What Does It Mean To Be Childlike?

I’ve been mulling over what it means to have child-like faith, which is an expression we use based on Jesus’s words to His disciples, which are recorded in three of the four gospels:

Matthew 18:3: “Truly I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of Heaven.”

Mark 10:15: “Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.”

Luke 18:17: “Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.”

In Matthew, the word often translated as turn or repent is better translated as convert or change. The language here is passive voice, suggesting the individual has received the action of change, rather than doing it.

In contrast, both verbs for become [like children] in Matthew and receive [the kingdom] in Mark and Luke are in middle voice, meaning the subject is acting in some way upon himself or concerning himself. The verb for receive implies to reach out and take hold of.

In other words, these phrases mean the same thing: becoming like children and receiving the kingdom like a child means we, as believers, do the action to ourselves, and that action is having childlike qualities.

The key here is to understand those childlike qualities. What does it mean to be like a child or to reach out and grab hold of something like a child?

1. Children ask for what they want without fear or doubt, even if they’ve been told no before. Sometimes my toddler asks for more goldfish when she’s had plenty, and sometimes I’ll tell her no. That’s never once stopped her from asking for more the next snack time. She doesn’t understand or feel or imagine rejection in the face of a no. Her past experiences with no—in the sense of asking for what she wants, not in the sense of discipline—have not limited her enthusiasm for asking in the future.

2. Children trust their parents with utter dependence. My daughter never has to wonder if we’ll feed her. When we go out of town, she’s not concerned about whether we’ve packed clothes or have a place for her to sleep. She doesn’t worry about the route we’ll take or how much time it will take to get there. She knows we, her parents, take care of all those things, and she just gets to be a kid, along for the ride.

3. Children believe what their parents say is true. If I told Emmy her Daddy was in the garage, she would run toward that room and try to open the door to see him. She believes me because I said it, and she has no reason to doubt it. I could show her the empty garage within a few minutes and do it all over again, and she’d still believe me. Obviously, I wouldn’t do that because I’m lying and tricking her, and God doesn’t play with us like that either. But the point is, she would believe me again and again and again because I said it, and if I said it, then it’s true.

I’m using examples with my toddler on purpose. The word for child or children in all three of these verses is the same word, and it implies infancy or a young age, like a toddler.

Certainly by the time some children reach the later stages of childhood, and as we grow into adults, we don’t retain these characteristics. Our experiences or our circumstances have taught us that we don’t get what we ask for sometimes, so we stop asking for certain things. We may worry our parents will forget to pack our favorite blanket or pjs, so we remind them. And we have a better sense of how long we’ve been on a car ride and want to know when we will get there. And we doubt or don’t believe because someone has tricked us before. We’ve been lied to, deceived, and we hesitate first before absolute belief.

But to enter into the kingdom of God, to reach out and take hold of it, we have to go back to those days of infancy and toddler-like innocent.

And to do that, we have to suspend all of our experiences and circumstances, to return to utter dependence and belief, to ask for what we want without fear of rejection or disappointment.

It sounds like freedom to return to these childlike qualities—and yet, it’s so, so hard to let go of our control, to get out of our own heads, and to release our past disappointments. But Jesus tells us we must—and don’t we want all that He has for us? Don’t we want to experience His kingdom—righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit (Romans 14:17) right now?

Let us return to that childlike faith, the absolute hope and trust and belief in the security and goodness of our Heavenly Father.

A Deeper Look at 1 John 4: Love Perfected

Can we be honest? Sometimes when we read 1 John, it feels condemning. One example? “Anyone who does not love does not know God” (4:8).  

Yikes! We can read that and think, well, I’ve sure had plenty of ‘unloving’ moments, so I guess I don’t know God.  

Sigh. Grumble. Grumble. Cry.  

Right?  

But to read and study 1 John, we have to first understand John as a person. He considered himself Jesus’s favorite and repeatedly refers to himself in the book of John as ‘the one Jesus loved.’ Seems pretty bold, huh? 

Actually, John just had a deep, deep, DEEP understanding of who he is in Christ. He is, I think, one of the best pictures of a disciple walking in his identity in Christ. And so yeah, he comes across a little arrogant sometimes, a little over-confident, but if we read his words in the context of his full and complete confidence in who he is in Christ, then we can see why he makes the bold statements that he makes.  

