“You’re amazing…I just wanted to tell you that, because I doubt that it’s something you hear too often.” This Perfectly imperfect woman– beaten up by voices she carries around in her head. Voices that tell her she’s not good enough, not pretty enough, not lovable. Voices she has believed through her life, filling her with self-doubt and given credibility by the harshness of another person’s weakness.

A little girl holding her Raggedy Ann on her 8^thbirthday. I’ll bet she did not realize Raggedy Ann would become symbolic of a tattered life, filled with pieces of loveliness and brokenness, wrapped up like the presents surrounding her 8^th birthday cake. When we are told enough that we don’t matter, that we are insignificant, unlovable, we begin to believe.

“I’m sorry for the ways I have failed you…see, I was working on me. I never meant to leave you behind. The weight of your need was too great for my smallness. I wish I could fix what is broken inside of you, just like I wish I could fix what is broken inside of myself, but I can’t.” All these bruised up places, only God can fix.

There is perfection in imperfection. There is One who Perfectly loves our imperfection. One who lifts up Raggedy Ann’s like you and me—all tattered with loveliness and brokenness. One who will never leave you nor forsake you—who is and who was. One who was there with the little girl in each of us when times were scary, when mama bandaged bruised knees and hearts. One who was there on our first dates and first kisses. One who knew we were making mistakes and let us make them anyway, cuz life is about learning from our mistakes.

When we see ourselves in the Light of Christ, the shackles of heaviness fall to the wayside. We are filled with child-like wonder…the wonder that we missed as kids trying to make our way through the perplexities of life– trusting and getting broken, learning and hurting. Smooth edges become rough edges through ups and downs and the curves of life, then we come full circle, rounded again as we lean further into the One who knows our secrets and loves us anyway. One who loves our Perfect imperfection because He created us, Perfectly imperfect.

If I leave nothing else behind in this life, I pray that I leave a trail of hope. Hope that you can walk through years and puddles of tears, toward the One who can carry your burdens and mend all the broken places. Hope that you walk in the sunlight of His voice, rather than voices of judgment, voices that would bind the beauty of your soul, bursting to be set free. 

Come, walk with me…let’s walk toward the Son. Take my hand, you Perfectly imperfect creature. Yes you, Raggedy Ann.  His Glory shines as we shed the weight of imprisoned and impoverished self-image. Do you see it? Look up and walk toward the Glory. Your soul is finally free! 

You and me…both Perfectly imperfect, both loved and warmly embraced in the palm of the One. “You’re amazing“, he says.

 “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.” Hebrews 13:5

There are some who carry burdens that we know nothing of. There are some who hide up in locked apartments, looking out windows, praying for rescue. Rescue from thoughts that torture them. There are some who cannot muster the courage to step outside their front door. Day after day anxiety keeps them hidden from the beauty and recklessness of this world and keeps them from intimacy with God and others. Fear is a place we go when we lack faith. A place that says, “I have been hurt—where were you?”

A man called my office one day. “Pastor Mary?”  “Yes?” I answered. “I need help—you see, they are going to shut my lights off. I don’t have the money to pay my bill.” I asked him to come in and talk about it with me. There was a long, silent pause…”Can I have someone drop it off?” Sure. The ministry paid the bill. Two weeks passed, and I thought nothing of it.

I heard a knock on my office door, “Someone is here to see you. He is waiting in the lobby. He looks very troubled.” Hurriedly, I rush to the lobby. I see a man, hunched over, face wet with perspiration. “Pastor Mary? I rode the bus here to meet you.” Ok?

“You paid my light bill a couple of weeks ago.” Would you like to come into my office?

“Sure“…as he arose I noticed that he was carrying a beautifully old, weathered banjo, hands holding it tightly. I said nothing, just walked toward the door of my office with him following. I knew he had a story to share. Struggles to unload. I saw it in his demeanor and wet brow.

“Have a seat.” He laid the old wooden banjo across his lap. His hands were shaking, and he used his sleeve to wipe the perspiration from his face. “I rode the bus here to thank you. I have not been out of my house in ten years. It was important for me to meet you and thank you. Your kindness helped me get the courage to ride the bus. I brought you something.” He lifted up the old banjo and slid it across my desk. “This was my grandmother’s. I want you to have it. She lived in a remote part of Canada and walked several miles to church each Sunday. She played it at church.”

Sometimes we are so afraid that we never embrace the truth. The truth that we are enough, just as we are. We are worthy. His “thank you” was enough. His presence was enough. His courage was enough. I had done nothing more than extend the hand of Jesus, embracing him through telephone lines. However, the story was more than that. Someone had shown him a small kindness and it became a glimmer of hope to step outside his front door – body shaking, furrowed brow, perspiring – and onto a bus to take a chance. A chance to sit with me awhile and share his story, extending his grandmother’s banjo as an offering for a listening ear.

