Tag: Christianity

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Practically Peter

Easter Lillies

Easter is easily one of my favorite holidays and seasons. I mean, it’s full of cute baby farm animals, bacon’s red-headed step-child (ham), and flowers. Those things alone would make the heart of this sunflower rancher’s daughter burst with girlie joy, even if those were the only wonderful parts of this season… But they’re not.

This season is centered around God and his beautiful recreation of the world: the way that His redemptive power was personified through the death and resurrection of His Son, the unimaginable love that He showed for His people through Christ’s sacrifice, even the way that he continues to use imperfect people to build up a church to serve a Holy King. It all just makes my heart burst with joy!

As I sat and reflected on John 18 this week after Gospel Community, John’s account of Peter’s denial of Jesus in verses 15-27 struck something within me.

Simon Peter followed Jesus, and so did another disciple. Since that disciple was known to the high priest, he entered with Jesus into the courtyard of the high priest, but Peter stood outside at the door. So the other disciple, who was known to the high priest, went out and spoke to the servant girl who kept watch at the door, and brought Peter in. The servant girl at the door said to Peter, ‘You also are not one of this man’s disciples, are you?’ He said, ‘I am not.’ Now the servants and officers had made a charcoal fire, because it was cold, and they were standing and warming themselves. Peter also was with them, standing and warming himself. Now Simon Peter was standing and warming himself. So they said to him, ‘You also are not one of his disciples, are you?’ He denied it and said, ‘I am not.’ One of the servants of the high priest, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off, asked, ‘Did I not see you in the garden with him?’ Peter again denied it, and at once a rooster crowed.”

Just hours earlier, Jesus had predicted that Peter would deny Him three times before the night was up. And what do ya know; Jesus’ prophecy came true.

Weird, right? It’s like Jesus knew Peter’s deceitful heart ahead of time and still loved Him despite it.

After re-reading John 18, I feel like I can relate to Peter the most out of all of the apostles.

Peter was a go-getter. An absolute hot mess of a go-getter.

I mean, if we look back in the first few verses of chapter 18 of John, Peter cuts off one of the ears of a guard who has come to arrest Jesus. He was well intentioned, but he got a little too excited in trying to defend Jesus and cut off the dude’s ear. (Oops.)

And then there was that time at the Last Supper when Peter told Jesus, “Though they all fall away because of you, I will never fall away.” (Matthew 26:33) Peter was absolutely in love with Jesus. He openly stated that He was willing to go anywhere, even to his death for his King.

Then this whole denying Jesus three times thing happens hours later and I’m left scratching my head thinking, Where the heck did the ever-devoted Peter go? How could he just abandon Jesus like that?

Aaaaaand then I remember who I am.

I am a woman who seeks after God in her own spastic, go-getter fashion. I love Him more than I love everything else in the world combined and I know that I would go to my death for my King.

And yet I am still an anxious, control-freak who tries to play it cool, yet always ends up cutting off someone’s ear (okay, it’s usually my own ear) in a moment of indiscretion.

I have a big mouth and if it’s not closely monitored, my God-given wit can be sharp and biting.

I am a passionate person and when I don’t use my passion for God and good instead of evil, (See look, I make pop culture references sometimes…) I easily fall into the traps of lust.

All of this to say, I am a hot mess, and yet God is using me anyway. Just like He used Peter, and just like I’m sure He is using you.

God has built His church out of screw ups and sinners… Screw ups and sinners whom He loves and is redeeming.

Peter went on to be one of the pillars of the early church and yet there he stood, just hours after His King had been arrested, and essentially spit in His face by denying Him not once, not twice, but three times.

I think that we often fall into the lies of “I’m not good enough to be loved by God” or “There’s no way that God could love me after I have [insert your supposedly unforgivable sin here].”

Yet He does.

He sent His Son to die for us because He is a forgiving Father who constantly redeems our stories.

He forgave and redeemed Peter, one of the people closest to Him on this earth, after he denied Him three stinking times.

God continues to forgive and redeem me when I put my foot in my mouth or when I figuratively cut off an ear in my own zealousness.

That truth is what this season is about. Easter isn’t about little chickens, candy, or visiting a creep dressed up in a rabbit costume at the mall.

Easter is about God and indescribable the way that He loves us, even when we spit in His face or trip and fall flat on our own faces after denying Him.

God is seeking to use you.

Will you let Him love you? Will you let Him use you in His Kingdom? Are you willing to let go of your shame and brokenness and let Him guide and redeem you?

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Un-Stuffing My Identity

packed car

“It’s just stuff, Kacy. Calm down.”

