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“— for you shall not worship any other god,

for the Lord, whose name is Jealous,

is a jealous God.”

Exodus 34:14

NASB

The Meaning of His Name:

At first glance, this name appears fierce and negative. Jealousy is bad, right? Who wants a jealous boyfriend or a jealous mother? Atrocious damage is done by the possessive jealousy of a relationship gone bad.

But that is not God’s kind of jealous.

God pulled a broken people out of slavery and bondage.

He rescued them and led them to a rich land where they could put down roots and flourish. And as they settled into that land, He hovered over them, protecting them from both predators without and poison within.

He knew then, as He knows today, that other gods will compete for our hearts. He is fully aware of the wiles of the enemy who wants to exploit that unquenchable longing for more.

Eve had everything, yet she was willing to give it all up for the chance of grabbing more. David had more wives than he could ever possibly sleep with, but he just had to add Bathsheba to his harem.

Aren’t you just like them? I certainly am.

God’s jealousy is more about you than about Him. He never forgets that He made you for the express purpose of tight connection with Himself- and He’s not willing to make a threesome of it. What wife is willing to share her husband with another woman? What kind of husband would be okay with his wife gallivanting off on a cruise a couple of times a year with some other guy?

God is jealous for you- all of you. He wants every inch of your heart connected to His. Then He’ll fill you so full of love that you’ll be spilling it all over the people He puts in your life. Leave Him out of the picture and you’ll dry up like a pitted prune.

Is your heart divided? Are you all of His? Is He painstakingly pointing out areas of your life that you keep from Him? Are you sure you want to live that way?

He is, after all… Jealous for you.

From my heart,

Diane

Exodus 34:10-24

Hebrews 12:28,29

Song of Songs 8:6,7

Deuteronomy 4:23,24

Isaiah 33:14,15

repost 2.2011 

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repost from 2.2014

“And now the Sovereign Lord (Master) and His Spirit have sent me with this message:

The LORD (Yahweh), your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel, says: I am the LORD (Yahweh) your God, who teaches you what is good and leads you along the paths you should follow. Oh, that you had listened to My commands! Then you would have had peace flowing like a gentle river and righteousness rolling like waves.”

Isaiah 48:16-18

NLT

“Our children will also serve Him. Future generations will hear about the wonders of the Lord. His righteous acts will be told to those not yet born. They will hear about everything He has done.”

Psalm 22:30-31

NLT

Meaning of His Name:

I didn’t much like my first boss. He was an ex-marine kinda guy- complete with blond crew cut and lace up boots.

He was so mean. I mean he made me clock in on time- to the minute! Didn’t he understand how far I had to drive to get to there? Then I had to find a place in the shade to park my 1972 VW Bug. Its black interior and lack of air conditioning needed a little pampering.

And he made me work. Once when he caught me next door licking the left-overs from the cotton candy shop, he even yelled at me. “Wadda ya think you’re doin? Get back to the grill and flip burgers! Can’t you see there’s a line outside?”

Gosh, give a girl a break.

Along with all the rest of the teenagers who worked at Frontier Village Amusement Park, I made faces and grumbled behind his back. We had more derogatory names for that man than I could keep track of.

My next job gave me a little perspective. This time I could shed my ridiculous uniform and wear lovely, sophisticated clothes. I parked right out front and walked into an air conditioned bank. The first time I overheard another teller getting fired for being late, I thanked my old boss for his early intimidation. As sloppy mistakes kept me at my window way past closing, I determined to put to use some of those lessons he’d taught me about exactness and details. For all his bluster, he’d trained me well, knowing that Frontier Village was just one short stop on my path to adulthood.

Jesus is Adonai, Master. We hear it said, we spout it sincerely, we even write it down. But do we get what it means? Lord, Master, the Boss of not only the entire universe, but of me as well!

As my boss, and yours, He has certain rights and responsibilities. He’s training us for the next job- something far more meaningful and impactive than we realize. He cares that we do well- even at the expense of our personal comfort. Sometimes He demands attention to detail- like when He compares calling a brother an idiot to murder.[2] At other moments, this Master requires more of us than we want to give. He even fires us from jobs we mess up on. And He can ‘cuz He’s the boss, girls!

While we love the idea of Abba, Father, and the Rock, and the One Who Heals, this idea of a boss is a little hard to swallow sometimes. Yet, like it or not, He is.

Are you honoring Him as Master of every area of your life and relationships? Are you loving Him by loving on everyone He puts in your path? Like your husband? Or your sister-who-annoys-you? Or your first boss?

Are you fully embracing your Savior for who He is?

After all, He is… Adonay- your Master.

From my heart,

Diane

Exodus 15

Genesis 18:16-33[3]

Job 28:28

Nehemiah 1:11; 4:14; 8:10; 10:29

Psalm 38:9

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[1] Frequently translated Lord in the Old Testament

[2] Matthew 5:21,22

[3] notice that Abraham addresses the LORD (Yahweh) as Lord (Adonay) or Master

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repost: 02.2011

“You are a God who sees me.”

Genesis 16:13

NASB

“…every moment You know where I am.”

Psalm 139:3

NLT

The Meaning of His Name:

Only one woman in the Bible ever called God, El Roi. No men clung to that name- ever!

Hagar was Abraham’s mistress, though she started out innocently enough as Sarah’s servant. Her days rolled by in a monotone of mindless work. No hope of getting ahead, no chance for marriage or family. She had traveled far away from home for this position and had no intention of jeopardizing her job by messing up.

But Sarah was not a nice woman. She wielded her sharp tongue with empirical power. As Sarah grew more and more frustrated with what she saw as her husband’s passive response to God’s promise, her bitter attitude spilled all over Hagar.

Go ahead and read Hagar’s story in Genesis chapter sixteen— it’s a story well worth mulling over. Ultimately, Hagar ran as far from Sarah’s meanness as she could get. With little but her shattered dignity to keep her company, she sat in the middle of the desert road and wept. All alone—no family, no friends, no children to call her own.

That’s when she saw God. Actually, that’s when Hagar realized that God saw her.

Do you really realize yet that God sees you? The one you hide from everyone else. The you under all the make up and pretty clothes and pretend piety. The you no one else sees.

That’s the you He saw hanging from the cross.

That’s the you He longs to come close to every day.

The real you.

After all, He is…the God Who Sees Me.

From my heart,

Diane

Psalm 33:13-22

Psalm 32

Luke 23:34

Matthew 5:8

Job 42:5,6

Dear girls, I’ve been away awhile… unexpectedly kept from this place of talking with you about all the things that we, as women learning to love God, wear on our hearts and weave into our lives.

Some of you are wondering why… and I know it seems as if I’ve dropped off the face of the world— disappearing from every place I normally talk and listen and generally engage with women I love.

I’ve left Facebook, been absent from Twitter, have hardly Instagrammed, and haven’t written a post in who-knows-how-long.

The fact is…

I’ve been in hiding.

Wrapped myself up tight in my little cottage, hardly venturing out except for long meandering walks and a few leisurely bike rides to clear my head.

Is something wrong?

No! In fact, something is delightfully right.

I’m writing my story.

All about that terrible, horrible, beautiful time in my life when I began to lose my hearing and chose— instead of thankfulness— rebellion. And how this Redeemer rescued me and picked me up out of that pit and washed all the mud and muck away and began teaching me a new song.

I am relishing this foray into my past.

It’s like remembering how you fell in love all those years ago; reliving the sensation of infatuation, of that sense of eager anticipation for what may be ahead.

It is a re-visiting of darkness.

Because if I am to write my story honestly, I have got to delve deep into what I felt, why I rebelled, where I was heading, as I hurled into that place of willfulness— when I declared, with hands on my hips, Not Thine will, but mine be done!

What I didn’t know when I started seriously writing my story was how intense this time would be. I thought I could write a little each day, then go about my normalness: blogging, talking, e-mailing, connecting.

But I can’t.

It’s just too much.

Too much emotion, too many memories, too little mind-space to do normal-life. I’ve been caught up in Dorothy’s tornado and carried away to this an Oz-like land of discovery… or maybe it’s really rediscovery.

Add to that…

Elizabeth moved to L.A.

And since she’s the one who takes my words and weaves her magic by arranging and formatting and entering all the extras into the backend of this blog, it seemed best for a while to give her space to get settled.

But she’s been calling and emailing and texting me insistently with, “Mom, we’ve got to tell them what’s going on!”  

And so here I am, emerging for just a moment to tell you what’s going on:

What: I am furiously writing the first, roughest draft of my book. I’m new at this; a novice at writing chapters, weaving story with teaching, finding the balance between what I remember and what I’ve learned. It’s one thing to write an 800 word blog post to women I feel like I know— quite another to keep a stranger’s interest for the 50,000 words I’m slated to write!

When: Though the book will not be published until fall of 2015, it is due much sooner. My hope is to get this draft done this summer and then work closely with my editor to hone and craft it into something legible by my due date.

(yes, this is definitely reminding me of those 4 pregnancies that seemed to consume every second of the nine months!

Why:  I just cannot seem to create enough space to write this initial draft of my story and write anything else. I need to get this down on paper and I need to allow myself to be all in on this project— fully present, completely focused.

And…

I’m thinking that is really the best way for all of us, no matter what it is we are called to do--

Being fully present in one place at a time…

Rather than…

Being all over the place, scattered, divided, rushing frantically to catch dropping balls and neglected needs.  

So…

I’ll be back

But…

I don’t know when. Soon, I hope. But since this process has taken me by surprise, I’m loath to make any promises, though…

In the mean time, Elizabeth is taking the devotional series I wrote about the Names of God and reformatting them to post for the next little while.

This was her idea…

to remind us about what we know about this One we’re in love with.

We’ll take these weeks to delve in to who He is, how He works in our lives, what it is about Him that wraps our hearts in wonder.

But know this…

I miss so much the interaction I love with the women I love…

It can get a little lonely, talking to myself.

If you see a woman out walking her brown and black and white spotted dog in the woods… stopping to type furiously into her IPhone before she forgets… and singing tonelessly while she wanders the lanes… please wave!

It’s undoubtedly me, taking a break to think… so I can go back to write some more.

Thank you, my dear girls…

for praying for me and encouraging me in this grand adventure of writing. I’ve wanted to write this story for so long… and feared writing this story for so long…

Will you pray that I listen well?

Because that is the only way to write a book about listening to God.

I can’t drum this up on my own. Yes, I’m doing the study, yes I’m working hard… but ultimately it is by listening closely that I know what to write.