We talked about feeling trapped and other things. Things that cause a man to hide inside his house for ten years, looking out windows. Things that make a man say to God,  “I have been hurt, where were you?” Things that make a man ride a bus to talk to someone he does not know because she extended a small grace. Things that speak loudly, “I am struggling. I am trapped. Please help. Help me understand what brought me into this place of fear anyway. Help me understand how to overcome it so that I may live fully.“

There are some who carry burdens that we cannot see. Some in the grocery store line who smile, but who go home to care for a loved one who is ill. Some who have been abused in ways too ugly to talk about. Some who fight off the demon of fear and the sense of being trapped and isolated. Some who cannot walk outside the front door because their knees shake too violently. There are some who sit in the pews next to us on Sunday mornings, and we never know that they are struggling. Some, more fragile than others. Some lives turned upside down by a tragedy or life-altering event. Even more have only the television as a constant companion.

Fear can become a God if we let it. A God who feeds on things that have hurt us, experiences, a God who knows our hurts and uses them to insulate us. This kind of God torments its worshippers: isolating us, robbing us, accusing, accounting, laying before us the worst, wiping out hope, trust and faith. The God of Fear desires to make us live smaller lives – lives that are hidden so as not to show the Glory. This God is a liar, a thief, a harbinger of injustice, pain and of worst-case scenarios.

A faithful servant, walked through the back country of Canada to play her banjo on Sunday mornings. She would never have known that one day her grandson would be holed up in his home for 10 years with the demon God of Fear. A grandma who most likely prayed for her grandson. A grandmother whose prayers through the years, even the years after she was gone, gave him a small enough glimmer of hope to step outside, ride a bus and meet someone whom he had only talked to briefly on the telephone. Her faithful prayers brought him to his knees in the quiet of the sanctuary one Tuesday morning in front of the cross, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows, with a small-town preacher. Her prayers helped him break the shackles of fear. Her prayers ignited a small flame deep within that made him crave something greater than everything else in his life: the real and Everlasting God. The God of Truth.

There is a place we can go when we lack faith, a place we can go when fear fills the inner most places of our souls, making everything dark and drowning the light. A place where we are enough, just as we are. There is a place where we are worthy, despite the ravages of humanity, our experiences, despite all of our guilt and shame. There is One with whom you can share your story – He knows it anyway. There is One who gave His life as an offering so that we might have hope, so that we might extend a listening ear.

And somewhere in heaven, there is a grandmother strumming a banjo who knows that her prayers have been answered. Somewhere in heaven there is a grandmother smiling because her faith ignited a small flame in the soul of her grandson, enough to give him the courage to lay his burdens at the feet of an old wooden cross in the sanctuary of a small town church on a Tuesday morning.

After leaving a painful job that left me spiritually and emotionally drained, I was so preoccupied with my experience that it was difficult to see very far down the road. Somewhere in the middle of my trying job situation, I stopped believing that God could give me anything greater than the life of torment that I had been living for several years. Day after day, I was bullied and emotionally battered by the three men with whom I worked. After being in this painful situation for such a long time, I lost sight of the idea that God could rescue me, and that He might use all of those experiences for His good. A friend had a banner made for me with the scripture, “For we walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Corinthians 5:7). This verse became a lifesaver for me as I tried to pull myself out of the drowning thoughts that plagued me.

Deep down I was hurt and angry with God. How could He allow men of God to treat me, a woman of God, so cruelly? How could he allow them to spiritually and emotionally abuse me day after day? Why did he allow them to take the blinders off my eyes? The blinders allowed me to believe that all of God’s people have pure hearts. Why did he allow me to be persecuted for serving him?

Sometimes when bad things happen we begin to question God’s mercy and grace. I remember very clearly a particular morning. I was driving along a beautiful country road on my way to work. The sun was coming up through the trees and I was fretting, crying and praying about enduring another day of torment. The Holy Spirit said to me, “If they tortured the King of Kings, mocking him, hurling rocks and throwing insults, why wouldn’t they do it to you?” I did not feel like I was in a position to leave my pastorate, as my ministry fed and clothed thousands of families. The ministry that I had collaborated with God to build was, in fact, practically its own church, and I nurtured the spiritual growth and well being of its flock. I knew that if I left, the ministry would fold and would affect the lives of people I had cared for.