Sunday was the day; the day that I had too much coffee around noon, got over ambitious, & began packing away my life, box by box, and donation bag by donation bag.

I’ve known that the day was coming… That dreaded day when I would eventually have to sort out my necessities (which will be moving with me this summer), my clutter (which has been bagged for Goodwill), and well, the rest of my life (which is being boxed & thrown into storage until my move to Texas, eight-ish months from now).

All of this separating, boxing, and bagging has made me realize something about myself:

I’m an incredibly sentimental person.

The moments that I cherish the most are those that I spend with the people I love, and I love having things around me to remind me of those moments or the times when God has shown up in my life.

My apartment is full of such items: the mural I painted on my wall, the photos of family and friends that hang in my kitchen, my grandfather’s typewriter, my great-grandmother’s Bible, my favorite books, and my journals full of stories…my stories…

I cherish all of these things, not even because of their earthly value, but because of the ties that they have to my little sentimental heart.

And as I boxed them up and stared at the empty space on my shelves and walls last weekend, a part of me began to panic.

This is seriously happening. I am giving up everything that makes me comfortable and walking into the unknown.

My heart jumped into my throat and I wanted to rip the packing tape off of my boxes and replace everything back into its proper home.

I realized that I have grown attached to my stuff and not just in a cute, sentimental way, but in a way that has led me cherish my stuff and my memories over my King.

In my apartment, surrounded by my properly placed stuff, I know who I am.

Actually, no, that’s not true either. In my apartment surrounded by my properly placed stuff, I am comfortable with who I have become. And because of this I am not actively trying to be the woman who God has created or called me to be.

In my stuff-y comfort zone, I am not being courageous for the Kingdom, I am not being a steward of what He has given me for His glory, and I most certainly am not declaring, “I am a daughter of the King and I long to know nothing except Christ crucified”.

No. Instead, I have been sitting here in my comfort zone being a wimp  a wimpy hoarder of blessings   a wimpy hoarder of blessings who would rather set her identity in the earthly junk around her instead of within her Heavenly Father and His call upon her life.

Do I really want my identity to come from the world?

No.

Do I want to be reminded of my identity by all of the stuff in my life?

Yes… I mean no.

Do I love my stuff more than God?

No… Yes…. I mean, no. Definitely not.

This whole experience of giving up the cute life I have worked so hard to build for myself and follow God into the unknown simply reconfirms everything that I already knew about myself; I’m a mess.

A stuff-y mess.

But gosh darn it, by the end of this month I will be a less stuff-y mess. In fact, I will be a less stuff-y, homeless, nomadic mess…

Eeesh, things I can’t think about right now. One step at a time…

For now, I am simply working on not panicking every time I seal a box or take a load of my stuff to storage.

What is God calling you to leave behind today?

For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what shall a man give in return for his soul?”

(Matthew 16:26)

 

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Being Made Whole

Abuse says a lot about a person. In some cases the abuser is crying out for help. In others, the abuser is attempting to make someone else cry in order to project the pain in their hearts onto someone else.

I went to school for a ton of different things (veterinary technician, English teacher, pre-med., film production, and theater acting, just to name a few) but I never went to school for psychology, so I can’t give you the exact explanation of what abuse says about an abuser.

I can however, tell you some of the things that abuse says to the abused.

Abuse says you’re worthless.

Abuse says you’re weak.

Abuse says you should be filled with shame for the part you have played within a certain situation.

Abuse says you deserve everything that has come your way.

Abuse says you are flawed.

Abuse says you are unlovable.

Abuse says you should keep your mouth shut.

Abuse says that the abuse will only get worse if you speak up.

Abuse says you’re the only one that feels this way.

For years I have foolishly listened to the things that my abuser(s) and abuse have spoken into my life.

But recently things have begun to change. Roughly a month ago, I felt God open the door for restoration and healing of some of the worst abuse in my past; abuse so dark and deep seeded that I had never told anyone about it. So when the opportunity for healing first came, my answer was a no brainer.

I said, “Oh hell no.” and slammed the door to healing shut, right in God’s face.

But true to His loving nature, the door swung back open less than a week later– A door which I promptly slammed shut once again… Only to have it swing back open yet again a few days after that…

Annoyed, it became fairly obvious to me that I was going to have to deal with my past.

For the first time in my life, I confided in a good friend about the abuse that riddled my past. For weeks I sobbed and screamed and was absolutely miserable as I worked to lay my pain and brokenness at the feet of Jesus.

Why are you making me walk back into this?! Why now?! Can’t we do this at a less stressful or more opportune time when I’m not trying to balance grad school, teaching, and having a social life? What the heck God!