“ ‘Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit’, says the LORD of Hosts.” Zechariah 4:6

And…

“… as long as he sought the LORD, God prospered him.” 2 Chronicles 26:5

Listening with my whole heart,

Diane

P.S. I would LOVE to hear from you…

• How is God leading you into a place of listening?
• What are you hearing?
• What is He showing you about who He is?

P.S.S. Keep watching for new posts… or sign up to have them sent to your email… I’ve so much being stored up to say!

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Once upon a time I thought I knew everything I needed to know about raising children. Then I had kids. And every year since I’ve been learning a whole lot of things I didn’t know and couldn’t have known without these four humans who have the courage to call me mom.

Here are just a few things I wish I’d known right from the start.

1.    That every child is made in the Imago Dei… the image of God.

Not in the image of me. Nor in the image of someone everyone thinks they should be.

God created that little one to be an unhindered expression of who He is, highlighting specific facets of His beauty in surprising combinations. No two will be alike. Not one of them will fit a mold. They are incomparable and impossible to define.

Because of that, we must approach each of the children in our lives with deep respect for the One who created them. To be rude or harsh or disgusted or rejecting of one of these little ones is an affront to the One who crafted them uniquely in the womb. To deface His masterpiece in any way is to dishonor God.

It is therefore a mother’s honor to go on a quest to uncover her child— not to force him into a mold of her own making.  It is her honor to spend the rest of her life helping him to discover those unique contributions to the kingdom only he can bring.

 2.    That I am exactly the one God wants to mother my child.

Not someone better, wiser, calmer, richer, more patient… or more anything.

Somehow, in some way I cannot understand, He wants me to be the one to help my child become fully herself.  So instead of cowering in fear or hiding in shame, I can listen confidently to the Spirit of God within me for specific ways to mother well and wisely.

It is therefore a mother’s honor to believe that He has given me all that I need for the job, along with His heart wide open to pour out more love and more wisdom than I’ll ever come up with on my own.

3.    That nothing I will ever do will compare in importance to my role as this child’s mother.

Not a career or a clean house, not achievements or riches, nor the esteem and approval and friending of anyone. All those things that crowd my time and leave me stressed and worn out will never compare to the monumental impact of my role as this child’s mom.

Somehow I thought that maybe I had to prove something to someone in order to be important. Little did I know that the only ones who need proof of anything are those little ones in my own home. And the only proof they’re looking for is my unbudgeable love for them.

It is therefore a mother’s honor to sacrifice the more urgent but less important to see her child impact his world in unfathomable ways.

4.  That the mundane moments matter most.

When your child is sick and finds comfort in your arms.

When your son is stressed and finds relief in your words.

When your daughter is afraid and finds safety in your presence.

Those are the moments when you insert earth-shattering truths about God deep into your child’s soul.

It is therefore a mother’s honor to be alert to her child’s needs. To meet those needs with all the loving flourish of the Father— laying a ground work for that child’s faith to be  real, honest-to-the-bones, felt faith.

5.    That the busiest mother can still be bored.

And boredom is exhausting!

A woman who is not engaged in creativity that meets the challenge her own soul needs will wear out from all the work motherhood demands. There is always room for the busiest woman to squeeze in the pursuits that fill her full and energize her for more.

Whether it is learning or art or writing or fashion or science or order or beauty or design, there is time. There must be time.

Therefore it is a mother’s honor to keep feeding her own intellectual/creative/people needs so that she is in a place of thriving while she is busy growing her children into thriving adults.

6.     That our kids need to know that we like them.

Somewhere in all the correcting and training and disciplining and warning that happens from the moment our children are born until we wave them into their future, we inadvertently give off the impression that we don’t like them very much.

Our kids are haunted by the sense that we would like them if only… or when…

They grow up in good, loving, well-intentioned homes convinced that they are not enough… or too much.

It is therefore the honor of a mother to shower her children with affirmation. It is our mandate to assume nothing— to use our love for words and conversation to drill into our kids that we like them RIGHT NOW.

7.    That what we don’t say is often more harmful than what we do say.

Silence is not golden to a child. Or a teenager. Or a young adult.

The withholding of interest in what interests your child suggests somewhere deep inside that he is not interesting.

It is therefore the honor of a mother to be interested. To make a concerted effort to loudly proclaim that interest. To see her child  and then to say what she sees.  To offer her approval on a silver platter. To give voice to all the beauty she sees in her child. And then to keep that conversation going through every episode of that child’s life.

8.    That a specific, no-excuses apology from a mother opens floodgates of grace and forgiveness from a son or daughter.

That in fact, our shame-filled history of failure can be rewritten into stories of delight and joy if only we will own up to our mistakes. Our kids want to remember the best times… and willingly overlook the mess that we were so sure would mess them up forever.

But only if we admit the truth. Pretending just doesn’t cut it with kids.

It is therefore the honor of a mother to humble herself on a regular basis. To point out her mistakes and missteps and purposefully ask her child’s forgiveness for blowing it so badly.

9.    That my children would one day grow to be my most intimate spiritual brothers and sisters.

No one told me this! I’d only heard the horror stories of fractured relationships and rebellious teenagers. At best, I’d heard, children raised in “religious” homes might settle into an uneasy compliance to the standards set by rigid parents.

No one mentioned those exquisitely vulnerable moments when the people who know every hidden corner of my soul dish up wisdom and grace and reminders of our Redeemer’s mercy.

When the daughter who sees right through me refuses to allow me to stereotype teenagers with tattoos and piercings and mohawked hair.  Instead, urging me to see hearts courageously declaring a war on sameness.

Or when my son grows up to be my pastor, teaching me and opening my heart to worlds of wisdom I knew nothing about.

I had no idea the joy waiting for me.

It is therefore the honor of every mother to be taught by her children. To listen and to learn and to joy in the mystery of being joint heirs together. 

10. That my success as a woman does not hinge on the success of my children.

Because what I really want for my kids, the thing I hope for more than anything else is not health or achievement or good marriages or fat paychecks. It’s not even a good life.

What I long for more than anything, is that my children will know the incredible riches of God’s grace. That they will long for Him.

What I really want for my children is for them to spend every day of the rest of their lives reveling in this Redeemer whose shocking choice to love them in the midst of their ugliness brings them to their knees in worship.

And for that to be true they’re going to have to mess up. To fail. To make mistakes big enough to embarrass them— and me.

It is therefore the honor of every mother who has been covered in that grace to cease the strutting and pretending and Christmas card cuteness and to allow our children to fail. And then to weep and worship with them when they discover the riches awaiting every one of Christ’s redeemed ones.

The truth is, I didn’t know any of this on that day my firstborn son came rushing, red and squalling into my arms. And he loves me anyway. They all do.

John Mark and Beks and Elizabeth and Matt you’re more than I ever dreamed possible. You’ve led me in the way of grace straight to the Father’s heart. And for that and a million other reasons, I love you.

From my heart,

Mom

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So dear brothers and sisters, you have no obligation whatsoever to do what your sinful nature urges you to do. For if you keep on following it you will perish. But if, through the power of the Holy Spirit, you turn from it and it's evil deeds, you will live…And since we are His children, we will share His treasures-- everything God gives to His Son, Christ, is our, too. But if we are to share His glory, we must also share His suffering."

Romans 8:12,13,17

NLT

Just this moment I sit in Terminal Six of LAX. A plastic seat is my spot to spy on a whole world of people rushing to somewhere. And since I missed my flight by just a few minutes, I now have hours and hours to wonder where they’re going.

While I wonder, the woman who wouldn’t let me check-in because I was two minutes past the deadline walks by. She’s smiling now, lost her scowl somewhere in the last couple of hours. For at least twenty minutes I was so mad— a victim of her crabbiness, held back from being where I wanted to be by a woman who insisted on controlling the one thing she could- me.

Choking poor-me tears, I had not choice but to surrender. But even as I gave in and paid the fees and trudged to my corner to wait, I heard that insistent tugging I’ve come to know so well.

That voice that beckons. The One whose whispers my self-pity nearly drowned out.

Choose, Diane. You can choose.

Really? Again? Isn’t that just denial? Shouldn’t I allow myself to connect with what I really feel— right now, right here?

And all the long way past the crowds of rushing people to the Starbucks in Terminal Four, I wrestled with the choosing. I wonder if anyone was watching me then as I’m watching now. Did they see the tears pushing close? Hear the thundering fury at my little-bit-of-day at home lost to lateness?

By the time my London Fog[1]was done, the choosing was easier. I heard Him clearer now.

Look for Me here.

Here in LAX, one thousand miles from home, surrounded by strangers. Really? Could this be His plan for me today— not just my mess-up? Could He possibly want me here right now, waiting in a crowded terminal instead of resting in my cozy cottage?

If some well-meaning soul were to flippantly toss out a “God is sovereign” platitude about now, I’d be more than a little annoyed. Sometimes, it seems, that’s just the easy punctuation point to silence someone else’s disappointment. Probably ought to be struck from the Christian phrase book lest someone like me say something less than Christian in response.

But the truth is, I believe it.

Here I sit, a surrendered-to-Jesus woman. How can I not view these “wasted” hours as His? How dare I believe that a tired, cranky airline employee is at fault? Or that I shouldn’t have stopped to talk with Veronica, the very woman Elizabeth is called to bring the love of Jesus to in her new apartment complex?

I am here on purpose. Maybe not something grand and applaudable. Maybe I’ll never know why. Maybe a fully-surrendered-to-Jesus woman doesn’t need to know why.

Maybe she just needs to surrender. Again.

Because when we dare tell Him, “Anything, anywhere, anytime”, He takes that seriously.

Sometimes that means big changes like moving from the comfortable to the daring.

But lots of times it just means allowing my own lateness to lead me to a place of watchful expectation… in Terminal Six at LAX… or in traffic… or in the budget that won’t quite balance… or anywhere.

I am waiting today… and somehow there is joy in this choosing. It’s not what I wanted… but I suspect it is what He wants for me.

God moves in mysterious ways… I believe that. But mostly He just moves in my every-days.

From a heart learning to choose,

Diane

P.S. I’ve been so cheered by your comments this week! Can you tell us what it is you are learning to choose?

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[1] A delicious, comforting concoction of hot Earl Grey tea with steamed milk and a bit of vanilla sweetness

I sit, this morning, propped up in bed, given a couple of hours to spend as I wish. And what I wish most of all is to reconnect with you, my girls, in this over-the-top, crazy, transitional, less-than-controllable time in my life. And since I’m as confused as anyone about why everything seems so bone-jarringly bumpy right now, I thought I’d ask myself a few questions to see if I can clear my messy mind.