And the more I study him, the more I can see his style of writing, where what feels like a super bold (and condemning) statement is usually explained in more context if we continue reading and also if we make connections from earlier statements to later statements. And always those statements are rooted in an understanding of either who God is or who we are in Christ, as believers with His spirit and new nature.  

I’ve been meditating on chapter 4, specifically verses 16 through 18 because I have been consumed with quite a bit of fear and anxiety lately. It started with verse 18—and again, we can read this and think, gosh, I’m fearful. I guess God’s love is not perfected in me. Sigh. Sigh. Grumble. Grumble. Cry.  

First, we need context. Let’s start in verse 12. It says, “No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us and his love is perfected in us.”  

It feels like this means love is perfected in us, if/when we love one another.  

We love >> then God abides >> then love is perfected  

But keep reading... 

John explains how we know that we abide in Him and He in us: we have his Spirit (v. 13), we have the gospel testimony (v. 14), and we confess Jesus as the son of God (v. 15).  

Now we get to what I’ve been meditating on—verses 16 through 18: 

“So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love, abides in God, and God abides in him. By this, love is perfected with us so that we may have confidence for the day of judgment because as He is so are we in this world. There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love.”  

After we know that we abide in Him (i.e. we have his Spirit, we believe the gospel testimony, we confess Jesus as the son of God—in other words, we’re born-again believers), THEN we have come to know and to believe the love God has for us (v. 16).  

Now we see that God is love and to abide in love is to abide in God and to have God abide in us.  

THEN is love perfected—“by this...” (v. 17).  

So when John says (v. 18), whoever fears has not been perfected in love, it means he who is fearing/fearful is not abiding in God nor God in Him. There’s a disconnect.  

When we disconnect, we fear. When we fear, we expect punishment. When we expect punishment, we have forgotten the love of God—what we first came to know and believe.  

The more deeply we’re rooted in our identity in Christ, the more fully we accept His love for us, the less likely we will be to walk in fear.  

 

A Year of Freedom

Since 2013, I have asked the Lord to give me a word for each year. This year, I compiled those words in one place—and then sat in awe as I reflected on all the ways the Lord had brought that word to pass, some of which I couldn’t have seen until now.

2013 – brave: The year we moved to Plainview, and I learned how to make new friends. Again.

2014 – grace: The year of multiple failed fertility treatments, including two failed IVF rounds.

2015 – hope: The year I lost all hope in God’s plans for our family.

2016 – redeem: The year He began to heal me and rebuild my faith.

2017 – peace: The year of chaos and changes.

2018 – anticipation: The year He told us a baby was coming in 2019.

2019 – promises fulfilled: The year He brought our precious miracle.

2020 – joy: The year in which I experienced great loss and pain, and yet so much joy.

My word for 2021 is freedom.

Free from fear. Free from offense. Free from other people’s opinions.

Freedom in Christ comes after the good and hard work of healing.

This week, the Lord brought me back to an old blog post I wrote to remind me that He’s healing those places in me that were sad and broken and wounded in 2020.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” Ps. 147:3

Heals = râphâh – lit. to mend (by stitching); fig. to cure, heal, repair, make whole

Binds = châbash – to wrap firmly

I love the word pictures in this verse. The word for heal here literally means to stitch or to mend, so when it says God heals the brokenhearted, it means He takes our hearts, and He sews the pieces back together; He carefully, meticulously stitches the broken seams, the tattered and torn places of our hearts.

I don’t sew, but having watching my sister sew (she’s amazing at it!), I know it requires precision and accuracy—it cannot be rushed. And to stitch, to make repairs by hand, is an even slower process. So this work that God is doing when He is healing our broken hearts: it’s careful, it’s calculated—and it’s slow.

But the end result is beautiful because within this same word, râphâh, it means to make whole. So He doesn’t just start stitching and mending and then set us aside to work on someone else. No, He carefully holds our hearts in His hand, and with needle and thread, He sews, He stitches, He mends our brokenness—until we are whole, until we are healed.

The other verb here—to bind—is equally as tender. Literally, this means to wrap up, and the Lord gave me this beautiful picture of taping an ankle that’s been broken or sprained. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the chance to practice wrapping someone’s ankle (or even harder—your own!), such as for an athletic event, but let me tell you, it’s not easy! Those who are skilled in taping ankles will tell you it takes a lot of practice. And what I’ve learned is that there is a definite pattern and technique. You can’t just wrap the tape like so—you have to follow an order, a pattern so that the ankle is tight and secure. Wrapping of this kind is an art.

