Silence with a purpose.

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Sorry for the silence, friends.

It’s been a long stretch of quiet in the midst of chaos, the kind where incredibly deep things are happening in the stillness of my heart while the world goes on around me. I’ve made decisions, dragged suitcases around again, said goodbyes. And I’ve seen God be who He is. Faithful. Good.

And I’ve been quiet.

I’ve missed blogging.

But it’s been hard to articulate the things He’s working in my heart. So I’ve sat, hammock creaking, birds rustling in the leaves, and I’ve closed my eyes. I’ve left the laptop shut.

This quiet place is just for Him and me.

There’s been so much to say, and nothing. All at the same time.

I need His presence in that space in my heart where no one else goes. It changes me like a fire plunged red-hot into the depths of my soul.

I need the quiet. It’s my lifeblood.

But this winter, the silence has held a secondary purpose, too.

In the midst of all the moving, there’s been a humbling opportunity to put to paper the story of what He’s done in my heart over the past decade or so, the story of how He brought my life from stagnant, broken dreams to being finally free. The story of how He became enough … of how He became everything.

That story is going to be a book soon. Crazy.

To God be the glory for the things He has done.

Writing them down has driven me straight to worship.

I hope it will do the same for you.

I’ll have more details soon, but I hope you’ll come along, if you find the story resonates. I hope it will, because I’d like to keep hearing yours as we go. Because your story, our stories – they push me closer to God. And I’m grateful for that. Grateful for you.

Because this path that leads to Him was always meant to be walked together.

What He makes me do.

I stood there, the sea of grass rippling against my ankles, chest heaving like I was trying to suck in the entire chilled sky all at once.

I’d sprinted. I’m not a sprinter. But sometimes that’s the only way to get to a place where you can yell.

“Why is this so hard sometimes?”

“Why don’t I feel You?”

The questions flew out over the pasture without anything to bounce off of except the rabbit bouncing into the bushes, the wind waiting to carry my words away.

I gasped for air.

The wind tousled my ponytail.

He makes me lie down in green pastures. He restores my soul.

Of course.

Of course that’s the truth that would drift through my brain as I stood there in a horse pasture, restless legs stamping down the tall blades in the spot where I’d stopped.

“God, don’t you know all I’d like to do is rest? And be restored?”

For weeks I’d been living in the desert — literally and figuratively. When I moved there, I’d packed a mixed bag of excitement and nerves.

In return, the desert packed a punch.

The desert is a hard place to live. This I knew.

But my feet were barely sandy when His promise to just walk forward, I’ll lead you got shaken out of my pockets like lunch money by a playground bully.

The adventure was gone. Fast.

I felt like I’d been beaten up on the dry, dusty road, so like a bloody-nosed kid with cut-up knees, I ran back to the last place I remembered seeing my Father’s face.

Where things were green.

And like the walking wounded, I paced His pasture, asking Him to explain Himself. I let it all out. Questions. Indignation. Tears. Hurt. Exhaustion.

He makes me lie down.

I didn’t feel like I needed Him to “make” me.

But at the same time … I did.

I needed Him to tell me to rest, to remind me again that He wouldn’t leave. In the Valley of the Shadow of Death, though He was there, I’d lost sight of Him somehow.

The dark closed in.

For You are with me.

He was.

Even when I felt desperately alone in the dark, when the weight was crushing, He was with me.

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

It wasn’t always what I wanted. But in the moments I needed Him most, He was there, providing the exact thing I needed to get me through the night.

Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.

No matter where I run. Valley. Sand. Pasture.

If I make my bed in the depths, You are there.

My feet came to rest.

And as I sat down, not in the bed I’d made for myself but the one He’d made for me, He reminded me who I was.

A daughter.

His sheep.

And like a sheep, I’ll need to remember — and need reminding — again tomorrow.

The walk home.

The breeze ambled down the dusty street, breathing cool in our faces.

It felt like the pockets of cool mountain air that used to pop my face in Birmingham when we’d go cycling in the summer, the days it felt like we’d passed through a hot Southern kitchen with the freezer left open.

I never expected that in the desert. Even at dusk.

I love this time of day here.