Diane:  What do you see from where you sit?

Me:  A worn-at-the-edges sheet covering my window, clothes hanging to dry draped all over my dresser, a suitcase half packed, a desk piled with stuff that needs doing right-now-this-minute!… and baby Scarlet’s new red shoes pattering by while she chatters joyfully to her Amma about who-knows-what.

Diane:  Why is your life in upheaval?

Me:

1.  We just moved into a not-yet-finished house.

2.  A few days after the move, our daughter and her family moved in with us for a couple of weeks.

3.  All their boxes joined ours in our garage, leaving the smallest pathway possible to the jury-rigged washer and dryer.

4. Two days ago Brook, Elizabeth and Duke climbed into a moving truck to caravan to their new home in L.A.

5.  I’ve been teary over the move for weeks.

6.  Scarlet stayed with us because her parents couldn’t quite fathom the 20-plus hour drive down I-5 with a two year old.

7.  And I couldn’t quite fathom saying good-bye to the two-year old. And like said two-year-old, I’m employing strategic delay tactics.

8. Soon I’ll fly with Scarlet to L.A. I’ll stay a few days to help Elizabeth get settled and spend some time with my other daughter, Rebekah, who lives just 15 minutes away.

9.  I’ll be home for one day, then fly to San Francisco to teach an Intentional  conference with Phil at Reality S.F. to a really great group of young parents wanting more than anything to raise children who are passionate about Jesus.

10. Then we’ll rent a car and go see my parents in the mountains east of San Francisco for a couple of days, checking in on both of them as their health declines, wondering aloud with them what the future holds.

Diane:  Just normal life stuff, it sounds like. What’s the big deal?

Me: I am supposed to be writing a book… and writing for this blog. And I’m not.

Diane: Well, girl, you’d better just work harder and longer and faster and smarter!  Clearly you’re not doing what you should… you’re not enough.

Me:  Hush! And stop all that incessant scolding!

I am listening to the Spirit of God, not to all the worries and fear that suffocate my spirit and leave me crabby and anxious.

He promises rest, and peace, and strength, and honor to His name. He says He’s enough so I don’t have to be. (Ps 23).

And He says things like: “The LORD leads with unfailing love and faithfulness… He will show them the path they should choose… Delight yourself in the LORD and He will give you the desires of your heart…”[1]

Diane:  Oh, sorry. I thought scolding myself was the best way to avoid failure. You know, motivation to get to it.

Me: I am learning that scolding myself makes it all about me. As if it’s up to me to control every aspect of my life. As if worry whips me into shape.

I am choosing to take those runaway worries captive— catching the fiery arrows before they sink deep.

I am determining to stay sheltered close to the Shadow of the Almighty so that He can be to me all that I need.

I am recognizing that His way of working through me is different than my way of intimidating myself into productivity.

Diane:  What advice do you have for other women in a season of too-much-to-do?

Me: Carve out space to listen closely to the Master. Is it His voice that is driving you? Or could it be the spirit of guilt and obligation? In busy times we need to purposefully listen… to Him. And when life is hectic and less than perfectly tidy we actually need more time for the silence.

Diane:  Then what?

Me: Do each day with determined joy, deciding to hope, to trust, to believe God. At the end of the day go back and thank Him for His presence in each hour. See Him and listen to Him.  His presence makes all the difference in our days.

Diane:  Have you heard or read anything lately that is helping you figure this out?

Me:  I just closed the last page of a book that is so full of wisdom I want every woman to read it. It’s called Restless, by Jennie Allen. I plan to write a full review next week (but who knows, at this rate?!), but for now a quote or two:

“As you become more secure in Christ… you will feel a new tension surface: a life that feels semi-chaotic. You realize that what you had been calling “balance” in your family was really a determined effort to control your life at all costs. You see, God never promises balance. So this new life that feels semi-chaotic is likely a symptom of a couple attempting to follow the leading of the Holy Spirit.” (from the author’s husband)

“I wanted to be comfortable more than I wanted God’s will for my days.” (from the author)

And this…

“Great people don’t do great things. God does great things with surrendered people.”

So here I am surrendering the order I crave. Not passively shrugging my shoulders and simmering below the surface… but really surrendering to the One who knows me and wants to do great things through me— in spite of my mixed up, semi-psychotic self.

I’m surrendering my daughter too. To run with the Spirit into all the beautiful, chaotic, mess He wants to use in her, through her, for her.

And I’m praying for you, my girls. Because I believe that God has great things for you… things only you can do… things that won’t get done unless you choose to surrender, to listen, to face your fears, to let go of comfort, and to fling yourself unreservedly after the One who is leading you.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. You know I’m needing to hear from you too!  Are you learning to delight in the chaos of a life lived hard after Jesus? Can you tell us about it? Please?

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[1] Psalm 23, Psalm 25, Psalm 37

(source)

For the next few weeks we will be reposting from He’s Not Your Prince Charming, reaching way back in the archives to remind and reteach and rethink what we’ve been learning together. I have asked my blog team to help choose their favorites, and I am hoping you will add fresh comments to shed new light on these posts.

In the meantime I will be writing ahead for the new series, studying, reading, thinking, and praying about what to say and how to say it. Any suggestions and thoughts about what you’re wondering about will be most welcome— after all, you are my girls! 

From my heart,

Diane

Dear girls,

Last week I ended my letter to you with a sort of wish… a prayer… a benediction:

May this be the time of our lives to tell a different story, a story of a love so great we overflow it onto that man who cannot be enough.

May this be the year we learn what it really means to find all that emptiness filled up with Him.

And one wistful comment, left by a woman willing to be honest, caught my heart:

Oh if I could have internalized this lesson years ago… I hear it over and over and over, from so many women. Jesus is enough and should be enough, so why isn’t he enough for me? I want him to be enough, but the flesh screams more.

And then another one, from a woman named Anna, in response to a post I wrote about my dad last week:

Diane, this is a beautiful story. Almost one a child dreams about. But what about us who didn’t have this kind of Father?

I so desire to be this kind of woman but have failed over and over and that has left me defeated. The word “Father” also has never set right with me. I know we are to see God as our Father, but I have never known what a real Father looks like.

How do I get to this similar place as you or do I just accept that this is not the woman that I am?

And here is what I wrote in response…

Oh Anna, do not swallow the lie that you are not this woman! Because it’s not about you… or me… or even my dad.

Meeting God early and with delight-filled expectation is about Him!


And I’ve been wondering what to say to all the Annas of the world ever since.

How do I describe the rest my uptight-self receives every morning when I wake to His presence?

What words do I choose to open my heart wide enough for real women to peek into this mystery? That He comes to meet with me in a garden so rich, so beautiful, so home, that I cannot stay away.

Because that is why I wake up early. And that is why all throughout the day I run back into Him, relishing quiet moments to hear. That is why the silence is my friend.

Because He is there, bidding me to come, to listen, to know.

And I want all the Annas of the world— wounded, shame-filled, wishing for more— to see the way back to that garden.

To Him.

And so, for the next little while, for however long it takes for me to stumble out the words, I want to write about the how. Because even though I don’t believe in formulas, and even though 10-steps have not gotten me anywhere but frustrated, I know you need more than theory.

You need to know how.

How to find so much peace in His presence that you no longer demand life all lined up just so.

How to stop trying so hard to be more than you are, and instead losing yourself in who He is and finding to your own surprise that just being with Him begins to make all your ugliness beautiful.

How to fill so full of Jesus that you no longer crave the attention of a man who would devour you with his own need. And how to then overflow the love you find there onto a man who doesn’t deserve it any more than you do.

And so, if you will allow me to, I’d like to take you by the hand, as a woman older and maybe a little further along the path, and lead you to that place where I have found the satisfaction and rest my soul— your soul longs for. We'll keep talking about relationships- about loving a man well and about being well-loved, but I think we need to talk more about the how of finding all of your enough in God.

So please come on over next Monday. Bring your friends, your honesty, your wide-open heart. Brew a cup of tea, settle in for a good, long conversation for the next few weeks. Let’s find this thing we’re craving together.

But before then, here is what I told Anna about how to begin every day relishing the presence of the One who satisfies every need:

Here’s what I suggest (way too simplistic, but all that will fit here)

1. First ask God to make you want to… really, deeply want to experience intimacy with Him.

2. Ask Him to begin to wake you. Really! He will, I know by experience. But you’ve got to be ready to listen, to do that hard choice of getting up on the faith that there’s something for you.

3. Thank Him over and over again when He does. Fill your mind with recognition of how great He is and how much He loves you, reminding yourself how much you want Him.

4. Go to bed every night with Him on your mind and in your heart. (a short Psalm works wonders to put you to sleep with Him tucked all around you.

5. Then… start all over again.

I know that, given time, mixed with many failures, and more time, you will someday LOVE your mornings with Him.

That’s a strong way to start, girls. But there’s more, so much more to talk about.

And remember, your stories really are giving the rest of us hope. I keep hearing it— that by sharing your brokenness and your wantings and the ways God has met you with His amazing grace, more and more women are finding hope. Keep those comments coming!

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Want some really great Scriptures to ponder while you wait for next week? I love this one:

Hosea 6:3  

Oh, that we might know the Lord!
Let us press on to know him.


He will respond to us as surely as the arrival of dawn 
or the coming of rains in early spring.

And this is worth pondering long:

Hebrews 10:22,23

Let us go right into the presence of God with sincere hearts fully trusting him.

For our guilty consciences have been sprinkled with Christ’s blood to make us clean,

and our bodies have been washed with pure water.

Let us hold tightly without wavering to the hope we affirm,

for God can be trusted to keep his promise.

For the next few weeks we will be reposting from He’s Not Your Prince Charming, reaching way back in the archives to remind and reteach and rethink what we’ve been learning together. I have asked my blog team to help choose their favorites, and I am hoping you will add fresh comments to shed new light on these posts. In the meantime I will be writing ahead for the new series, studying, reading, thinking, and praying about what to say and how to say it. Any suggestions and thoughts about what you’re wondering about will be most welcome— after all, you are my girls! 

From my heart,

Diane

(image by Hillary Kupish)

Healthy people do not need a doctor— sick people do.

I have come to call sinners, not those who think they are already good enough.

Mark 2v17

God blesses those who realize their need for Him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is given to them.