And in the same way, the Lord takes our wounds, and again, He skillfully and knowingly wraps them; He binds them up in the perfect way, to keep the wound covered, secure, and in place. His binding of our wounds is His protection. He doesn’t leave our wounds gaping open. No, He tenderly wraps them as He knows how and allows our wounds to heal under His protective covering. This, too, takes time.

The beauty of râphâh and châbash is that He holds my heart—and because He mends the brokenhearted, because He binds up the wounded, I am safe and free. This is why the psalmists declare over and over that He is our safe place, our hiding place, our shelter, our protection, our covering.

He holds me and secures me and covers me and protects me—so that I can be free to fully live. Free to fully give. Free to fully believe Him, unrestricted, uninhibited. Because to really believe Him for the desires of our heart—whatever that desire may be—is always a risk, and it’s costly. But, really, it’s a safe bet—even if it doesn’t feel like it:

Because He is for me.

Because He is with me.

Because in Him, I am safe and covered.

In Him, I am free.

"It Won't Always Be Like This"

“It won’t always be like this.”

These words God deposited in my heart when our baby girl was a few days old, eating around the clock every two or three hours, which meant I was sleeping in thirty- to forty-minute increments.

Little did I know then that this phrase would become a mantra for other areas of my life.

When I'm recovering from surgery, or suffering through COVID, or experiencing (most recently) food poisoning: “It won’t always be like this.”

When our girl is teething, or coughing, or going through a developmental leap, and our (normally) good sleeper spends a few nights in the chair with mommy, I tell myself: “It won’t always be like this.”

Those tough first weeks with a newborn morph into four- and five- and six-hour stretches of sleep (and now our girl sleeps ten or eleven hours… *high five!*), and the sleep-deprived days are memories we joke about with a hint of pride for our survival skills.

God’s words to me are both an encouragement (“this is temporary”) and a caution (“don’t wish away this season”).

I’ve always heard women say they forget the pain from childbirth—like it’s this supernatural thing God does in our minds so that we’ll continue to procreate.

As a pregnant woman, I received this with skepticism, and now, about 15 months after my first childbirth experience, I understand what they mean.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten the 21-hour, all-natural delivery, but I don’t really remember the pain. It’s like a blurred scene on the film strip of my memory.

Howell remembers that day far more vividly than I do—and I think he’s a bit scarred by it. I can’t even recall the intensity of the contractions. Certainly I remember having them, but I can’t conjure up what they felt like. And I remember that it hurt at the end, but it seems so brief, so passing because moments later, I held my baby girl, and none of it mattered.

That experience was less than 24 hours. Somedays when I remember we spent almost a decade waiting for our girl, it, too, feels like a blink in time.

Not then, of course. But now—on this side of it.

I’ve found that my greatest defense against discouragement in a tough season is to remember. While the pain, the suffering, even the intensity of time—minutes, hours, days, years passing—fades, what remains in my memory is God’s faithfulness.

It stands out above the noise.

Time and again, I remember what He has done for me.

God’s word calls our affliction “light” and “momentary” (2 Cor. 4:17), and I’m sure Paul’s suffering goes far beyond anything I’ve experienced. (In fact, that sort of perspective is good to hang on to.)

Paul goes on to tell us to focus on what is unseen, the eternal, rather than the temporary (2 Cor. 4:18).

 
Peter says it like this: “In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes, though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ” (1 Peter 1:6-7).

Notice that our faith is more precious than gold that perishes. Gold sounds temporal, huh?

But faith—that’s among the things unseen, the things eternal.

His words to me are true: “It won’t always be like this.”

Today I can hardly believe our miracle girl is running all over the house, holding her baby doll, and playing “pretend” with her as she rocks her and feeds her the Cheerios from her snack cup. The girl I spent weeks feeding around the clock now holds a fork and feeds herself. And the nights that felt hard are forgotten, replaced by the warmth of my bed and the comfort of my husband.

If you’ve been grieved by various trials, my friend, if it feels hot under the fire right now, don’t lose heart.

Whatever we are going through is temporary. It might be over in an hour, or a day, or a week, or a year. Even if it takes years upon years, our circumstances are still temporary.