The city’s sandy white buildings glow rosy at sunset, like the sun in its haste to get out of this part of the world spilt a glass of pink lemonade right over the top of them.

“I love not having to walk this road alone anymore.”

Abi made the comment as she and I ambled down the empty road toward home, casually dodging the occasional cat or garbage dumpster, or cat jumping out of a garbage dumpster.

It’s true.

It’s a totally different walk when you’re alone.

Your eyes take in less of the sunset, less of the fruit stands and the children playing and more of the honking cars, the men loitering around. More of how the eyes are all staring at you. More of how little you blend in. More of how the darkness is falling quickly.

But with a buddy, you can drag your feet a little in the dust and let the sunset wash over you while you stroll home, laughing at how you almost just got hit by that kid’s soccer ball or that erratic taxi, or how you bet that family would let you come to their really loud dinner party if you just knocked on the door. Five dollars says they would. I’m sure of it.

And suddenly … we’re home.

The keys clank in the double doors, and I smile just thinking about my living situation. I have a great flat. I have great flatmates.

And temporarily I have a broken bed.

Abi rolls her eyes at me because I like to dramatize the fact that I sleep on a sheetless mattress in the middle of the floor at the moment. It’s only been that way a few days. It’ll be fixed in a few more days. I try to play it up to get sympathy, but it doesn’t work. She knows that the reality is … I could care less about it. I sleep fine anywhere, and I love where I live.

But it’s so temporary. I’ll be moving again soon. What I do over here on this side of the world has a transient nature to it – a lot of changing plans, a lot of moving. The sheetless mattress mirrors my heart a little. Why put on the sheets when you don’t think you’ll be there very long?

Most days I don’t think too much about how transient and unpredictable life is at the moment, but today as I sit on the edge of the mattress, a wave of emotion rushes over me. A wave of anxiety about not knowing where I’ll be … again. About not knowing how long I’ll be there … again.

A desire for something even mildly permanent.

Looking forward, my eyes drown in the details of the coming months. Where will I live and work? When? For how long? Who with? Will all my stuff ever be all in one country again? All the questions loom big, loud, uncertain and unpredictable, like I’m doing reconnaissance as I walk alone, trying to anticipate what could be lurking a few steps up the road.

And the Father whispers again … “You’re not alone.”

He’s right.

I’m not alone.

So why do I walk like I am? Why do I walk like He’s left me by myself to hyper-focus on things, panic occasionally and bolt through the uncertain bits like I’m a contestant on “Wipeout”?

He’s not left me yet. He’s good. He’s loving toward me. He’s always seen the soccer balls and the taxis coming, and He’s planned the sunsets and their beauty.

So, I remind myself, just let those sunsets wash over you.

Breathe.

“He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”

Walk slowly, for crying out loud, Grace. Enjoy each night on the bare mattress in this country. Don’t worry about where you’ll lay your head next.

Wherever it is, He’s there.

Loud.

My heart pounded as I lay there in the dark. Two donkeys conversed outside. A rooster crowed. The call to prayer from the local mosque blared across the African desert.

And the sand didn’t soak up nearly as much of the sound as I thought it should.

“God, I know Your truth,” I whispered. “But I need Your truth to be loud right now.”

I trembled under the thin sheet, the remnants of a bad dream clinging to my skin like perspiration.

The darkness was heavy. Loud.

So loud that even the mosquito buzzing in my eardrum nearly drowned out the God of the universe for a moment.

I slapped at my ear.

I beat my chest.

Why is it that — while my God speaks with a still, small voice — the enemy is allowed to speak with such a deafening shout?

Why is it that I listen?

“Grace, you’re going to be so lonely …”

“You’re brokenhearted, and that’s never going to heal …”

“You should be ashamed of yourself …”

“You’ll never have the strength or ability to do this, that thing you feel called to do …”

Stop. Just stop.

I cover my ears. I block out the mosquitos.

“Father, please be loud,” I whisper.

I lay there on the bed, wrestling with the two-ton weight sitting on my racing heart. I try to throw it off like a hot brick, push it away like an elephant that’s parked its foot on my ribcage.

It crushes. And it won’t move.

