Doing Away with Duplicity

Last weekend, I experienced my first women’s retreat at Harvest. I’m not gonna lie—women’s retreats are not my thing. And, despite my near break-down the Monday before the retreat, I survived the weekend, made some new friends, and, more than anything, heard incredible teaching that even still—one week later—continues to stir my heart.

So, the overall theme was simplicity, and we talked about simplicity being the singular focus on Christ, simplicity being not the opposite of complexity but rather the removal of duplicity: those false versions of ourselves. And honestly—while I don’t have the singular-focus-on-Christ thing down, I thought, eh, I’m okay; I am not a duplicitous person. In my mind, people who live a false version of themselves are those people who are performers, loud, in charge, center-stage: the extroverts, the story tellers, the drama queens; they are the ones performing a false version of themselves.

But what I learned is: duplicity is any desire to be more than I am. And any time I desire more, I’m living with a mindset of “lack.” And any time I’m living in lack, I’m living a false version of myself: duplicity. *Gulp.*

I often feel the need for more. More furniture, so people have more places to sit. More stuff on the walls. More curtains. More dishes. More coffee cups. And that’s not where the need for more ends: more beauty, more attraction, more personality. More. More. More.

I want these things because 1) I don’t feel like I am enough; or 2) I am comparing what others have to what I want. Although not consciously, I believe, if I just had more—more furniture, more hair,  more personality, I would be more accepted, more fun, maybe have more friends.

Not only does He ask me to surrender the need for more in these areas—He wants me to surrender the greatest area of lack—the greatest desire for more. That desire when I look around, and all of my married friends—with the exception of a handful of newlyweds—have a family. They have 2.5 kids, and a dog, and a house with a swing set. And then I look at my own life, and I feel that deep, dark hole, that void—that area of lack, where I am not enough. When I look at my own life, it’s like check, check, check, oh, wait…

And remember my thinking that duplicitous people were those loud, outgoing, performers? Well, it turns out that any time I shrink back from me—when I’m shy, when I’m intimidated, when I’m afraid, I’m not being “me” either. People aren’t getting to see the real me, the me that Hal gets, the me my family and close friends get.

But God wants me to be content with all that I have—with my race and my season of life. God wants me to be content with me—to know the fullness of who I am in Him and to walk in that, not in a duplicitous version of myself.

Any time I am faced with the desire for more, any time I’m living a false version of myself, I’m not walking in the fullness of who He says I am: that, in Him, I am enough, that, in Him, I have all I need.

Reading through Colossians this morning, I felt overwhelmed by all God says I am. And because I like lists—and because my list of God’s words to me stays taped on my mirror—I created my own “Who I am in Christ” list:

I am qualified (Col 1:12)

I am redeemed and forgiven (Col 1: 14)

I am created for Him (Col 1:16)

I am sustained by Him (Col 1:17)

I am reconciled (Col 1:20-21)

I am holy and blameless (Col 1:22)

I have Christ in me—the hope of glory (Col 1:27)

I am complete in Him (Col 2:10)

I am made alive (Col 2:13)

I am freed from legalism (Col 2:20-23)

I am a new woman (Col 3:10)

Oh that my heart would receive all that He says I am, that I would walk in the confidence of my calling, that I wouldn’t shrink back from the me that so many don’t get to see, that I would run my race in my season of life, and that I would learn to walk in simplicity—in that singular version of me, singularly focused on Him.

Encouragement from His Word: For all who are weary

"My soul melts from heaviness; strengthen me according to your Word." Psalm 119:28

1. Those who expect/wait/hope/trust in me will not be disappointed/ashamed/kept waiting. (Psalm 25:3)
2. I have not forgotten you; you are not passed by. I am El Roi--and I see you. (Gen 16:13)
3. I am 100% for you--so nothing and no one can stand against you. You are more than a conqueror. (Romans 8:31, 37)
4. I am good, and I give good gifts. (James 1:17)
5. I am not withholding blessing from you.  I only have your best interest at heart. (Psalm 24:5; Psalm 37:25-26; Psalm 84:11)
6. Everything I do is because I love you. (Deut 7:9; Zeph 3:17; 1 John 3:1)
7. I am with you always; I will never leave you nor forsake you. You are not alone. (Deut 31:6; Joshua 1:5)
8. I have a plan for you--and you can trust that it is good. I order your steps perfectly. (Jeremiah 29:11; Psalm 37:23)
9. I will perfect that which concerns you. I am the author and finisher for your faith. (Psalm 138:8; Hebrews 12:2)
10. I am your protector, provider, healer, and comforter. In me, you are complete, made whole, satisfied, filled, and secure. 