What. The. Heck!

For the first time in years I was hit by wave after wave of depression and anxiety attacks, sometimes so vicious that I literally had to give myself a pep-talk just to get my tush out of bed in the morning or get out of my car and walk into work. Part of me was dying to talk about everything, but another part of me continued to listen to the voice lingering in the back of my head:

“Don’t say anything. No one will understand.”

And this is the state that I found myself in at the beginning of my students’ spring break leadership retreat– a trip that I was chaperoning.

In the days before the retreat, I began to second guess whether or not I should even go on the trip. After all, how was I supposed to lead a group of teenagers closer to God when I couldn’t even talk to God without spontaneously combusting? But against my better judgement, last Friday one of my co-workers and I packed two vehicles full of students and snow gear, and headed to Yampa, Colorado for a weekend away.

Fish&CrossRanch

On our first evening of the retreat, our students were all given the opportunities to tell their stories– the good, the bad, and the ugly of what had landed them at the Street School and how their lives had changed since becoming a Bulldog. After hours and hours of listening, laughing, and crying together, we called it a night and retired to our respective rooms.

As I was sitting on my bed reading, one of my girls came in, plopped down on my bed, and asked if we could talk. There, in a room 150 miles away from our homes and comfort zones, we exchanged pieces of our stories that had been shared with only a select few– stories of hope, pain, and the beautiful redemption of God. And in a way that only God can do, a piece of my heart was healed that night– the piece that had long been kept isolated by the fear of my past.

The next evening after dinner and group Bible Study, I felt a pull on my heart to share my story– the very same story that I have kept under wraps for over a decade. As all of my students were going to bed, I called an “emergency girly meeting” and all of my girls congregated in my room. In possibly the most clumsy and panicked way, everything I had been holding in for weeks came pouring out. At the end of my bizarre spew of words and tears, I looked up to see all of my girls staring at me with wide eyes.

Terrified, I tried to adjourn our meeting. Telling them that I didn’t know why I felt like God was telling me to say all that, but I was just trying to be obedient… and yeah… that they could all go back to their rooms if they wanted… or that they could stay and talk… or hangout… or whatever…

As I sat there and rambled, I expected them all to hop up and walk out, but no one moved. I tried yet again to adjourn the meeting, stumbling over even more awkward words.

Still nothing.

Slowly, after a few more moments of awkward silence that made me want to crawl out of my own uncomfortable skin, variations of the phrase “me too” were echoed throughout the room and the stories that had been shared the night before were expanded upon. Stories that we had all held in for years, out of fear of judgement or misunderstanding, became common ground and “No one will understand” became “I understand and I promise to walk beside you through this.”

And there, in the basement of the Fish and Cross Ranch, through tears, laughter, and stories God began to heal the hearts of five of His beautiful, beloved daughters.

Abuse tells us to keep our mouths shut– that our stories aren’t important, that no one will understand. But this weekend through the grace of God I learned that is the exact opposite of the truth.

How beautiful is it that He has blessed us with community, so that we never have to walk through life silent or alone?

Through Him, all things are made whole.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

~Psalm 147:3

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What drowning is

Picture 5

I absolutely adore Denver and its little, big city feel. Not even an hour from the mountains, it is the perfect place for nature and city life to collide. One of my favorite places on earth is in the heart of downtown Denver at the Platte Riverbed right in front of REI. Every summer since my early teen years, I have made this little section of downtown my sanctuary.

In the midst of one of the busiest strips of downtown the water rushes over the rocks, forming tiny pools which are perfect to sit in waist deep and read. With my toes in the gritty city sand, my shoulders in the sun, and my eyes fixed on the faux-skyscrapers downtown, I am at peace.

A few years ago, I invested in a hybrid (road & mountain capable) bike and would ride the 13.1 miles from my apartment in Aurora to the riverbed at least once a week, if not everyday. Biking quickly became my escape from the busyness and chaos of working and being in college full time. When I was flying down the Cherry Creek Trail with the wind rushing over my body, I was independent, I was stress-free, I was finally able to breathe.

At the end of my ride, I would chain up my bike, slip off my backpack and shoes, grab a book from my bag, and slide my lower body into the river. And there I would sit, for hours at a time. Occasionally, if it was a warm day and there were a ton of people at the river, I would precariously cross a portion of the river to the island dividing the river in two, and I would lay there, drinking in the sunshine and cool breeze.

But one July day in 2011, my independence and over confidence got the best of me. As I proudly made my way across the slimy, moss covered rocks under the rushing water, I lost my footing and went down into the river, which promptly sucked me down stream.