I’m infuriated.

White-hot tears.

“Father, the enemy has no right. No right to my heart. No right to tell me lies about You. Why does this hurt so much? Why does he get to speak to me like that when I know Your love for me is stronger?”

I feel my heart grasping for the Father’s love, the love I’ve crashed into in the past, the one that pursued me and began to gently strip away the things I thought I needed more.

The love that gave me life. The love that’s better than life. And He begins to remind my heart again.

I’ve never been alone.

In the most broken moment of my past, He was solid.

In my darkest pain, He held me.

When I needed strength desperately, He gave it.

In the middle of my shame and mess, He bent down, picked me up and offered me fresh mercies.

There in Africa — like Asaph in Psalm 77, when I found myself stretched on my bed, my soul refusing to be comforted — I asked God if His steadfast love had somehow ended.

And then I remembered His deeds of old. “What god is great like our God?”

As a sliver of sun peeked out over the sand, the truth was quiet but sweet.

He loves me like no one else can.

He seeps into the corners of my heart, turns over the stones, airs out the shadows and fills the gaps with His love.

Sometimes His love is buoyant. Sometimes it’s obvious and deliberate.

Sometimes it’s a slow and steady stream I have to choose to plunge my face into when the dark, heavy air I’m inhaling attacks me from the inside out.

Sometimes His love screams a battle cry and lifts me from the pit. Most days it just whispers a reminder of who I am. Who He is.

But it’s always there, packing the punch of a lion’s roar in my heart.

It’s won. It will win.

And today it’s winning again.

*****

“For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39)

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Real fear.

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The rain splattered hard against the window.

Just didn’t seem right for the desert.

I rolled the legs of my soaked jeans down and noticed the damp marks my feet were leaving on the tile floor. My friend laughed at me and clicked her tongue, the cultural sign of disapproval here. Kind of like a “girl, what were you thinking?”

It hadn’t rained since I arrived, and they’re just as unequipped for rain in this country as the South is for snow. A little rain, and full-scale rivers start flowing right down the middle of the street.

Hopeless. Hopeless for me … and for my Toms.

I’ve been visiting this country for a few weeks now, and what I’ve learned already is that there’s so much I don’t know. I’ve had to get comfy with diving out confidently on foot into fast-moving traffic and just trust that cars will stop. (They do.) I’ve learned what a forecast of “dust” is.

And I’ve learned what real fear looks like.

“Grace, are you afraid of thunder?”

She asked me that as I worked on drying out my shoes.

“Did you hear all the thunder last night?”

No, I didn’t. I told her as much.

“Really? It kept me awake all night. I’m so scared of thunder.”

Why?

“It reminds me of God.”

It reminds me of God, too, I thought, but I didn’t say it – mainly because I figured it reminded us of God for very different reasons.

“Why does it remind you of God?”

“Because it makes me think of how bad judgment day is going to be. And I am really scared of judgment day.”

In my friend’s beliefs, all her actions will be weighed out on judgment day. If she comes out with more good than bad, then she’s in the clear. If not …

“When I do bad things, I get afraid that I will die right then, before I have time to do more good things.”

As I looked in my friend’s eyes, all I saw reflected there was fear.

Hopeless.

Here she sat in front of me, concerned about buying the right dress to impress a guy she liked at a party … texting her friends … cruising Facebook …

And fearing eternity hard-core.

Oh, God. Please put the fear in me for the sake of your name among these people.

Every moment, every second, I feel ill equipped to be a bearer of hope to dark places. At all times of day, the darkness pounds against my window with the fervor of a desert rainstorm, threatening to wash away seeds planted, threatening to steal my joy or my confidence, threatening to distract me with stray thoughts or insecurities or concerns.

It’s loud sometimes. It shakes me.

And then I remember that the God who made the thunder loves me. He’s broken the scales holding my worthless rags. He’s clothed me as a daughter.

And He loves my friend.

What hope … for you, for me … for a world of people enslaved by darkness who don’t know the One who can calm the storm. For Him and for them, we trust His power behind the thunder, we remember He’s bigger than the darkness, we put our drenched shoes back on … and we press on.

In Him, we have nothing to fear.

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