Daily, I prayed in the quiet of my office for God to show me a way out. I prayed that He would lead me down a new path. I prayed to Him to release me from the stress and trauma of abusive relationships in the Church. I prayed for the welfare of the thousands of people who saw me as their pastor, even though they did not attend church. I prayed that God would continue to provide for the beautiful children I had met and ministered to, making sure they had food in their tummies and warm coats and new shoes for school each fall. The whole of it… the abuse and the thought of leaving were too much for me to handle on my own. God had asked me to serve Him in this ministry, and He was providing more than I ever imagined.

While praying one morning, crying, stuffed-up nose and wadded-up tissues, God spoke to me in a loud and audible voice. “You are released.” I will never forget the calm that came over me, and I instantly knew it was going to be okay. I resigned from my position that morning. I did not know what God had planned for me, nor did I know how my flock would be taken care of physically, spiritually and emotionally. Those things were not up to me. I was just a vessel. God is the master. It was difficult for me to release the ministry and the people whom I had grown to love, but I trusted that God was bigger than me. He always has a plan.

We all go through seasons of struggle, perhaps times when we cannot see what lies ahead. We cannot even begin to imagine what it would look like if our lives were suddenly changed. If you are in the middle of a storm in your life, fighting a battle and praying for direction, remember: “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” God does not always give us a clear path and we often have to walk through storms to get to green pastures, but He always has a plan. When you feel like you are drowning under the weight, do not lose sight of the fact that God can and will show you a way out. Here are some things I picked up along the bumpy path:

My experience of pain has given me in-depth insight into the sinful nature of man. When the blinders came off, I grew in wisdom. We cannot grow in wisdom when we walk around afraid to see things for what they really are, believing falsehoods. Through it, I became more grounded in my relationship with Christ and learned to look to him alone. I realized that I am strong. I experienced abuse and survived. There will always be evil in the world but there will always be good too. Look for the good.

Do not fear what you cannot see. Walk by faith. You are stronger than you know.

¹¹ For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

I sat down to enjoy a cup of cinnamon and ginger tea in the midst of my holiday preparations, which include rearranging furniture, dusting, purging unwanted items and making all things lovely; all part of filling my heart with gratitude for the CHRISTmas child.  Mug in hand, feet up on the old cedar chest positioned as a coffee table, I flip on the television. I normally don’t have enough hours in the day to sit and stare at the silly tube and truthfully, if it were up to me, I would not have one.

Previews of the news flash across the screen with last years images of people packed in like sardines, bodies touching bodies, elbows flinging as they race to be the first ones in the chain stores for Black Friday sales! The newscaster advised that these sales offer great benefit if you want big screen televisions, snow blowers, dvd players, pop corn poppers, cameras and everything else under fluorescent lights. A little grossed out and sickened by the whole making of Christmas a commercial commodity, I thought to myself, and may have even said aloud, “do these people not get it?”

In my lifetime, I have gone through seasons of lack and seasons of plenty. I have battled the keeping-up-with-the-Joneses mindset. I have gone through the 30-something angst that somehow my house and my car and my clothes showed my value. I have had businesses, some successful, some that have failed, climbed my way out of debt just to spiral right back down. What have I learned along the way? Life is best when it is simple.

A couple of years ago, our 150 year old house sustained some damage during a storm and we found ourselves having to move out of the lower half of the house while repairs were done. I was forced with the tough decision of having to put my beloved antiques and collectables in storage or selling them. I chose to sell everything. I wanted to rid myself of all the stuff weighing me down. When the repairs were complete on our house, we had no furniture. A relative donated a loveseat and ottoman, which sat in the living room in a big, open space all by themselves for months. I could finally see the beauty and craftsmanship of our old floors.

Why do we identify the keeping of stuff as worthiness? When difficult things happen in our lives, we begin to see more clearly the things that really matter…and I’ll give you a hint…it isn’t things. No sisters, what really matters is getting right with God in your heart and in your head. Once you begin working on this, gratitude will begin to flow from your pores. What can compare to the death of a loved one, a family member with a debilitating illness or a missing person in your family? Seriously, if you are strong enough to weather storms like this, you know that the big screen television is not as important as you once thought.  You will know that no matter how much money you waste, trying to fill the hole in your heart with things, you are still hungry. You will know that what matters are the old black and white photos you hang on the wall of your grandma and grandpa kissing in front of the Christmas tree. And you will know that what really matters is the curve of a face in your memory or words that were spoken that you will keep for a lifetime because they encouraged you.

Christmas should not be about things. The first gifts – the ones that were brought to the manger by three wise men – were gifts of awe and gratitude. They knew that a Savior was born, One who would change the hearts of many. One who would redeem the messed up world in which we live. One who could…if we let him, bring peace.