Matthew 5v3

It is early.  Deep dark, winter cold…quiet and still and… welcoming.

No alarm clock woke me, just a quiet whisper… an excited urging… an expectant sense of something more, of something I need.

Something I want.

And this: the certain knowing that Someone wants me by myself… for Himself.

That He has something to say… to me… today.

And that if I don’t get up I’ll miss it.

I’ll miss Him.

And so, hair wild, barefoot and barely awake, I shuffle to the kitchen to start my tea. While the kettle heats, I make my place: furry blanket, shiny tea cup, pretty napkin, scented candle.

Like a fort for a grown-up girl, this is my tucked-in place, my refuge before the day begins.

And He’s there, I know He is, with a knowing that cannot be explained and will not be denied.

I relish my first cup with Him. Heart open, mind still half asleep, I sink deep, listening.

I bring no list, no worries.

I don’t pray.

I just listen… and sip tea.

And after a while I open His Book of Words to the place I left off the day before, reading, listening, talking, asking, taking notes.

Hearing.

It didn’t used to be this way for me. For years and years I got up because I had to. Because someone told me I should. Because I needed to be disciplined and do my duty and do it right and do it every day, no matter what.

Because I like rules and this was rule #1: A good Christian reads her Bible every morning. Amen.

And so I’d be up when the clock said seven and I’d put in my time. No yearning, no feasting, no wanting, never listening. Just a list and my Bible and the clock ticking.

And sometimes I’d miss and feel terribly guilty. Ashamed. Less-than. So I’d resolve never to sleep in again, never to miss my “devotions”, lest I mess up somehow and miss the mark.

That went on for years.

Until one morning. A morning seared into my soul as if it were yesterday. Not a memory so much as a mark on the inside of me. Forever I will call it The Morning After.

That morning I woke up early too. Mind racing, questions clamoring for answers, I snuck quietly into the living room while three children slept, hoping they’d sleep a little longer than usual.

Desperate to hear.

The night before, at my husband’s urging, I’d met with the elders of our little church in Santa Cruz. In a cramped back room they’d prayed for me, prayed over me, anointed me with drops of less-than magical oil and asked God to heal me.

For no reason any doctor could find, my hearing was failing. And I was terrified… and angry… appalled that the God I had dutifully served would allow deafness to swallow me.

I’d come to these men wanting healing, willing to beg God in their presence as I’d been begging Him every day for months.

And as they prayed, something happened.  Something magical and mystical and biblical and wonderful— I heard God.

I mean I really heard Him. Not an impression, not an idea or a quote that somebody else had said about Him. I heard Him.

I heard words.

Not the words I wanted to hear, in fact, the words He gave me sounded much like the ones my dad had used when, as a little girl, I’d panic and he’d calm me with a stern sort of love. Nothing sweet or quaintly Christian.

To all my begging for healing, for ears to open wide, for the deafness threatening my world to go away— for the healing I knew He could do if only He would… I heard this—

Diane, it’s okay. It’s okay, Diane, it’s okay.

And let me tell you, girls, those were the most beautiful words I have ever heard. Rich with knowing, dripping with the kind of love I had only dreamed about, His words enveloped me in… glory.

In that moment of NO, I felt more joy than I’d ever felt before. It was okay! Gloriously, beautifully, magically okay.

I floated home from that impromptu prayer meeting, holding His words close in. I’d heard Him, really heard Him. He’d called me by name.

God spoke, He speaks… to me!

That is why I was up in the dark hours on that Morning After. I had to know if it was true, if I’d heard what I thought I had… or if I was just overwrought and delusional, a pathetic mess.

And that, my dear girls, was the beginning— the first morning of my love affair with the Savior. Because He met me there, filling my heart with more words— stern words, truth words, words about life and joy and trust.

He wrapped me in words and drew me into an intimacy I’d never known possible.

By the time the children got up and Phil started coffee, I was ablaze with joy. Spilling with hope, feeling so loved and known and cherished and full.

And every morning since it’s been the same. Quieter, for sure, less drama and more restful entering in. I come to meet Him, to talk and more than anything else, to listen.

Every morning, with the house all quiet, I come to Him— the One who knows me, all of me, and still wants me for Himself. I open His Word and let His words speak deep.

Sometimes, to tell the truth, I can barely hear Him. On those mornings I wait. I sip tea, I make another pot. I read further or I read it again. And slowly, if I’m willing and wait long enough, He quiets me enough to hear.

Because He is always speaking. Through His Word and around His Words, using words to love and teach and reveal and convict and set free. But sometimes I cannot hear… and always I hear imperfectly, like the deaf woman I am.

I know this post was a bit rambling again… but next week I have less mystical, more practical thoughts to share with you.

For now, know this:

• God speaks… really says things… to you and to me.
• He speaks mostly and most clearly through His Word.
• We hear best in the quiet, and it’s up to us to clear space for that restful listening.
• He speaks loudest to those who come in need— the ones, like me, who fail and cannot get up. The broken and thirsty, the desperately repentant.
• He wants to be felt— experienced, heard, seen. He has sent His Spirit to make sure that happens. And He has given instructions to pave the way, with guidelines to keep us from getting… sort of… well… weird.
• If you can’t seem to hear Him yet… be patient. He knows you want to and He’s helping you even now. Nothing happens fast in His Kingdom. Just let Him bring you close and teach you.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. If you’ve heard Him, will you say so? Will you leave us a note to encourage those who are still wanting to hear but frustrated in the silence?

And if you’re one of the many who’ve told me you’re still waiting… will you leave just a simple message so I can pray alongside you?

Just your name is enough… and maybe “still waiting”.

(source)

It’s time for an update on some of the changes swirling around my life, in case you’re wondering where I’ve been.

First:

We’ve moved into Firwood Cottage (photos coming soon!) and I have fallen head over heals in love with my new/old little home! It’s cozy and fresh, full of light with warm wood floors— and the kitchen is a better cook than I am.

There is still plenty of work to be done but now that we’re settled in we can take our time. Stay tuned for my “Garage Give-away”, when I’ll finish sorting through my too-much stuff and spend a Saturday giving it all away. A great way to meet my neighbors and let others enjoy pretty things.

Second:

I’ve started in on writing my book.

It is the story of losing my hearing and all the anger and grief that I handled with so little grace… and God’s amazing grace to me in spite of my wrong reaction. It is a story about learning to listen to God and falling intimately in love with my Redeemer.

Many of you prayed as I gathered up the courage to submit my proposal to my agent who in turn submitted it to several publishers. Now I’m hard at work, learning how to do this— still scared but confident that God will not leave me to do it on my own. I signed a contract with Zondervan publishers and have a wonderful editor working with me.

Third:

Drums roll… Matt is engaged! If you followed my year of writing LETTERS TO MY SON, you’ll know that he asked me what to look for in a wife. Little did he suspect that his question would prompt such a long reply!

Matthew and Simona met at Bridgetown and have been dating for over a year. The whole Comer family is delighted and filled with joy over their love story. I am hoping to post their story in all its wonderful detail one of these days…

Since Matt just proposed this week (in New York City!) I haven’t yet heard a firm date… details to follow!

And fourth:

My daughter, Elizabeth, along with Brook and their two children are moving to L.A.

I am sad… I have loved being so close to my daughter, who is my close friend. I have cherished the hours spent with Duke and baby Scarlet. Now those relationships will look a little different as we connect from a distance. They will, however, be living just 15 minutes from Rebekah— I expect to gain a whole lot of frequent flyer miles in the years to come!

At the same time, I couldn’t be more proud of Brook and Elizabeth. They are following God’s clear leading to be used by Him to influence and impact one of the culture centers of our world. To do this they have chosen to make significant sacrifices, choosing His way over comfort and ease.

Years and years ago, Phil and I were mentored by two missionary couples (Bill and Laurie Keyes and Norm and Muriel Cook) who pressed into our hearts a saying that we, in turn imprinted into the lives of our children.

We were, and are…

willing to go anywhere… at any time… to do anything.

And so, it shouldn’t surprise us that our children are following hard after the God they have seen to be so fully trust-able in our lives.

Times of significant change, I have learned, either leave us insecure and sad, frantically trying to control the inevitable… or thrust us closer into the heart of a God who never changes.

His sameness becomes our comfort. His faithfulness to care for us becomes our story, and His.

I love this wild adventure of following Jesus. After all these years and decades of tentative trust, of risking and worrying and believing and seeing Him write beauty in our story, I have learned that He is trust-worthy.

For those of you just starting those first wobbly steps of walking after Jesus, let me give you a bit of my courage— it gets easier, it really does.

At this point in my life, to not trust Him would be a flagrant insult.

Now…

when I worry and fuss and lose peace, I sense almost instantly that nudging back into God’s comfort and intimate care.

And...

I know with a knowing of many years, that clinging to Him is the only way in to that place of rest I crave.

Give yourself the grace of time to gather up your own stories of God’s trust-able-ness. He’s writing those stories every day. Don’t just skim the headlines, you’ll need those details to help nudge you back to His rest.

One last word: I picked up this enticing nugget of gold from a book by Amy Carmichael…

“And all through, the brave little sister held fast to Him who she believed…

and was held fast by Him.”

May we hold fast all through… and be held fast by Him,

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Are you learning that God is trust-able? Can you share a verse or a story or some word that is helping you to hold fast? 

(source)

For the next few weeks we will be reposting from He’s Not Your Prince Charming, reaching way back in the archives to remind and reteach and rethink what we’ve been learning together. I have asked my blog team to help choose their favorites, and I am hoping you will add fresh comments to shed new light on these posts.

In the meantime I will be writing ahead for the new series, studying, reading, thinking, and praying about what to say and how to say it. Any suggestions and thoughts about what you’re wondering about will be most welcome— after all, you are my girls! 

From my heart,

Diane

 repost: 11.2013

So I recommend having fun,

because there is nothing better for people to do in this world

than to eat, drink, and enjoy life.

That way they will experience some happiness

along with all the hard work God gives them.

Ecclesiastes 8:15

Dear girls,

This post really ought to be addressed to me, Dear Diane… because having fun is so foreign to me that every time I read these words from the pen of King Solomon, I have to stop and ponder.

What does he mean?

Hard work, I understand. Schedules and lists and budgets, I can do. I’m all about neat and tidy rules with ought to’s and shouldn’ts.

But fun?

As in play?

As in non-productive, non-achieving, no-point-to-it hours spent accomplishing nothing?

I don’t think so.

Until a couple of years ago Phil and I had all but given up on fun. We’re just so different. And so we stopped having fun together.