Suddenly, all of my knowledge of swimming from years of swim team was gone. As I went gushing down the river and through the rapids. I flailed and flipped, hitting my head, arms, and ankle on the rocks. I couldn’t orient myself in the water and gasped for air when I thought that I had managed to force my head above water, only to realize that I had just breathed in a mouthful of dirty river water and sand. I’m going to die in this river. It’s just that simple. I’m doing to die, all because I didn’t want to sit next to those bratty kids… I thought as I attempted to grab onto the solids objects I was slamming into. But each time, my fingers lost their grip and I tumbled on.

After what seemed like years, but what I’m sure was less than a moment or so, I managed to get my head above water and threw myself toward the sand bar that drags out from the tiny island I had been delicately trying to reach only seconds before.

The book I had clutched in my hand and the sunglasses that had previously been perched on my nose were both gone and as I knelt in the sand, spitting water and God-knows-what out of my mouth, my heartbeat slowed down and eventually I realized I was going to be okay. After another few moments, I was able to turn around and swim across a less choppy part of the river, back to the side where my bike and other belongings were awaiting me.

I didn’t get back in the river that day. I was far too embarrassed. Instead, I slid my feet back into my Toms, put my helmet on, and got out of there as quickly as possible, riding the 13.1 miles home covered in cuts, watered down blood streaks, and moss-stains.

I don’t think that I went back to the river the next day. In fact, now that I think about it, it might have been nearly a week before I had the confidence to bike back to my sanctuary and give my daily routine another try. After all, I loved it far too much to stay away for long.

~

I write this, not simply to reiterate a pathetic near death experience, or to show what a chronic over-exaggerator my brain can be when faced with an emergency situation, although this story would serve both purposes.

Instead, I write this to say that this is what healing from trauma feels like. Trauma feels like you’re drowning in your own life. You slam into things that you would typically be able to gently grasp onto and every unplanned flip and flail leaves you feeling bruised and raw.

And healing? Healing feels like every time you think you have found the surface, you breathe in sand and water instead of the air that you so desperately need… at least the first few times.

For those of you who have never experienced trauma, I hope you never do. But for those of you who know what it feels like to drown in your own life and circumstances, you know what it feels like to think that you are fine one moment, then slip and fall, and fall, and fall, and think that you will never make it back to dry land.

But eventually, you will break through to clean air and take a deep breath of mountain air instead river water and sludge. Eventually, you will be able to stand up and swim back through the thing that nearly killed you. Eventually you will be able to get on your metaphorical bike and experience freedom again.

I write this also, as a much needed reminder to myself that as I tumble through this slimy, cruddy season of healing that some day, I will be okay. And not because I am an incredibly adept swimmer or some super human who is great at dealing with trauma, emotion, and panic attacks (ha!), but because I serve a God who will never let me drown in life. He is ever present and perpetually filling my lungs back up with His Spirit of fresh air when I am choking.

Someday I will be okay. Today may not be that day, but I know deep in my soul that some day, I will be back on my bike in the sunshine and mountain air.

But now, O Jacob, listen to the Lord who created you. O Israel, the one who formed you says, ‘Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine. When you go through deep waters, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown.'”

(Isaiah 43:1-2)

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Broken bread & poured out wine

bread_wine

Roughly once a month I have the privilege of serving communion at Scum of the Earth Church. According to our church’s tradition, I serve with another person and we stand side by side, holding either the bread or the wine. As our fellow Scum come to partake, they break off a piece of bread then dip it in the wine as my fellow servant and I say, “This is the body of Christ, broken for you.” “This is the blood of the Christ, shed for you.”

Sometimes it’s easy for my brain to switch into auto-pilot while serving communion, after uttering “This is the blood of Christ, shed for you.”, “This is the blood of Christ, shed for you.” “This is the blood of Christ…” for the tenth or fifteenth time. While my mouth utters, “This is the blood of Christ, shed for you.” my brain is drinking in all of my surroundings. As my mind slips away, I begin tapping my foot to the beat of the worship band singing behind me. While I stand there, there are wonderfully quirky people to watch, and of course I usually am keeping an eye on who is coming down the communion line, trying to gauge whether or not we grabbed enough bread or gluten free crackers. I become distracted & my brain switches into auto-pilot, causing my mouth to say those same nine words over and over again without actually considering them.

But Sunday as I uttered the phrases of communion and simultaneously people watched, I was caught off guard by something. As I stood there, wine goblet laced in my fingers, some of the liquid dripped off someone’s chunk of bread and drizzled down my fingers before dropping at my feet in the dimly lit room.