So let’s fix our minds on Christ, on the things of the Spirit, which are life and peace (Ro. 8:6).

Let’s ask God to give us His eternal perspective.

And let’s remember all the times He’s been faithful before to bolster our faith that He will do it again.

Fear of Man: Part Two

“The fear of man lays a snare, but whoever trust in the Lord is safe.” – Proverbs 29:25.

In the book Stop Calling Me Beautiful, Masonheimer reminds us that this verse doesn’t say the fear of man is a snare, but rather the fear of man lays a snare. She calls the fear of man the trapper, not the trap. I’m paraphrasing here, but she basically says the trapper deceives, hides the trap, makes it blend into the surroundings, feels normal so you’ll feel safe to walk in that direction.

Wow.

The fear of man is a burden I don’t want to carry anymore. It has weighed me down in some seasons more than others, but I want to be free. Don’t you?

What’s the opposite of being taken in by the trapper? Trusting the Lord. That’s how we stay safe.

As an example, I’m thinking about my writing, my platform, and the whole process of trying to gain the approval an editor.

I changed genres from what I first set out to write because someone in the industry suggested it—telling me my genre (women’s fiction / contemporary fiction) won’t sell and suggesting instead that the manuscript be something else. So I re-wrote that entire book to make it a romance because romance sells.

Fast forward seven years, and I just finished re-writing that book (again) back to women’s fiction because when I returned to God’s words to me, what He has spoken over me about my writing, I remember that He called my work to be real and relatable, to write about people, families, marriages that are authentic and flawed but so capable of being redeemed.

Of course, I love a good love story—and my work will probably always have some element of that because the gospel is the greatest love story ever written. But my heart has always been to write about women and overcoming their struggles within themselves and in all relationships—marriage, family, friendships.

I have also shied away from really writing some of the stories on my heart because I get so worried about other people’s opinion. I shared this with Howell for the first time last year when I told him, if I write about a failing marriage, will people assume it’s ours? If I write about sisters who hate each other, will people think I’m harboring some deep resentment toward my own sister? If I write about a mom/daughter or dad/daughter conflict, if I write about blending families or divorced parents, will people question my own family, my own relationships? Will people think I’m writing about them if their story is similar?

Maybe this is a normal concern for writers who are getting started, but I have felt so trapped by these fears for a while, and I think making the decision to re-write my manuscript last fall was my first step toward freedom.

But the fear of man is not just about my writing. I’ve entered a new season with a renewed desire to deepen the friendships I have—to invest in new ones and to return to being real and vulnerable with the old ones.

No area of people pleasing / people fearing affects me more than communities of women. Friendships.

This is not to say I can’t fall into the trap with my family or in my marriage, but there’s a certain level of security there, right? I have confidence in their love for me, no matter what I do or say.

The commitment to be friends—and stay friends—is not as certain.

And that uncertainty makes me feel insecure.

And insecurity makes me want to control.

And sometimes control looks like not engaging, because I’ll just get hurt.

Can you relate?

I like how it feels to be on the inside, but any reminder that I’m really just on the fringe makes me feel insecure. And the people I work the hardest to please and worry the most about disappointing are often not even really my friends. They’re acquaintances at best and strangers at worst.

I can sometimes get so caught up in wondering and trying to anticipate what other people want or think that I lose sight of what I even want or think.

And even more muddied from what I want or think becomes deciphering what God wants or thinks about me.

Isn’t that what happened with my writing and the back-and-forth genre struggle?

Isn’t that what happens when I shrink back from other women, when I choose not to engage, when I avoid getting hurt?

But if I listen to what God thinks about me, I would know He’s already pleased. I have his full approval. I’m accepted and loved. I have need of nothing else because nothing else can really top that.

The fear of man lays a snare, but I choose not to let the trapper trick me. Not this year.

I will trust the Lord. I will believe what He says about me. I will listen for his voice above the noise.

What about you, friends?

P.S. If you missed Part One, check it out here. 

Peace or Fear: Part One

“I don’t want to die.”

These are my forced, barely whispered words between gasps for air as Howell and I argued (again) about whether to call an ambulance and have (another) visit to the ER.

It sounds dramatic, but even now, weeks later I can still remember the fear that gripped me.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand, couldn’t think straight.

Because the only thoughts running through my brain were 1) our hospitals are over maxed capacity; 2) if I go to the hospital, they’ll put me on a ventilator; and 3) if I go in, I might not come out.

