On being scared of what you know

Well, hasn’t it been a busy couple of weeks?! The Christmas rush has started early it seems and it’s a long time since my last evening in. I have a TUSAL to catch up with and feedback from the &Stitches competition, but I’ve been itching to get this post out all week so I better do some reflective writing while I feel inspired. Hopefully will get another chance this weekend!

I am an optimist. I love that old non-statistic: “most people spend most of their time worrying about things that will never happen.” I’m also guilty of falling into the ‘most people’ category occasionally.

Sometimes though, I worry about things that I’m certain are just about to happen. What if you know the situation is about to turn bad? What if you’ve been there before? At church this Sunday we were looking at the story where Jesus walks on the water. He’d sent his followers across a lake and said he’d meet them on the other side. His followers were fishermen and knew that lake like the back of their hand. They were used to sailing in the dark. So you better be sure that when they were scared, it wasn’t without good reason!

As I prepare to leave a job I love for another I can only hope to be such a blessing; as I look to the first Christmas I will ever spend away from my parents’ home; I feel like I’m sliding down an old precipice to a dark valley path. It's a path I've walked many times before. My capacity shrinks to that of a tiny Lego man, and the smallest task becomes a mountain. Sometimes it turns to a stream under the volume of tears. 

This week I’ve been following along with the SheReadsTruth ladies as they look at Thankfulness in the Bible (happy Thanksgiving for yesterday!) On Monday we looked at “giving thanks in sorrow”. I can only advise you to read it whether you have a faith or not; the whole thing is so beautiful no snippet can do it justice. This stopped me in my tracks:

You’ve sized up your grief of what was lost, what should be, or what will never be, and felt the sharp pangs of this fallen world. You’ve avoided playing a thanksgiving song because it won’t sound the same as before. But by doing so, you’re withholding one of the most precious tunes the world has ever heard—the tune of Glory.

The first time I walked that path I thought my world would end. Now I sit it out, knowing that eventually it will pass. The fight is shorter, the nights just as long and the morning a welcome relief when it finally comes.

 My challenge is to keep on identifying those amazing things I have to be thankful for. It is to acknowledge the battles I've been through and sing because of it (not in spite of it). My challenge is to step out of the safety of everything I’ve tried before (that failed) onto the choppy seas of fear, keeping my eyes on Jesus and trusting that he has power to calm the storms.

What do you do when the walls fall in?

Power in the name

Today I'm joining in with another #SheReadsTruth link-up, about where we take our name from. I've got lots of blog-gy ideas in my head at the moment but never getting time to commit them to paper (or screen!) I have been enjoying reading through Ruth though, and this study has given me plenty of food for thought. Have a look at other people's take on the story here.

I've written before about my own name here. It led me on a path of discovery about who I was and the words that have been spoken over me my whole life, just when people called me by my name.

 

Today I'm going to write instead about the names we dole out to places and communities. I'm a real believer in the power of our spoken word, that what we say can become prophetic into the spiritual realm as well as on an earthly level around us.

 

There is a prophecy in Isaiah:

For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent, and for Jerusalem’s sake I will not be quiet, until her righteousness goes forth as brightness, and her salvation as a burning torch. The nations shall see your righteousness, and all the kings your glory, and you shall be called by a new name that the mouth of the Lord will give. You shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord, and a royal diadem in the hand of your God. You shall no more be termed Forsaken, and your land shall no more be termed Desolate, but you shall be called My Delight Is in Her, and your land Married; for the Lord delights in you, and your land shall be married. (Isaiah 62:1-4 ESV)

We used to pray that over my home city of Liverpool. For anyone who doesn't know, Liverpool has somewhat of a dodgy reputation in the UK. Sure we had the Beatles and some good footballers, but we've also had riots, the streets are a bit messy and unemployment has historically been rife. I remember once going to a festival with some workmates from Leeds and camping next to some scousers. They were friendly and immediately I felt more secure in the surroundings. My friends, however, were on edge. 'Make sure you take everything with you, there are scousers in the next tent!' I was shocked and appalled.

 

So we prayed for a new name over our city. We prayed that 'Hope' would be spoken over it, and 
restoration. We asked to be called, 'my delight is in her'.

Do you know, it matters? It matters to people the reputation of where they live. It matters to children the reputation of their high school. What's the point in trying if no-one from your school ever gets anywhere when they leave? A teacher was recently fatally stabbed in a school in Leeds. It is a good school and this was an isolated incident, but as well as the fear the young people (and staff) now face going into school, they are marked by their uniform as 'from the school where that teacher got stabbed.' There's some negative power in hearing that on a regular basis. We have to stand against it.

 

I think we have a responsibility here. We have a responsibility to pray and lift up our neighbourhoods, our communities, our friends and family. But secondly, we have a responsibility to speak new names over those same groups. We can seek the positives and draw them out into the open, we can restore people and places with our words.

“Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh? Then... your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to dwell in." (Isaiah 58:6, 7, 12 ESV)

The whole chapter is full of hope and new life. Read it. But we are called to be the restorer of streets. We do that with our actions, but also with our words.

What are the positive words that you can speak over the groups and peoples you encounter, that otherwise might only have negative labels?

Commissioned Moments

Today I'm joining up with a community at #SheReadsTruth. We've been challenged to write from the following reflection: 

Why do we live in the tension of worship and doubt that disables us to share the truth of God’s love? 

You and I are commissioned – authorized by God – to “therefore go and make disciples” who will know Him and live for Him. This is a commandment from Jesus.

Lots of other people have also written, have a look at their thoughts here. Here are mine:

Growing up, I learned to worship God in dance. I learned all the theory; what different parts of the body symbolised and how we could move prophetically. I grew up expressing my praise with my whole being.

I grew a bit older and discovered some people found that a bit weird. I learned that my friends and I had been labelled 'the flag girls' and watched more than one less-than-complementary impression of our 'actions'.

Now I'm older still. I've learned that I can praise and worship my God without having to move at all. I can reflect, I can be so full of awe that even to put on that worshipping face is distracting from what is happening on the inside. But sometimes, I just want to dance. I want to use all my limbs, my body, my balance to express my heart. Then I remember about the flag girls and wonder what that person sitting at the back might think.

Last Friday I encountered Jesus in a way I haven't done since I was a child. On Sunday, I burned on the inside with a conviction that I had a God-given dance. Movements rose inside of me that I knew would inspire and lead others. 'Flag girls' shouted from the back of my mind, urging me to cling to dignity. The song rolled on. How could I ask Jesus for a commission if I wouldn't follow such a simple command? How could I take a step of faith at work if I couldn't take a step in front of my family?

Every step to the front felt like lead. Every movement felt shaky. The chorus rose and fell. The verses came around, and that chorus again. My whole life was laid out in that moment, surrendered. All my pride, every promise, everything I knew and didn't know. That was my commissioning moment, a tiny obedience that broke through the lies of the past and fears of the future.

Since then? Life is busy, and normal. There was no bolt from the sky, but a foundation in my heart that I can follow my commission, one step at a time.