And then we hit a crisis. For reasons we could not understand, we were hurting each other’s feelings and rubbing each other wrong and just generally having trouble getting along. Every conversation turned into some sort of conflict.

What was wrong with us?

And I’m sorry if you think pastors and their wives are always nice to each other. That we always practice what we preach. Or that love and passion are enough to overcome anything… because those are the makings of fairy tales, not real life.

At least not my life.

The constant conflict led us to seek help from the wise couple who had mentored us throughout our ministry. Not exactly counseling, but wise counsel. We flew to their home across the country, determined to get to the bottom of what was wrong.

What they said stunned me.

Your husband needs to have fun.

They went on to explain him to me and me to him. Using personality tests and years of Biblical wisdom, they pointed out our differences and made us see those differences as good.

But mostly I learned that Phil needs to have fun. A lot of fun. Frequent fun.

And I don’t. At least not the fun defined by most people.

I mean, who really thinks it’s fun to curl up all day with study books and dream about how to write a book about suffering so that women will understand and be able to teach their children and maybe avoid the pit I fell into when suffering about strangled my faith?

Yeah. Fun.

And so I set about trying to learn how to have fun. Or at least help Phil have fun. It was tough.

I tried to find a book about fun. Fun for Dummies. No luck. And if you’re a writer reading this and you know anything about how to have fun, here’s a definite felt need, at least by me.

I observed fun people. They laugh a lot. Out loud. My laugh is all inward, a snicker at best. When I try to laugh like they do I sound like a seal. People look at me strangely.

And I realized that in all those wonderful family times when we go around the table telling the birthday person, this is what I like about you… no one has ever told me I’m fun. Because I’m not. Ever.

After much studious thought and a week of serious pondering, here I am writing a list.   I’m hoping you girls are going to help me out, because this is one topic I know next to nothing about…

Six Ways To Love Your Husband With Fun:

1.  Recognize a man’s need to have fun.

I know that sounds simplistic, but I’d been married nearly 30 years without really honoring my husband’s need to have fun. My man-boy has an inherent need to play, to hoop and holler and immerse himself in something that doesn’t impact the history of the world.

2.  Give your husband/fiancé/boyfriend permission to have fun. Our world, especially the church world, admires men who achieve. Hard working, smart, disciplined men are admired and promoted. No one ever wrote a biography about a man because he was fun. I think we women need to change that up a bit. To stop shaming him and start affirming the productivity that results from a restful day of fun.

3.  Budget for fun. What if, at Christmas, instead of giving him clothes or books or something he needs, we decided to give him a fun experience? Wouldn’t that say wonders about our recognition that a man is still a boy and needs some hours to play?

4.  Choose to dive into his way of doing fun whether it feels fun to you or not.

This summer Phil and I went to Victoria, B.C. for a romantic week together. He spent most of an afternoon wandering the Butchart Gardens with me, trying to act interested, masking his aversion to yard work. Then we had high tea at the Empress Hotel. Not exactly the stuff he’d spent dreaming of.

On our way into the hotel he spotted a float plane taking a nosedive towards the bay. Landing on the wild waves, I thought for sure that thing would tip over, drowning all it’s risk-taking passengers.

Phil turned to me and said, “Di, let’s do it!”

No way. Not me. Feeling magnanimous, I suggested he sign up and I’d sit and sip tea. In fact, I’d even pay for his ticket out of my small stash of money meant for clothes and all things girlish.

But he wanted me to go with him- to be his friend and partner in adventure. I think I shocked us both when I agreed.

What followed was one of the most thrilling evenings we’d ever spent together. Once I got over my racing nerves, I felt like I was a princess flying over my kingdom. Enthralled with the countryside, the islands, even a small castle surrounded by the sea, I loved it! And most of all, Phil loved that I did something I didn’t want to do in order to be his companion in fun.

5.  Keep trying until you find a way to have fun together. One friend of mine rides bikes with her husband. Another hikes. My grandmother became an avid baseball fan, shouting down the refs when her favorite team stumbled. And she fished- clad in waders up to her chin, she shared my grandfather’s fun on the edges of the Snake River.

6.  Act fun— like you’re having a blast. Tell yourself you’re having fun. Decide to have fun. Free your mind to have fun even if your work isn’t done and the circumstances aren’t just right. I know that sounds insincere, but I firmly believe that we have a great deal of control over what we decide to enjoy. And being a fun woman may just lighten the flavor of your presence for the  man you love.

Now, I told you this is an area of deficiency for me. I need the born-fun women to fill in the blanks for those of us fun-challenged women so that our fun-needing men will have fun with us.

Please, please, please, give us fun ideas…

From my heart,

Diane

(photo by Abi Porter)

repost/5.2012

This morning I woke up with tight shoulders, jaw clenched, an anxious knot in my gut…

worried.

Tossing my hair in a pony tail, I fed the dog, started the water for my tea, lit a candle, gathered my Bible and books, cuddled into my big chair and…

worried.

Stirring milk and sugar into my steaming mug, I reached for the yellow pad of paper that serves as my journal/planner/thought catcher and…

worried.

I scribbled down all angst about being too busy…

and not having time to do the important things…

and when will I ever accomplish what I want when I have to clean the basement… and the garage is a mess…

and I’m clean out of veggies…

and how in the world can I eat a plant-based diet…

when I don’t even have time to go buy the plants we’re supposed to eat?

No wonder I woke up worried.

By now you’re laughing at me… I can hear it… or maybe that’s my Father chuckling way off where I’ve been ignoring Him in the midst of my fussing.

Because all I have to worry about is not worry-worthy.

No catastrophes, no fearful awfulness invading my world.

Unlike so many women I care about, I’m not awaiting tests to determine if something terrible is wrong. The bills are paid on time. My husband still loves me despite my glaring deficiencies…

John Mark and Tammy and Jude and Moses and Sunday and Rebekah and Steve and Brook and Elizabeth and Duke and Scarlet and Matthew are all learning and growing and tucked into the Father.

And yet… I am worried.

And my Father knows all about that. With gentleness He pries my eyes from my worries to the pages of His Word.

Romans 12 is His feeding for me today:

“And so dear brothers and sisters, I plead with you to give your bodies to God.

Let them be a living and holy sacrifice— the kind He will accept.

When you think of what He has done for you, is this too much to ask? 

Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world,

 but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think.

Then you will know what God wants you to do,

and you will know how good and pleasing and perfect His will really is.”

Bingo!

Lights flashing! Load rolling off my uptight back!

God wants to change the way I think.

To take this roiling, messy, time wasting worry away from me and show me what to do.

Something good and pleasing and perfect in every way.

And He does. He did.

Speaking in tones so calm and firm and sure and just a little bit stern,

I hear His Voice over all my worry and I listen to His way for my day.

So simple. So right.

Why didn’t I think of that?

I smile and sip my tea and the rain outside seems soft and good, my day lined up all pleasing and perfect in every way.

His way.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. How about you? Have you heard His words to you today? Have you listened? Can you tell us how He’s met you in the midst of your worry and shown you His way? Your story just might be His way of transforming us by changing the way we think…

(source)

For the next few weeks we will be reposting from He’s Not Your Prince Charming, reaching way back in the archives to remind and reteach and rethink what we’ve been learning together. I have asked my blog team to help choose their favorites, and I am hoping you will add fresh comments to shed new light on these posts.

In the meantime I will be writing ahead for the new series, studying, reading, thinking, and praying about what to say and how to say it. Any suggestions and thoughts about what you’re wondering about will be most welcome— after all, you are my girls! 

From my heart,

Diane

repost 01/14

Dear girls,

Yesterday I listened at length to three stories. Three women needing a moment to be heard. Good women, normal women, seeking-after-God women.

The first story was beautiful. Over and over she said it, her face radiant with joy, tears welling up, I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it’s real.

Just the day before her boyfriend had asked her to marry him in one of the most romantic proposals I’ve ever heard. There was music and dancing on the beach and candles and a photographer. A ring just like she wanted but the diamond switched out— bigger and brighter, a startling declaration of his love.

Perfect.

The second woman’s crystal blue eyes brimmed with a different kind of tears.  Her husband of just a few years isn’t romancing her at all anymore. No dates or surprises or declarations of perfect love.

He goes to work, comes home, takes her to church on the weekend and starts all over again on Monday.

And she’s more than a little disappointed— she’s mad. She wants more, needs more, hoped for more from this man she pledged her life to.

The third woman grabbed my arm just as I was leaving church. “Can we talk?” More tears pooling in huge blue eyes. When we settled into two black plastic chairs, her angst came pouring out.

Haunted by a not-so-good relationship in her past, she’d grabbed hold of redemption and risked her heart on one particular good and godly man in the church. They’d become friends, then wondered if there might be more. When he’d made it clear that friendship was all this would ever be, she was devastated. Rejected. Remorseful. Months later, she just cannot let it go.

Three very different stories from three women so much alike. 

And aren’t we all really alike?

Every woman I know wants the same thing: To be known and loved and valued and cherished and wanted… forever. 

We’ll do just about anything to get it.

How many of us have embarrassed ourselves? Given away our bodies? Worked too hard to impress? Ranted and raved and insisted? Sulked and withdrawn and simpered?

Our wanting wears us out.

And our wanting pushes him away. It scares the boldness out of brave men, shutting them down and making good women the butt of backroom jokes between harried husbands and ex’s of every age.

Three stories, three good men.

And three women who honestly, really hope that a good man will fill that aching, endless hole in their hearts.

And he won’t.

Because he can’t.

And he doesn’t actually want to anyway.

Because way back at the Beginning, God did not design a woman to be the object of a man’s attention.

She’s not supposed to be his everything. He’s not supposed to spend his every waking moment thinking about her, dreaming about her, planning the next romantic date or making her feel loved.

I know, shocking, isn’t it?

And of course you know that, girls. But we forget. Everyday I forget. All of us forget. And we shame each other for our forgetting. We gossip and giggle about another woman’s ridiculousness. When all the while we’re all the same. Needing, wanting, wishing for more.

In the Song of Solomon there is another story. This one is of a woman getting what every one of us want:  romance, passion, attention, friendship, commitment, ecstasy and intimacy.

But she wants more. Seriously!

One night he comes to her and she can’t be bothered. She turns him away and pretends she’s sleeping, then she changes her mind and calls him to come back.

She wants him now. Right now. And she’s kind of miffed that he isn’t there where she wants him, when she wants him, because she wants him.