Fear. Fear. Fear.

I was truly terrified.

Obviously, I didn’t die, though I did feel like death for a while.

And while I did have COVID pneumonia, my symptoms weren’t actually related to the virus.

And while all of this did lead to another surgery this year (after the almost baseball-sized tumor on my thyroid this summer), I did not have to stay in the hospital this time.

But I keep coming back to that moment, to those words, to that level of gut-wrenching fear.

What if I don’t come home? What if I never see Howell’s face again? Never hold my girl?

I can think of at least two other life-threatening moments I have experienced (this was not), and the stark contrast between my fear here and the peace I felt in those moments is astounding.

Peace or fear. I get to choose, right?

I have experienced and witnessed a lot of fear lately.

Fear falls into two camps, one related to our (potential) circumstances and one related to people. I’m hoping to dive into this second one in a Part 2 post, but for now—and for this specific situation—my fear was definitely about a potential circumstance. What might happen.

Years ago, Jackie Mize called FEAR False Evidence Against Reality.

Isn’t that so true? What we fear almost never comes to reality.

Kris Vallotton says it like this: “Fear is imagining the future without God.”

Let’s look at Jesus’s words to us in John 14:27. He says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled; neither let them be afraid.”

How can He tell us not to have troubled hearts, not to be afraid?

Because He has given us his peace.

We have the peace of Jesus.

We have the gift of the Holy Spirit’s presence at all times.

We have the promise of God’s goodness and faithfulness always.

What better news could He give us? His Word tells us that no weapon formed against us shall prosper (IS. 54:17).

But here’s the question… Here’s where we have to get real: Do we really believe His word? Do we believe what He says is true?

I have struggled with this question more in the last year than most recent years, specifically in the area of healing.

Because sometimes God doesn’t heal in the way we want or ask, no matter how firmly we believed or how repeatedly we prayed.

And because sometimes hard stuff still happens to us, even when we prayed it wouldn’t.

In these moments, it feels like God’s word isn’t true.

But we have to choose. We choose to say yes to His word, yes to His nature, yes to His character. We stand on His faithfulness in the past. We stand on His sovereignty and the good plans He has for us.

It’s okay to ask the hard questions. How are you being real with Him if you don’t?

Ask and listen—and then trust and believe.

And if you find your heart troubled by present or potential circumstances, don’t give in to the fear. Embrace the peace that is available.

 

p.s. If you need a pep talk for overcoming fear and embracing what God says about you, read Romans 8 every day this week. I promise you’ll be encouraged.

Stepping Forward

I started blogging in 2007, before blogging was popular. (And I’m now told that it’s dying, like all things print, because people only want to watch or listen. Gosh, I hope this isn’t true.)

When I created this site on Blogspot, before there were other fancier forums, I titled it Obeying the Call because that’s what it felt like. Every post seemed vulnerable to share—and to do so was always my act of obedience.

I’m an introvert—and not the kind that thrives in virtual spaces where I could have a larger-than-life personality. I’m afraid my online persona is basically the same as me in real life. (To give a slightly embarrassing example, even social media posts that get a lot of comments can sometimes overwhelm me, and I’m always in awe of those who can reply (cleverly) to each person. Meanwhile I’m like—ahh, all. the. people.)

And so, here I go again—sharing and being vulnerable—because I feel God nudging my heart to pick up my blogging pen more in 2021.

2020 was awful. I think we can all agree.

I lost two friends.

I had COVID twice.

I had two non-elective surgeries.

You see a pattern there?

I started studying the significance of the number two, and although not the only symbolism for this number, two can represent division or contrast or opposites. Like a line in the sand—that’s the picture God gave me.

The number two represents a choice.

Life or death.

Light or darkness.

Faith or fear.

Spirit or flesh.

Peace or anxiety.

Tree of Life or Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.

Two masters: God or money.

The narrow gate or the wide gate.

There are always two paths. We always have to choose.

God continually invites us to go deeper. Writing that sentence reminds me of a dream I had years ago where God opened the door to a staircase and said, “Come.”

There’s always a new step, a deeper level of discernment, a stronger capacity for faith, a fresh understanding of His Word.

We’ll never have all the answers.

We’ll never have Him all figured out.

We’ll never know everything there is to know about His Word.

We’ll never not need Him. (Yep—double negative there. That’s how strong this truth is.)

