
own way, so there was finally some room for him to get into it.
If you fast forward to today, you will find me still in love
with Jason, living out in the country, raising our four incredible children and
trying to remember to feed all the random animals that find their home with us
as well. I homeschool, I drive a mini-van, I read a lot of books, I eat my
fruits and vegetables. My life is a blessedly simple one. And so when someone
from Calvary called and asked me to share my story, and as I read over our
Scripture passage for this morning, I wondered how in the world was I expected
to add anything of any merit to Paul’s story? What could I possibly have in
common with this historically unparalleled man of God? My story is not
dramatic, or heroic, or laden with visions from God. I have never been thrown in prison and threatened with death, and I was not blinded on my way to work, or commanded to change my name and
my life and follow Jesus.
But then it came to me. There is one way in which Paul and I
are similar. One way in which our stories follow the same storyline. And that
is that we were both pursued by the living God. We were both going about our
daily lives, thinking we had it all right, pretty positive we had this
“Christian thing” in the bag; until we found out we did not. Looking back now I
can see all those nudges I disregarded, all those naggings I let fall by the
wayside, all the times I felt deep down that something was missing and I went
ahead and attributed it to a possible case of indigestion, those were the times
when God was close by, gently reminding me of his presence, patiently waiting
for me to see him, ready for me to acknowledge his desire to be a part of my
life. And eventually I did, and I have, and now I can say with all honesty that
I can’t live without him. Just like Paul, once upon a time my life was marked
with bad decisions, with selfishness, and with a misplaced pride in my religion.
And just like Paul, all that changed when I came face to face with the one true God.
And from that day forward my life went from one being marked by sin to one that
is covered in grace, and mercy, and the knowledge that the God who pursued me
in the past will never leave my side in the future.
Today I wake up every day living smack dab in the middle of blessing.
Today I wake up knowing that regardless of the questionable choices I have made
in my past, and even though I still live in the center of the consequences I
face as a result of those decisions, I serve a Lord who loves me, and longs to
cover me with his compassion and his forgiveness, and a Lord who can’t wait to reveal
to me the best possible plan for my life. Today I wake up madly in love with
the God who has had me in his grip from the beginning, the God who never lost
sight of me, and the God who would never, could never, let me go.
My story isn’t an exciting one. I’m not a very exciting
person and I don’t lead a very interesting life. But that’s the part of my
story that I like the best. The very best part of my story is that the God of
the universe will not and cannot rest until I know in the very depth of my soul
that He sees me, He loves me, and I am His.
The End
Addendum: I originally wrote this post about six months ago, but for some reason or another didn't get around to posting it. A few weeks ago I had another request from Calvary to get up on stage and read some words written by Pastor Frank. I agreed, got properly nervous and nauseous the night before, performed my duty at church the next morning, got in the car to come back home, and guess what song was playing on the radio? Guess what song I have never, not once heard on the radio before but which just so happened to be getting airtime that morning? You guessed it. A little song about "Beautiful Things". I was so overwhelmed with the presence of God in that moment, so overcome with his own little way of saying thank you to me for being willing to get uncomfortable for him, and completely awash with the security and the peace that comes from knowing that me, this beautiful mess right here, is and will always be loved more than I could ever possibly imagine.