For those who play it safe: A dare to risk

“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.

This week the Lord showed me that too often I guard my heart, even from Him. I try to protect it on my own because if I really risk it, if I really “go for it,” I could get hurt.

I take soft risks. Calculated risks. Risks I know I can win. Ask anyone who has ever “bet” me: I only bet when I know I’m right, when I know I can win.

Last weekend we went to a parenting conference (even though, yes, we’re not yet parents). The whole message was incredible, but one thing that really spoke to my heart was how we can teach our children to fail; if they never take risks—and risk the chance that they’ll fail—how will they ever succeed?

I’ve said it in another post that I think my parents did a great job teaching us how to fail—but of my siblings, I’m the most reserved risk-taker, which means I have the greatest fear of failing.

Blame it on being the youngest, or being an introvert, or being extremely analytical—whatever the reason: the truth is I like to play it safe. But my Daddy—my heavenly Father, who wrote the textbook on parenting, wants me to succeed, and so, I must also learn how to risk…and maybe even fail.

What the Lord showed me is that I play it safe with my heart, with my faith. If I really believe, if I fully give in, then it might not happen; I might be hurt and disappointed. And so I hold back.

But 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 to risk it all. 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 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.

And in Him, I am free to risk it all because He’s got my heart securely in His hand. 

What does "Not my will, but Yours" look like?

Every morning for a week. Seven days. The words replay in my head over and over and over again. His prayer in the garden: “not my will, but yours.”

But how? How does He get there? What does that even mean? Not my will, but yours? What does that look like? For me. For Laura. Today. September 15, 2013.

I can't find where I first journaled about these words, where the revelation hit me square in the face. His words--He, too, begged:

"O, Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will" (Matthew 26:39).

I read it again in Mark and in Luke: 

“Abba Father, all things are possible for You. Take this cup away from Me; nevertheless, not what I will but what You will” (Mark 14:36).

“Father, if it is Your will, take this cup away from Me; nevertheless not My will but Yours be done” (Luke 22:42).

But the cup could not pass; there was no other way for salvation. He had to endure the cross.  This was the plan for redemption—that He who knew no sin would become sin, on our behalf, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him (2 Cor 5:21). 

And so, it says, He prayed again—a second time: "O My Father, if this cup cannot pass away from Me unless I drink it, Your will be done." (Matthew 26:42). And in John, we see total acceptance: to Peter, He says, "Put your sword into the sheath. Shall I not drink the cup which My Father has given Me?" (John 18:11).

And there, in His words, I'm encouraged: He, fully human, God's only son, asked for a different plan. And, He, too, received a "No."  

But what does He do? Does he throw a fit? Does he become offended?  Of course not. He—fully human, fully perfect—sets the example: "Not my will, but yours." 

And so, for seven days, I've been thinking about that. What does that mean? What does “not my will, but yours” look like lived out? 

Just this week, I’ve had several women tell me they’re encouraged to read my blog. My first thought, I’ll admit, is something along the lines of What? People actually read this? But my second thought—the one that captivates me most—is pure fear: What if blogger Laura looks fantastic, but real Laura…not so much?

And here’s the truth God showed me: What people read and relate to is your vulnerability. When you’re willing to be vulnerable, you open a door to others that says it’s okay to be vulnerable. And when we’re vulnerable, we’re honest. With ourselves and with others.

Because here’s the other truth: Blogger Laura and Real-Life Laura do not have it all together.

And you know what?  That’s okay.

My vulnerability for today:  It's hard for me to admit that because, if I’m honest, I’d really rather have it all together. I’d rather be that woman of faith—already. Arrived. Complete. I see her in others—but it’s hard to see her in me.