Aren’t you glad?

In 2021, God is still opening doors to staircases for me, still extending His hand, still saying “Come.”

And He offers you the same invitation.

Sometimes God doesn’t give us what we asked for, but do you know what He never withholds? His presence. His goodness. His faithfulness. His joy. His love.

And when we look back, when we reflect, we see that He’s always answering, always working, always making a way. Sometimes it’s a new path. Sometimes it’s the same. But we have to move, participate, engage.  

We have a choice this year, this day, this hour.

I’m taking a step forward. How about you?

 

 

Miracle from Heaven

We have seen God perform miracle after miracle this year—from His provision to His yes to His word of comfort to me when Howell found me sprawled on the bathroom floor, in and out of consciousness. All I could say each time the pain subsided was our baby is going to be okay. God told me so.

But I need to start at the beginning…

Last December, the Lord told us we would have a baby in 2019. We felt both excited and a bit doubtful. After all, over the last eight years, God has given us a lot of words confirming that we will have children—and sometimes, we’ve even thought we heard him say a specific time frame, only to be disappointed with another “not yet,” “not this year.”

With the little faith we had, we bought a crib on December 27 and began to wonder whether we were supposed to try fertility again or pursue adoption again—all paths we’ve tried before. We made an appointment in January with our fertility specialist—a consultation—and we decided we’d let God tell us through her. She’d journeyed with us these long eight years, and if she thought there’s nothing left to try, then so be it.

To our surprise, she suggested IVF—one more time. It had been five years since we tried it the first time—and since then, God had healed so many parts of my body, miraculous changes that even she had witnessed.

God opened all the doors and provided us so much peace. Everything about the process was easy—even taking 4,592 shots. 😊 The appointments fell on perfect non-teaching days. My body was responding as it should. And the timing for the egg retrieval and transfer came at spring break, the ideal week for no stress. Then we waited, as we’ve waited so many times before.

IVF Transfer Day!

On March 20, I took yet another home test (impatient for the blood test we’d have later that morning). I can’t tell you how many hundreds of them I’ve taken over the years. All negative. Always “not pregnant” flashing on the screen. We held our breath in the bathroom, and then the words appeared, words I’d not once seen and have long desired: “pregnant.”

When I began to weep—really more like wail, I couldn’t even recognize the sound coming out of the depths of me. Howell had to check the test again—and then said, “it’s positive right?” and we had a good laugh despite the tears running down my face.

Our miracle had begun to form, to take shape, to grow and develop as he or she should.

Every day felt like a battle of fear. I would declare God’s word to us over and over, repeating every scripture I’d ever memorized. And the longer we stretched through the first trimester, the more confidence I gained. This was happening. Our baby was coming. He or she continued to grow and progress perfectly, which is why—when I found myself writhing in pain on the floor at almost ten weeks, when God told me our baby would live, I believed him. 

Howell wanted to go to the hospital right away, but I kept saying, it’s okay, the baby is ok—God said so. He began to pray over me in that bathroom, quoting scripture and declaring God’s word over us. After several minutes of intense pain, I gave in and told him to help me up because I didn’t want to pay for an ambulance (ha!). But I blacked out again in his arms, and despite my wishes, ended up being carried by two EMTs moments later.

Not fifteen minutes after we got to the ER, we had a sonogram and knew right away we still had a heartbeat. The tech got a different sonogram machine and did more searching—and less talking. Then the doctor gave us the news: I had a heterotopic pregnancy, which meant I had one embryo in utero and one ruptured embryo in my fallopian tube. They wanted to send us to Lubbock right away for the surgery, as already I had blood in my abdomen, which was the main source of my pain. Our fertility specialist stood by in Lubbock, ready to do the procedure with confidence that she could do the surgery and still save the one in utero.

I ended up being air lifted to Lubbock, where I was in surgery within minutes after landing. Afterwards, our doctor said the flight saved my life. I’d lost 1.7 liters of blood, which is a lot. They transfused me with blood during surgery—and for the next several days afterwards. While the ruptured ectopic pregnancy is dangerous, so is the bleeding disorder I've been diagnosed with for years—and together, they created the perfect storm.

But we know the One who walks on water, who calms the raging seas, who tells us, “do not be afraid.”