We don’t do Christmas in a big way. We keep it simple and reflect upon the true meaning. White lights, like the stars that were shining that special night, and a few brown paper packages. As I dust the 100-year-old dining room table and put in an extra leaf or two, I give thanks. As I sweep the dust bunnies I find hidden under the loveseat, I give thanks. As I shine the bathroom vanity, mop the tile floor and swab the toilet bowl, I give thanks. Setting out my Christmas candles, I give thanks. Lighting the tree for the first time this season, I give thanks. As I pull out the old cardboard box filled with a hand carved wooden manger scene and the baby Jesus, I give thanks. I am preparing my heart for Christmas, the most significant day of my year. The birth of the Christ child.

We gather. We spend precious moments together, breaking bread, celebrating the joy in our hearts at the birth of hope.This is all we need.This is what really matters.

 As the last of the leaves fall, fluttering down to the cold, damp earth, I notice a rose bush standing alone amidst a pool of color  at her feet. Leggy, she reaches toward the sun, holding on to the hope that the cold will not soon come—that the breezy days of summer will somehow stretch just a little longer. I shiver under the layers of clothing I have donned to keep the grasp of cold from reaching deep down into my bones.

A tear of joy and a twinge of sadness blanket my face when I see my elderly neighbor bundled up like a snowman, pruning shears in hand. She is clipping the last of dying flowers and roses from her garden and hands me a beautiful bouquet. “Julia Child roses for you, Mary. She still has some left in her… look at the glorious blooms. She doesn’t want to give up.“

Day after day during the long months of winter, I see her sitting in the sunny window of her Victorian home. As day fades into night I see a single light. She is alone, looking out the window. In the crisp, cold air I dig furiously to plant dozens of white tulips facing her window so she will have something beautiful to see in the spring. During the long winter months of darkness, she will have something for which to hope. She says she dreams of her garden to get her through the long months of solitude. She tells me, “Each autumn I say to myself, “my garden is going to be the best ever this spring.” In addition, I believe her. Gardeners plant hope. With our hands we dig the earth. We plant a seed in the ground, and we bury it in hope. After long months of waiting, we believe a beautiful flower will emerge. New life, and joy.

“Come, let me tell you my story, Mary. My father was a missionary. We traveled all over the world. I ran away at 15. You see, my mother never loved me and my father loved me too much.“

I watched her beautiful, silver hair glistening with the sunlight behind her and her hands worn with years… of tending, pruning, page turning, living. I felt the cold reaching inside trying to get me. My heart cries as she shares her story with me, aches at the depth of her woundedness carried into old age, shaping her days, shaping her life.

Are we all like the leggy rose bush, standing in the cold, damp earth with beauty falling gently around us, landing at our feet? What happens when we reach toward the SON? “Julia Child roses for you, Mary. She still has some left in her…look at the glorious blooms. She doesn’t want to give up.” Despite long seasons of winter and discontent in our lives, dark days and the feelings of being alone and isolated, we have a Father. One who loves us, and His love can never be too much because it is Perfect Love. His Perfect Love casts out all fears, the kind of fears that would cause us to bury the beauty of our souls in days and years of solitude. Fortresses, walls of safety built by wounded hearts…”my mother never loved me…and my father loved me too much“…kind of walls.

Inwardly, I shed tears of joy and tears of sadness that I have made a friend with a beautiful but wounded soul. We have connected on a plane that is visible only through the loving eyes of God. He shows us the heart wounds, cuts to the core and reaches down into our bones. The lady with the stories and silver hair says, “my garden is going to the best ever this spring“, and I believe her. Gardens are better when shared with friends.  She uses her soul wounds to create something beautiful: new life, hope, reaching toward the sun (Son), her testimony planting seeds, defying darkness. Digging for seeds of faith and looking for a Father while mothering her garden with a motherly love that she never knew. “She still has some left in her…look at the glorious blooms.” God can reach down into the cold of our bones, the chilling, low, dark and scary places and turn them into roses, turn them into beauty falling all around us. In the faces we meet, the things we see, how we see them, transforming the wounded child inside of each of us into something that displays His splendor. All gardens, real or imagined. The things we plant, nurture and grow in our minds can become beautiful flowers, new life and joy.

His Love Casts Out Fear.

His Love Tears Down Walls.

His Love Heals Wounded Hearts.

His. Love. Plants. Hope.

In the darkness of your soul, keep the Light on. Keep it on through the cold, damp days of your winter. This too shall pass…”she still has some left in her“, “she doesn’t want to give up.”

Reach for the Son.