The last seven days have been hard, but when I surrender, when I talk to the Lord about my heart—where I really am, I find that I’m right where He wants me to be. From the beginning of this journey, I told the Lord: I want to be real as I walk through this. Often we give our testimony after the fact. But I didn’t want that. I wanted to give my testimony during the journey.

And I’ve learned two incredible truths so far: 

1. The greater the hope, the greater the risk of disappointment. (And related: the greater the wait, the longer the delay—the sweeter the reward.)
2.  If my circumstances do not change, God is no less good and no less faithful.

 But I’ve learned some other things, too—that it’s okay to be offended with the Lord. He can take it. It’s not okay to stay there. But it’s okay to be there. For a time. 

It’s also okay to play the “What if” game. What if this doesn’t work? What if this—this thing I want—isn’t supposed to happen? What if ______ (Fill in the blank: worst case scenario)? But it’s not okay to stay there. It’s not okay to live there.

And above all: it’s okay to not be okay. Jesus was not okay in the garden as He prayed, as He begged: isn’t there another way? can there be a different plan?

This week, I’ve not been okay. I've been thinking all along if I just pray enough and beg enough and DO enough and have enough faith, I can somehow change God's will. I can make it like mine. But that's just not true--and I don't think that's what He desires of me. 

He desires a heart that says—that really says—not my will, but yours.

So what does that look like? Maybe it’s the choice to choose Him, to choose that He is sufficient for me. He is enough. He is Abba.

Maybe it means I change the way I pray—change what I demand. I’ve begged for my way, and now it’s time to stop; it’s time for my heart to align with whatever He wants, with whatever He wills.

I want to learn what He desires of me, and I only want to desire what He desires. I want to learn to really hide my heart in Him, to hide my expectations in Him, to be content that He is sufficient.

Not my will, but yours.

Content Not To Know

My chest tightens; the vessels inside work and constrict, trying to move life through me despite the knot, the pain, despite the fact that my heart aches and burns and cries out. Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away, doing my best to see the road before me, to keep my wheels between the lines. But how can I see with my eyes what I can’t see with my heart? What my heart feels and knows and experiences.

“Why me? Why us?” Her words echo in my mind. I’ve thought them, too, and I am careful to choose my words, careful not to say what I hate to hear—what is trite, and obvious, and exactly the opposite of what she needs, today.

But what can you say? There’s really no words, none worth expressing, none that can capture the fullness of this pain in my heart, none that translate the tears, now streaming.

Why? I find my voice; it’s a scratch above a whisper, and I ask Him. Why her?

For all that I’ve begged and implored and declared—the hours and hours of presenting my requests to Him, that it not be with her as it is with me, that she not have to walk this journey. I wanted it more for her than I wanted it for me. Because more than anything, I didn’t want her to experience this—the grief, the loss, the disappointment, the pain.

So why? I ask again.

And I hear it quietly—the answer He gives me often, not what I want to hear, but what I know is true:

Not everything is for you to know.

I am ready for it this time, rebuttal in hand. I feel like fighting today.

Fine, but why? This I want to know. Not for me, for her. Why?

Laura, do you believe I have your best interest at heart?

Yes, but –

Do you really believe I am good and what I do is good?

Yes, of course, but we’re talking about—

Do you trust me?

I stop, my answer is slow. You know I do.

Then trust that I have her best interest at heart, too. Trust that everything I do is for her best just as it’s for your best, too. I love her as much as I love you, and I’m not withholding anything from you. 

I’m not holding back my gifts or my blessings. They will come. They just didn’t come today.

My defensiveness flares a little—yes, but why not today?

Because, baby, not everything is for you to know.

I am done arguing. My defense is weak, and I know He is truth. And when I believe it, when I taste and experience and accept His truth, then I am set free.

I am reminded of my words before—do I really believe He is good? Isn’t that at the core of it all because if He is good, then He is good no matter what. He is not good because… He is just good.

My heart wraps the truth around itself, the truth seeping into my veins, pulsing through me. If I’ll really believe that, for me, for her, for all who face this journey, then I can see that He has my best interest at heart. His agenda is for me, so that He gets the glory.

Is it easy? No.

But He is here, and He holds me, and He never leaves me. And can I learn to be content with just that? That He is here, and I am held.