I’ve never felt so covered in prayer. So many were literally standing in the gap for us. One of our friends happened to be in the neighborhood and was praying over me as they wheeled me out of the house. Other friends were at the ER as soon as we got there and immediately started praying over us.  Even the precious care flight crew paused before loading me to pray with us. And I kept telling everyone who came—the baby is going to be okay. God said so. 

The Plainview and Lubbock waiting rooms were full of people who prayed and believed, not only for my life but for our baby’s life as well.

We grieve the one we did not know, will not get to meet. But we rejoice for the baby who is coming. He or she is a trooper, a fighter, a survivor. An answered prayer. A promise fulfilled. 

Our God is good and gracious and powerful. And He’s not done yet. These next two trimesters are going to be full of peace and joy and anticipation.

His word is true: with God, nothing is impossible. He has delivered on his promise to us. What He has done for me, He can do you for you. 

We give him thanks and praise and all the glory. 

P.S. I need a few more lines to say how incredible my husband has been during all of this. I knew I’d married a powerful man of God. I knew I loved him deeply. He has been my best friend and my partner in all things for the last almost eleven years. But my love for him has deepened in a way I can’t describe. His inability to leave my bedside. His patience and tenderness as he’s showered me, dressed me, and bandaged my incisions. His hard work to do every.single.thing around the house, from laundry to dishes, while I’ve been homebound. His persistence to pray over me, as he has these eight long years, and to believe with me that God has answered our prayers, that He will deliver on His word.

If you are single, my friend, never, ever, ever settle for less than a man who will love you when you are pale and weak and in need of his airplane noises while he spoon-feeds you Jell-O.

A Heart of Sacrifice

Last weekend I spoke at a breakout session at our church’s women’s event, and I wanted to share just a small part of my talk for this week’s post because God put this message on my heart—and I hope it’ll challenge you like it’s challenged me.

My message was about giving, and what I wanted to get at was the idea that giving is more about our heart than it is about money. Money is just the means, the tool that gets talked about the most. But a heart of giving is really tied to a heart of sacrifice.

Remember Abraham’s story—when God asked him to sacrifice Isaac?

The story is in Genesis 22 (read the whole chapter here). The summary version is God says, hey, Abraham, take your son, your only son whom you love, and offer him to me as a burnt offering. And Abraham rose early the next morning to do it. He didn’t wait. He didn’t delay. He just got up and went. And he doesn’t just go—he makes preparation for the offering.

I’m sure most of you have heard this story’s ending, right? God sees Abraham’s obedience, his willingness to sacrifice his son—his only son—and so God provides a ram instead.

Abraham calls this place Jehovah Jirah—which we translate as the Lord who provides. The literal meaning here is the Lord who sees to it. I love that. God sees to it that Abraham is provided for—but only AFTER he was willing to sacrifice what he valued. 

What do you value most in this life? Now imagine that God asked you to give it up, to give away the most precious thing in your life. And not just give it up, but literally sacrifice it on the altar.

Was your most valuable thing a person? Your children or your spouse?

I can’t even comprehend how hard it would be to sacrifice my husband. I literally can’t imagine my life without him. And we don’t have children, but like Abraham, we have promises from God. Abraham waited 25 years for his promised son. We’ve only waited 7, and it feels like a lifetime sometimes. What if God asked me to sacrifice my baby that I’ve waited seven, eight, ten years for?

Abraham didn’t question God. None of it makes sense. This is his promised son we’re talking about. But he didn’t argue. He keeps going—and trusting. 

We read this story already knowing the outcome, but HE DID NOT KNOW THE OUTCOME, y’all. He thought he was about to kill his son. And he was willing to do it because it was what God had asked him to do.

This story is all about Abraham’s willingness to give up something he loved and valued as an act of worship and obedience.

A heart of giving is more about surrender than anything else. And it’s not really surrender or sacrifice unless it hurts a little, unless it tugs at you—you know what I mean? Like ouch, that’s hard to give up.

But here’s the blessing when we do—remember God’s words to Abraham? He promised to bless him, to multiply his offspring, to give them the land of their enemies, to bless the nations through his children. That’s a pretty massive promise.

God has been dealing with me on this message—are there places in my life, areas of value that I hold back, dreams I haven’t given Him?

If he asked me to sacrifice my greatest desire, would I do be willing?

What about you, friends? Is there anything you are holding back? Anything closed fisted?

I pray we would open our heart, be generous, and be willing to say yes.