This is the blood of Christ, shed for you.

I don’t know why, but that time the words resonated in my soul as I looked into the eyes of a young woman who I’ve never seen before and said them.

~

Lately I’ve been incredibly guilty of zoning out and auto-piloting my way through life like I do when I serve communion. I wake up, wash up, drive to work, teach my kids, then head from work to potluck/bible study/gospel community/school/home without even thinking about it. At this point, I feel like I could complete my lather-rise-repeat routine in my sleep.

Saturday, a day before the cool wine running down my fingers snapped me out of my proverbial daydream state, I got another wake up call. This last weekend one of my best friends and I decided to road trip to see another friend up in Vail. On an adventurous whim Saturday afternoon, I applied for a summer job as a nanny up in Vail.

Much to my own personal shock, I got an e-mail back almost immediately requesting that I set up a time for a phone interview sometime this week. As I read the e-mail to my girlfriends, I squealed with excitement. Could I really have the opportunity to move from my tiny apartment in the city up into one of the most beautiful cities in Colorado for the summer? This was great! I would get to spend time in my beloved mountains before my move to Texas, I would have an opportunity to be outdoors (and away from the dreaded 100 degree Denver summer heat), and I would be able to have the adventure that I’ve been craving in the midst of my boring daily routine.

And then it hit me.

Holy crap. I am talking about giving up my cute little home that I have worked so hard to make my own, packing all of my stuff into boxes, and shoving them into a storage unit. Not only that, but I would be forfeiting my cherished time off, and the ability to see my friends and family whenever I chose. Am I really willing to do that?

As I sat in my rocking chair in said tiny apartment the next morning, I looked around. I can’t give up all of this. I have my antique book collection, my typewriter, my pictures aligned exactly how I like them, the mural that I painted on my wall… I can’t do it. I can’t give the life I love up. I just can’t.

Just about as quickly as I began to internally panic, the story of the Israelites and their unleavened bread from Exodus popped into my mind.

In Exodus 12, God commands the Israelites to give up leavened bread. He knows that He is about to move mightily amongst the Egyptians through the plague of the first born, and that when Pharaoh releases the Israelites from captivity, that they will need to leave for the Promised Land immediately. They wouldn’t have time to worry about letting their bread rise; they will simply need to worry about following where the Lord was leading them.

~

As I stood there with the communion glass in my hand with the drops of wine at my feet Sunday night, I looked over at the bowl of bread in my friend’s hand and remembered this story that I had been thinking about just six hours earlier.

Just like the Israelites, I need to follow where God is leading me– regardless of whether that is Vail, Pueblo, Denver, or Dallas… I need to go and I need to be free to do so when the time comes. I need to break free from my restricting (yet oddly comforting) daily routine and follow God instead of staying in my own little safety zone.

So over the next few weeks I’ll be separating my necessities from my clutter and packing up my apartment in faith. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know that it will be beautiful. My Texas born friend insists that “The Great Country of Texas” is the promised land; maybe I need to look for my milk and honey down there… Or maybe I will find it in the Rocky Mountains. Who knows…

All of this to say, for the Lenten Season I am giving up leavened bread in a spiritual pursuit of the “spur of the moment” adventure that I feel God calling me to. My comfort zone is, well comfortable… But I know in the depths of my heart that I want God and His Will for my life far more than I want a comfortable tiny apartment for my bread rise in or a lather-rinse-repeat routine where I accidentally forget to include Him because I’m so wrapped up in my everyday life.

Is God calling you to lay something down for Him, that He might give you something else this Lenten Season?

~

31 During the night Pharaoh summoned Moses and Aaron and said, “Up! Leave my people, you and the Israelites! Go, worship the Lord as you have requested. 32 Take your flocks and herds, as you have said, and go. And also bless me.”

33 The Egyptians urged the people to hurry and leave the country. “For otherwise,” they said, “we will all die!” 34 So the people took their dough before the yeast was added, and carried it on their shoulders in kneading troughs wrapped in clothing. 35 The Israelites did as Moses instructed and asked the Egyptians for articles of silver and gold and for clothing. 36 The Lord had made the Egyptians favorably disposed toward the people, and they gave them what they asked for; so they plundered the Egyptians.

37 The Israelites journeyed from Rameses to Sukkoth. There were about six hundred thousand men on foot, besides women and children. 38 Many other people went up with them, and also large droves of livestock, both flocks and herds. 39 With the dough the Israelites had brought from Egypt, they baked loaves of unleavened bread. The dough was without yeast because they had been driven out of Egypt and did not have time to prepare food for themselves.”

(Exodus 12:31-39)