Every time I read that part of the story, I know I am that woman. Because, you see, I’ve been well loved for 35 years.

My husband has showered me with gifts every Christmas. He’s worked when he hasn’t wanted to. He’s listened endlessly to my confusing swirls of struggling emotions, pretending to understand when I can’t even figure myself out.

He thinks I’m beautiful, wrinkles and aging and all. He’s a strong spiritual leader, a selfless lover, a good friend, a committed provider. He gives me romance and attention and time.

And it’s not enough. Seriously.

I want more, I always want more. I am a bottomless pit of more.

And so are you. So is every woman.

But there is this one man…

He is rich, compelling, fascinating, so alluring I cannot stay away. And he claims to be enough, promises to satisfy that endless craving. He claims to love me with a love that will never lessen, never let go.

He says… he says he will never, ever leave me. No matter what.

This is a story I want to be fully my own, always. To be that woman whose eyes shine with the love of one who is enough.  Because my good and godly husband cannot be that one. If I try to force him there I’ll bury him under my own endless need.

I know that, and so do you, my dear ones.

May this be the year we learn what it really means to find all that emptiness filled up with Him.

May this be the time of our lives to tell a different story, a story of a love so great we overflow it onto that man who cannot be enough.

May this be the year we learn who our Prince Charming really is... living happily ever after… forever and ever… in His arms.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. And you? Are you getting it? This message of He’s Not Your Prince Charming? If He is and if you are… will you email me your story? I’d love to collect stories and post them here. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: your stories give the rest of us courage.

I’ve told you about my dad— how, without actually meaning to, he’s shaped my faith in God.

(my daughter, Rebekah and my dad)

My dad has shown me in his own way— in his way with me, how the Father is.

How He loves…

How He welcomes…

How He wants to be with me on those early, intimate mornings.

Because of Dad, trusting God has been, if not exactly easy, at least simple for me.

One night, many years ago, when my old nemesis, Fear, started to choke the joy out of my daily life, the memories of my dad’s way with me broke those chains…

It was late and I lay in bed wide-awake. Alone and afraid.

My husband traveled as a part of his job in those days, sometimes for weeks at a time. On this night he was an ocean way, unavailable, unreachable, unable to calm me down or cheer me up. I’d suffered the insomnia of fear every night he was gone.

Too exhausted to sleep, too afraid to allow myself to rest, my façade of courage was crumbling.

My fear teetered towards terror.

A deaf woman alone at night with three children sleeping blithely in their bedrooms— every possibility presenting itself in colored array as I desperately prayed those demons away.

What if someone breaks in the house? Would I hear them? No.

What if there’s a fire? Would I hear the alarm? No.

What if someone big and mean and bad comes barging in the front door… no, no, no!

I can’t hear! I can’t protect my children! I can’t be safe!

I sat awake, hearing aids at full volume, baseball bat at hand.

I prayed, of course. 

Desperate liturgies for protection: for angels, for hedges, for walls and warriors to watch over me.

And I laugh a little now, but at the time, that helplessness felt immensely more real than any assurances of the safety of my neighborhood or the ridiculousness of my fears.

Yet still…in spite of the unreasonableness of my angst, God brought Himself into my runaway fears.

Instead of scoffing: You’re a grown-up, Di, get over it!

Instead of shame: Where’s your faith?

Instead of platitudes: Angels are watching over you…

He reminded me of my dad.

Every night when I was growing up, my dad walked through our house just before going to bed. He checked doors, turned down the heater, closed windows, peeked in on each of us kids.

Making the rounds like a night watchman.

Making sure I was safe.

Making me feel safe.

Never once, in all my years at home did I beg Dad to take care of me. I didn’t plead for protection from the invisible bad guys. Didn’t remind him to lock up. Didn’t keep a baseball bat close just in case.

Why?

I didn’t need to ask for protection because I slept close to my protector.

God, I realized, is just like my dad!

In fact, I began to suspect that all my begging might be an insult to Him. Of course He’s watching over me! 

Instead of desperate rituals of praying for angels to surround me, instead of walking through every worry, and making sure He knew all about how He should handle it, and why, and what I wanted Him to do…

Maybe I should just thank Him for all the nights He’d watched over me.

Just like Dad.

Years and years and decades of nights. No bad guys, no break-ins, no monsters under the bed.

Just my great big God watching over me while I slept.

I drifted off to sleep that night whispering thanks.

And every night after that, whenever the reality of being a deaf woman alone started to feel unsafe, whenever fear threated to keep me up, I felt that grip of safe assurance— of my Father being just like my dad—steady, dependable, present.

He loved me… just like Dad.

He was up to the task of taking care of me… just like Dad.

I could practically feel Him locking up tight, making the rounds, checking in to be sure I was okay… just like my Dad.

My dad spent all my growing up years watching over me. Sometimes in simple ways like locking up at night. Sometimes in harder-to-swallow ways like restricting my freedom lest my naivete leave me unprotected.

I wasn’t always grateful. I didn’t always understand. I wasn’t always nice about not understanding. In fact, he could tell you stories about me not being nice or grateful or understanding…

But that didn’t stop him.

Because my dad cared enough to take care of me… and so does my Father.

From my heart,

Diane

THINGS MY DAD GOT RIGHT:

1.    He watched over me.

2.    He was there— down the hall, next to mom, no matter what.

3.    He didn’t mock my fears.

4.    He kept watching over me even when I didn’t think I needed him.

5.    He showed me what the Father is like.

P.S. Have you learned some things about the Father from your dad? Can you tell us what?

Or are you just now learning that the Father is different than the way your dad was to you? That He loves in a way your dad was not able to love?

(source)

For the next few weeks we will be reposting from He’s Not Your Prince Charming, reaching way back in the archives to remind and reteach and rethink what we’ve been learning together. I have asked my blog team to help choose their favorites, and I am hoping you will add fresh comments to shed new light on these posts.

In the meantime I will be writing ahead for the new series, studying, reading, thinking, and praying about what to say and how to say it. Any suggestions and thoughts about what you’re wondering about will be most welcome— after all, you are my girls! 

From my heart,

Diane

 repost 06/13

Dear girls,

I sit, this morning, in my “summer office” on the back deck. Surrounded by books and bits and pieces of notes I’ve jotted on scraps of paper, my Bible open and your comments ringing in my ears, I linger over a delicious pot of Singaporean tea as I ponder what to write.

How do I answer your cries of grief and longing, shame and wishes?

"… it seems that we have approached from all angles and I still don’t enjoy or desire sex, at all. I know I’m not the only one!"

"… my husband’s needs are being turned down by me because I am just so tired!"

"… I can be really tough/resentful of my hubby when he fails to live up to my expectations of him being my knight in shining armor who saves me from our kids, which then leads to zero sex drive on my half."

Oh my daughters! Surrounded as we are by messages and images and lyrics wrapping our womanly worth in our sexual allure, your honesty gives me an agonizing glimpse into your soul.

So many of you are haunted by a sense of loss, of being less-than, of inadequacy.

Just a few generations ago women were fed a different sort of lie:

"To the sensitive young woman who has had the benefits of proper upbringing, the wedding day is, ironically, both the happiest and the most terrifying day of her life. On the positive side, there is the wedding itself; on the negative side, there is the wedding night, during which the bride must “pay the piper”, so to speak, by facing for the first time the terrible experience of sex.

At this point, let me concede one shocking truth. Some young women actually anticipate the wedding night ordeal with curiosity and pleasure! Beware such an attitude! One cardinal rule of marriage should never be forgotten: GIVE LITTLE, GIVE SELDOM, AND ABOVE ALL GIVE GRUDGINGLY. Otherwise what could have been a proper marriage could become an orgy of sexual lust."

(written by a “pious” Pastor’s wife to young women in The Maddison Institute Newsletter, Fall 1894)

Note the date- barely over a century ago!

And now?

Aren’t we living in the age of sexual enlightenment? Didn’t your parents fight the sexual revolution and win?

Aren’t we living free? Throwing our inhibitions to the wind as we indulge ourselves in sensual pleasure?

I don’t think so.

In fact, your letters tell me a different story. No less heartbreaking than the young brides a hundred years ago who viewed the wedding night ordeal as paying the piper in the terrible experience of sex.

Now 'pious' women believe a different lie: That sex just isn’t all that great most of the time.

In fact, a survey by the National Opinion Research Center seems to confirm that conclusion:

“Nearly one-quarter of American women never achieve orgasm and another half only climax occasionally. This means that almost three-quarters… go without orgasms either some or all of the time.”

(Intimate Issues, Dillow, Pintus)

How in the world do I line that up with the Song of Songs?

One hundred and sixteen verses smack dab in the middle of our Bibles so filled with erotic passion and unabashed pleasure between a young bride and her husband that unmarried Jewish men were banned from reading it!

Everything’s there- technique, adventure, disguise, fantasy, teasing, vivid description… all inspired by God!

Which leads me to conclude that the truth about sex is far different than the lie perpetuated in the nineteen century-

Lie #1: That sex is a terrible ordeal, and thus should be given grudgingly and seldom in order to have a “proper marriage”.

Or the lie of the twenty-first century

Lie #2: That sex is not all that great, and thus can be given grudgingly and seldom because its not all that necessary to a great and lasting and satisfying marriage.

Here, my dear girls, is the truth about sex:

• Sex between a husband and wife is meant to be great. Amazing. A mystical and magical intertwining of hearts and bodies in a powerful explosion of pleasure that creates intense feelings of love for a lifetime.

• Sex between a husband and wife is meant to happen often. Not as a special occasion when all the moods line up and kids stay away and there’s plenty of energy left over at the end of the day.

• Sex between a husband and wife is meant to be an act of intimate worship. Together. God is in that room! Watching, pleased, waiting for your expression of gratitude for such a surprising and soul-satisfying gift.

• Sex between a husband and wife is meant to be protected. It is fragile. Vulnerable. A target of all three of our enemies: the world, the flesh, and the devil. When sex is rare or gets perverted or causes pain or incites dread, something is wrong!

• Sex between a husband and wife is meant to be for you. Yes, you! You need sex. Your soul needs sex. Your emotions and moods are modified by sex. Sex is meant to make you happy, relaxed, free— to realize your own beauty, to relish your own body as you give yourself in abandon.

One of my favorite comments said this: "I need to see this topic with fresh eyes…"

Yes. We do. We must.

As women who are learning to listen to God, who are longing to be close to God, who are craving what He wants for our lives… we need to see the topic of our sexuality in marriage through the freshly washed eyes of Scripture.

Yes, we wish to be godly, giving mothers.

Yes, we wish to use our gifts and talents to honor God.

Yes, we wish to bring justice to far away places and hope to our neighbors.

But I think its time we audibly add another wish—

We wish to fully and frequently embrace our husbands in the intimacy of sexual passion— for our sakes and for his.

For God. For glory. For joy.  

And because this is so vital to the health of our souls as well as our marriages, I’ll be covering all five of these truths in coming posts. If you have any questions, please send them either via the comments (anonymous is just fine on private topics like this) or to hespeaks@ajesuschurch.org. I’ll try to answer in future posts.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Can you help me with this conversation? Sitting here all alone I feel awfully vulnerable. Your comments- whether the words are about your story or your longings or your questions… help me to know that I can keep talking to “my girls” about intimate issues.

(image by abi porter)

 “One of the true hazards of writing is that you yearn to write deeply honest things that rise up from lessons learned the hard way… then you have to learn those lessons the hard way.”

~ Shauna Neiquist in Cold Tangerines

This week I have been unpacking. A little early perhaps, as Firwood Cottage is not move-in ready just yet, but life does not wait and I’ve got things to accomplish. And so I pad about in stocking feet on a floor still hardening, trying to figure what to do with Too-Much-Stuff.

Way too-much-stuff. 

Which leads me to worrying. Where will I put it all? What should I get rid of? Those dishes I’ve had since our early years that I still like but don’t need? That pine hutch that takes up so much space and sticks out so far into a room too small but would be perfect for our too-big TV.?

I ask Phil.

Eyeing my too-big stack of pie pans waiting on the kitchen counter for a place to live, he answers honestly, “You don’t need pie pans. You don’t bake pies, Di.”

And just that fast I’m ruffled and annoyed and ready for combat. Because, you see, Phil’s mom made pies, and so did mine. Delicious, memory-making, mouth-watering pies: rhubarb, French apple, Boston cream, cherry- with real, straight-from-the-tree, pitted-one-at-a-time cherries.

Real women make pies. 

And now I’m not worrying about my too-much-stuff anymore, now I’m feeling my identity crumble the way my once-upon-a-time pie crusts did. Before I stopped making pies.

I live with an image of who I wish I were, of the woman I want to be: The woman with a perfectly ironed apron tied around her perfectly tiny waist, pulling a perfect pie out of her perfectly clean oven to feed her perfect family in her perfectly tidy-all-the-time house.

And then I look at me. Covered in dust from pulling boxes out of a disastrously dirty garage. Disheveled and discombobulated over too much stuff with a mind that can’t stop writing words when really I should be figuring this out.

And I don’t make pies.

Which I could excuse away if I could just keep my house perfect, but I can’t… or at least I don’t.

I want to, you see, but I live with two big men who live big lives.

My son, saving for his future, rushing off each morning, returning late every night, building, dreaming, doing, working… and messing up my tidy little house.

And Phil, that man I love, the one who reminds me that I don’t make pies— whose list is always too long and whose life is always too full. The one who dreams big dreams and packs life tight and invites me to join him in his journey.

How in the world am I going to live in this little house with two big men… and their piles of Too-Much-Stuff?  Too not-very-tidy men whose image of who they are is not in the least tied to how perfectly kept this house is. 

I go to sleep under the itchy wool of all my worries, waking up wound tight, uptight. It is dark, rain washing the coming day like those German hausfraus of my growing up years, who scrubbed the front step first thing every single morning, their own beauty all caught up in the cracked concrete.

Is that me?

Do I really believe this house is too small? Or is it just right? In our budget, with room to spare— for being generous, for living free. Just the right size for doing life different, the way God is calling us, the way we are longing to live in this fun, no-pie-baking chapter of our lives together.

For this former ugly-house to become home, our home— home for my two messy men and me— a woman learning to be who I am, learning to let go of who I am not— I am going to have to do more than unpack a few boxes. In fact, in order for Firwood cottage to become a place of rest and refuge, a place for refreshment and fun and good times, I am going to need to hang on to truths I know, but too soon forget.

1. That real women aren’t perfect.
2. That real women don’t expect perfection from themselves or those they love.
3. That real women aren’t afraid to let go of the past because they’re so excited about future hope, they hardly notice old glories.
4. That real women always make room for more life.

And that, my dear girls, is what living my life “hid in Christ” is looking like right now.

Messy, confusing, satisfying, exhilarating, daring, unconventional, and clinging close to the One who promises to finish this project of remaking me into a real woman.

And so, I ask you the questions that woke me up this morning:

Can we… women fitting ourselves tight in the Shadow of the Almighty (Psalm 91), learn to be who we are by simply coming in close to who He is?

Can we… women of such worth, such intrinsic value, (Matthew 6:19-34) stop trying to be perfect in order to learn to be holy? Wholly His, caught up in Him? Lost in His perfection?

Can we... women set free, (Galatians 5:13-15) give others room to become who they are? Letting go of tidy theories, those expectations that tie them tight and choke the life out of every one of us?

Can we live large and small at the same time?

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Are you like me? Do you cling to an image of who you wish you were but in honest moments, realize you’re not? And that, indeed, you’re not meant to be? 

Please grace us with your stories, your wisdom, your struggles… we learn from each other…

P.S.S. I gave my pile of pie pans to a friend who makes pies…

(source)

For the next few weeks we will be reposting from He’s Not Your Prince Charming, reaching way back in the archives to remind and reteach and rethink what we’ve been learning together. I have asked my blog team to help choose their favorites, and I am hoping you will add fresh comments to shed new light on these posts.

In the meantime I will be writing ahead for the new series, studying, reading, thinking, and praying about what to say and how to say it. Any suggestions and thoughts about what you’re wondering about will be most welcome— after all, you are my girls! 

From my heart,

Diane

repost 09/13

Dear girls,

Last week I said: “I think its time we all moved past the resentment that makes us crabby and cranky and cold to our men.” 

We talked about the need to forgive, to let go of the anger that controls our spirits and contorts our view of conflict.  And I’m not just talking about those horrendous offenses that leave women mortally wounded. Because it is often those less-than –earth-shattering irritations that we forget need to acknowledge and forgive in order to heal up properly. Kind of like paper cuts that render our fingers hot and throbbing but don’t actually send us to the emergency room.

The little stuff.

This week I promised I’d show you how to forgive, but first I need to tell you what forgiveness is not. Because if we lump forgiveness in with all the other ingredients of conflict resolution we end up with a messy goop of impossible expectations.

Here’s what I don’t mean by forgiveness:

1.  Reconciliation:

Some relationships cannot be immediately reconciled by simply pardoning the person who hurt you. Abuse, for example. Or unfaithfulness. There are wounds that go so deep that only major surgery can heal them.

2.  Condoning:

Forgiveness is not the same as making excuses. Last week I wrote:

“Make believe doesn’t work here girls. You can’t pretend he didn’t mean it or it doesn’t hurt or you’re not mad… That’s just stuffing it and as we all know, that ugliness has a way of either seeping out of our pores or blowing up in our faces… And making excuses isn’t effective in the long run. He’s tired, pressured, stressed… but that can only go on for so long and then what?”

3.  Forgetting:

“The only way for the ‘forgive-and forget mentality’ to be practiced is through radical denial, deception, or pretense.”[1] It is not possible for us to forget, only to choose to “not remember” over and over again.

So, now that we’ve cleared away some of the debris attached to the concept of forgiveness, what do I do with all those bitter feelings that crop up when that husband or boyfriend or parent or friend wrongs me?

Here’s where to start:

1.  Be honest with God. No playing pretend games or shaming yourself for feeling the way you do. Tell Him all about it. Be specific. What exactly happened, what exactly do you need to choose to forgive? Say it out loud.

2.  Ask God for help. Only He can wrestle my immensely dominating will into sweet submission. Forgiveness goes against the grain of every base instinct we have.

3.  Trust God with the outcome. Anger is a means of control and of protection. To release this weapon requires that I entrust myself (my feelings, my heart, my future) into the hands of the only One who can keep me safe in the midst of all the hurt this life entails.

4.  Untwist the lies. You have an enemy who works with the offenses of others to smother us with untruth. Satan cannot stand our reflection of God’s beauty. He will use the hurts of others to try to convince us that we are ugly and awful and less-than. We need to separate those enemy-fed lies from what actually happened.

5.  Repent of my reaction. No one can make me angry. Anger is always, always, always a choice. What I do with that anger is my responsibility. We mess up relationships by getting on that roller coaster ride of you-hurt-me, so I-hurt-you-back, but you-started-it! The only way off is through recognizing my wrong response and repenting.

6.  Choose to forgive with my will. My long time mentor, Muriel Cook writes:

The world says, “If you don’t feel like doing something, don’t do it, because it’s not honest.” I’ve learned a secret: if I operate with my will, my emotions will eventually follow. But if I follow my feelings, my will goes along.[2]

7.  Act out forgiveness with my actions. Then Muriel illustrates her point with a story I’ve told my own daughters over and over again:

Let me show you what I mean. Every morning when the alarm goes off, my will and my emotions have an argument. My will says, “You’ve got to get up. You have to go to work today.” My emotions respond, “Oh, no, I can’t. I don’t feel good.” I never feel well in the morning. Now I have a decision to make. Am I going to stay in bed or get up? If I stay in bed, my will stays in bed too. So I get up with my will, go to the bathroom, and brush my teeth. My emotions still protest. It is only after I take a shower, drink a cup of tea, and start moving around that my emotions catch up with my will and I’m a whole person.

We do something similar when we forgive. We use our will, for Jesus’ sake, because He asks us to, and sooner or later our emotions follow.

That’s it girls. Forgiveness does not require years and years of professional counseling. It is not a process as much as it is a heroic act of our wills. The process part is the sluggish following of our feelings to catch up with what we choose to do with our wills.

If you’re finding yourself reacting to your man in unfriendly ways— snapping and snarling or withdrawing and colding him out, might the real cause be an unforgiving spirit?

Take this list with you and go on a long walk with the Father. Pour it out to Him. Let Him clean off the grunginess of unforgiveness. Let Him renew your love for your husband or your boyfriend or that guy who hurts your feelings. Let Him wash all those hurts away and leave you sparkling with the joy of your freedom.

From my heart,

Diane

PS: Here’s what we need: How do you act when you’re mad at something minor? Or have your feelings hurt. Can you tell us stories, even laugh at yourself? You might help us to be a little more honest with ourselves…

---

[1] Dan Allender, Tremper Longmann, Bold Love

[2] Muriel Cook, Shelly Cook Volkhardt, Kitchen Table Counseling

What if… God were to call on women to gather together to pray for their family, their friends, the people in their lives, the people they love?

What if…

God were to call an army of women to engage in intense, purposeful prayer?

What if…

hundreds of women answered that call and came together all at once to pray in one massive all-at-the-same-time gathering?

What if…

every daughter, son, husband, friend, neighbor and work associate of every one of those hundreds of women got saturated in prayer?

What if we prayed all night?

What would happen?

Several years ago a group of ordinary women set out to find out what would happen if we had enough faith and determination to venture out of our comfortable beds and pray all night for the people in our own circles of influence.

We were excited, a little nervous, and filled with the hope that God would show Himself to us in tangible, powerful ways.

In ways that made sense to us, in ways  that we could understand.

And He did!

Since that first Night in Prayer, nine years ago, the number of women who come, pajama clad, with pillows and goodies and hearts full of faith, has snowballed.

Women want to come! They bring burdens too great to bear alone: people they love who need Jesus, messy relationships they cannot fix, co-workers who are cold to the Gospel, teenagers taking terrible risks.

We walk in the door, every one of us, with a great burden to see hearts rescued by the Redeemer.

We have seen those Impossible Prayers answered.  Really! We have seen our own minds and attitudes and thinking changed dramatically. We have seen healings of bodies and perhaps even more miraculous, healings of relationships.

More than anything, we have experienced Jesus in a way we never understood possible.

This year would you join us?

We are gathering at midnight on April 4^th, through 6 A.M. the next morning to pray all night together… for those we love, for ourselves, for God’s kingdom to come crashing into our messiness here and now.

We’ll be gathering both on the Westside and at Bridgetown and at Sunset this year. I’ll be leading on the Westside and Tammy and her team will guide you at Bridgetown, while Carmen and her crew oversee the women at Sunset.

Will you join us?

I love the LORD because He hears and answers

My prayers.

Because He bends down and listens,

I will pray as long as I have breath!

Psalm 116:1,2

(NLT)

Filled with His hope,

Diane

Click Here to sign up.

P.S. If you’ve been to a Night in Prayer in the past, would you leave a comment here? I think your stories might just give some women the courage to come…

For the next few weeks we will be reposting from He’s Not Your Prince Charming, reaching way back in the archives to remind and reteach and rethink what we’ve been learning together. I have asked my blog team to help choose their favorites, and I am hoping you will add fresh comments to shed new light on these posts. In the meantime I will be writing ahead for the new series, studying, reading, thinking, and praying about what to say and how to say it. Any suggestions and thoughts about what you’re wondering about will be most welcome— after all, you are my girls! 

From my heart,

Diane

repost/4.12

Dear girls,

Last week we talked about all those differences that can make life and love so difficult. We talked about the three ways most of us women cycle through solving these conflicts of personality and values.

First we try to ignore that difference that’s irritating us.  Maybe if I don’t think about it, it will go away.

Only differences don’t go away. Instead they grow and chafe and loom larger and get blown up bigger.

Sometimes we convince ourselves that by clinching our teeth and determining to “overlook” it we’ll be okay.

Only differences cannot be overlooked in real life. That might work for dating but the very daily-ness of living with a man, day in and day out tends to aggravate those differences.

And then what we all seem to resort to when nothing else works: we take out our relational wrench and fix it.

Only it doesn’t work.

Ever.

In fact, I think many of those conflicts sited as “irreconcilable differences” are really just differences with a fix-it wrench doing deep damage.

Because, dear girls, your men don’t need to be fixed.

Just ask him.

Ask any man why he fell in love with his wife or fiancé or girlfriend and not one of them will tell you he loves her because he hopes she will fix him.

Help him… maybe. Challenge him…perhaps. But mostly what you’ll hear is something like this:

I married her because she likes me. 

Think about that for a minute because here’s where things get strange:

I did not marry Phil thirty-five years ago because he liked me. I married him because I liked him. 

When, just a few minutes ago I asked Phil why he fell in love with me, he listed all sorts of lovely reasons. But woven in there every phrase or so was something along the lines of: you understood me, you fit with me. 

My man’s way of saying, you liked me, and that made me like you even more, and think we could have a really good life together.

Because girls, that man of yours doesn’t want you  to  fix him— he wants you to like him.

When you and I set out to fix those differences that really bother us… he doesn’t feel liked.

When we heave a great sigh of not-so-subtle disappointment over yet another Sunday afternoon with the annoying noise of a football game drowning out our yearning for romance… he doesn’t feel liked.

And when we hint and poke and suggest and remind him again… he doesn’t feel liked.

It's like he needs. Great gobs of like. Loud like.

He needs you to like him whether he’s messy or manically neat. Whether he’s cool or… kind of dorky. Pudgy or buff, hairy or bald, pushy or polite, successful or out-of-work and out-of-steam.

Deep down he yearns to be liked just as he is, right now, today.

And you can do that, dear girls. You can like him. Yes, you can. It’s a choice we make.

But you’ll have to remember this: He’s not your Prince Charming.

He’s not supposed to be.

That place in your heart is carved out for God alone. He’s perfect. Everything you ever wanted and so much more.

And when you know that… you can look at that man across the table and just like him. A lot.

And all of a sudden those differences aren’t so bad. They don’t disappear, but they certainly start to shrink. You’ll start to wonder what you were so worried about way back then in those conflict-riddled days. You’ll see that you over-did it, that you made your relationship too much about you.

How do I know?

Because I’ve tried all three ways of dealing with those difficult differences between the two of us.  I’ve stirred up conflict, sent my man cowering into the corner of the roof, been that irascible, unsolvable, hard-to-please woman.

All because I forgot…

That Phil is not my Prince Charming. He’s the man God gave me to love, to serve, to help, to partner with— to like, for the rest of our lives.

And that's what this series is all about. Next week I'll show you what I've discovered about the four ways God asks women to love their men. And then we'll talk about how to do that in a way that makes him feel really, really liked.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Here’s your chance, girls. Tell us what you like about him. Your boyfriend, your fiancé, your husband… make a list and let us see it. And then tell him. I think you’ll be amazed at how much he loves being liked.

(image by Bethany Small)

…and all the people in that region begged Jesus to go away and leave them alone…

Luke 8:37

…the crowds received Jesus with open arms because they had been waiting for Him.

Luke 8:40

I sat before the fire this morning with a cup of steaming tea in one hand and my Bible in my lap. Groggy from sleeping too late, restless and needing real rest, I felt all unsettled inside.

The words caught me.

The story of a whole town pressuring Jesus to leave after He’d done good— rid a crazy man of his demons.

Why weren’t they okay with that?

And then right up against that question, rose the story of a whole town pressing in around Jesus for help and healing.

How did they know?

On one side of the lake an immense crowd gathered to beg Jesus to go away. To leave them alone.

On the other side of that same lake, equally insistent crowds waited with open arms to invite Him right into the midst of their stories.

Why?

Why would one person push Him away and another pull Him close?

And aren’t I just a little spiritually bi-polar too?

On some things down right rigid in my strict adherence to His Word…

and on others clearly disobedient and mostly unapologetic.

Why do I ramp up the intensity of my words in order to get my own way… when I well know that what God relishes in a woman is a gentle and quiet spirit?

Why do I lay awake at night worrying about my kids… when He has so clearly stated that He loves them with a greater love than I could ever grasp?

And why can’t I help myself?

Why don’t I stop?

Fully awake now, I scoot forward, lay aside my tea and sniff around these stories. What I find gives me much more than a caffeine jolt.

The ones who wanted Him away were afraid. Not of the stark naked, demon filled, manic man who broke through chains and dominated the countryside. They were used to him. Had it under control.

What scared them witless was Jesus’ undeniable power to bankrupt their undercover pig operation. Here was a kosher Jewish town making a killing on hogs.

They had a secret that Jesus knew about and they thought by pushing Him out of the picture they could keep stockpiling all that lovely stash without the whole world knowing.

And maybe I have secrets too. Secret pride. Secret fears. Secret things that feel safe to me. And I don’t want Jesus to have anything to do with my hog business.

Mmh.

Then there’s the other guys. They welcomed Jesus. Held open their arms and fairly wrestled Him into their lives.

A leader fell flat on his face before Jesus, blithefully ignorant of what everyone else might think. His daughter was dying and by golly this guy was going to do everything in his power to get the help he needed to save her.

He was desperate.

A woman grabbed onto the tassle at the bottom of His robe and held on for dear life, stopping Jesus’ journey through the crowds. Nothing and nobody was going to stop her from getting from Him what she wanted more than life itself. Weak and weary and tired of the isolation of illness, this woman would go down in history for her insistence that Jesus help her.

She was sick of being sick. 

I think there’s a treasure to be unburied in these side-by-side stories.

Something about fear and faith. And how you can’t have both. One cancels out the other.

Faith overrides fear and fear deletes faith.

I chew on this all day. Keep coming back to the stories. What am I missing?

I don’t want to be a bi-polar believer.

Moving from crisis to crisis, one season all good and peace-filled and other’s centered…

Too soon swinging to anxious, overwrought, ready to burst into tears because life is hard and how come that happened and why me?

Jeez.

And while I am praying and seeking and wondering, words jump out at me:

Faith.

Peace.

Believe.

Trust.

I know those words. And I know something else—

that the life I long for cannot be had as long as I insist on holding God to my way…

and

the life I long for is mine for the taking if I’ll only refuse the fear by fully entrusting every single teeny tiny facet of my life to Him.

Everything.  Everyone.  Fully.

And so I get up to face my day with three treasures tucked into my heart, stored in my mind, settled into my soul…

1.  It’s usually when I’m up against death and desperation- really scary stuff— that I come begging for Him.

2.  Not until I get sick and tired of being sick and tired will I live the life I long for.

3.  Fear is what gets in the way of what I really want.

These are three things I cannot afford to keep forgetting, and neither can you. But I’ll need the help of other women who want what I want.

Women who’ve declared themselves all His.

Women who are daring to trust Him even when they’re really not crazy about all that desperation and dying talk.

Women who are willing to call me out when I start hiding hogs again.

Women like you…

From my heart,

Diane

PS:  Can you write us some stories of times you fell on your face in full on faith that only He could fix those broken places?  We need to hear your songs of deliverance to help build up our own wobbly faith.

repost: 4.2012