The disclaimer: I
was afraid to come back. Stuck my neck out there and got all personal, then
fought off a thousand belittling demons. I even had an intense dream about
someone putting a curse on my back. In the dream I was full of power of the
Lord and knew down to the very marrow of my bones the truth of Jesus’ power and
wasn’t afraid. But in my wake state, I buckled under insecurity.
Seems there’s a bit of that self-doubt and fear going
around. Both Jennifer
Dukes Lee and Robin over at Pensieve Me addressed
this paralysis on their blogs this week. Sometimes you just have to hear it a
gazillion times before the crack splits wide.
I tell my stories to
share what God has done and what He has shown me about himself, but in doing
so, I chance exposing my limited understanding and (un)limited insecurities. Please
know, I only hope to cheer along those seeking a glimpse of what I have seen,
and to encourage those of you who have better grasped the mysteries of grace
and redeeming love, to encourage me.
In the end, I know experiences come and go, and it is only
in seeing Jesus for who he is that we can press on. When I first came to the
Lord, I was afraid to “experience” God because of my New Age delvings from my
past, but the Lord kept showing me his love in a hundred tangible ways. Ironically,
I was living in a household of prayer-warrioring, demon-casting, vision-seeing
believers.
I soaked in their fervency as I hovered on the periphery of their
prayer time, seeking discernment and wisdom.
Later, my husband and I took courses through Liberty University and I traded
in my controversial prayer tongue for sturdy Baptist footwear.
Now, many years later, I feel more confident about
discerning the voice of God, experiencing his presence while standing on his Word
(and using my prayer language).
Still, I am cautious. I certainly don’t want to bow down to
an image I have made up about God. I constantly
pray for him not to let me err. To anchor me in Truth. In Jesus.
Meanwhile, I will continue to add my testimonies
to that cloud of witnesses who have gone before. And as Groucho Marx said—“If
you’ve heard them before, don’t interrupt me. I’d like to hear them again.” So here we go:
Finding Home #2: The Leaving
I suppose we could have
just thrown a dart at a map of the United States; we had no particular
reason to choose one place over another. The idea that had been gnawing at
the edges of our minds for the past few months had suddenly become a certainty.
Bob was weary. Pastoring a small Vermont church for the past eleven years had
taken its toll. The church had grown from a fifteen person, two-hymn bastion of
tradition to a faith-filled worshiping community of more than one hundred believers.
It was vibrant and healthy. But it
needed new energy. And we didn’t have it.
As sure as we were that God had put us there, we were sure
He was relieving us. The problem was He wasn’t showing us what to do or where to
go next. No pillar of fire by night or cloud by day. Just—“Go.”
We had gone before. After all, we were the same two people
who had packed our ten-year-old daughter and three trunks’ worth of carefully
chosen possessions into our Ford Explorer and driven from New
Jersey to Guatemala
to work in an orphanage. And we were the same two who had walked away from financially
secure jobs to pastor a tiny Vermont church.
But lurking beneath
our bravado was the realization that we were different—we were too young to
retire, but too old to include dates on resumes.We stared at all our diplomas on the wall, certifying us as
masters of something. Bob was also a journeyman electrician with twenty years
of experience in a New York City electrical union.
Surely we’ll get jobs we said. Resolutely, we spread the map
before us and listed our priorities: sunshine, east coast, access to mountain
and lakes, culturally alive city with a sense of community and vibrant job
market. My sister in Raleigh suggested Greenville, SC.
I Googled it.
Compared days of sunshine. Greenville
has about 60 more days of sunshine than the town we lived in. That was a
definite plus. I compared cost of living: Greenville
was reportedly about 20 per cent less expensive to live in than our area. Best
of all, were the low taxes.
The dart stuck in Greenville.
We were excited; we were scared.
As we began to disentangle ourselves
from all the things that had identified us, we realized how deeply rooted in so
many lives we had become. We knew a lot of secrets; knew who had triumphed
through a personal difficulty and knew who hadn’t. We had joyfully pronounced
young couples husband and wife and had cried in early morning hospital rooms
over the death of a child. We cheered friends’ kids on at soccer matches and
played murder mystery games with friends over dinner.
But we had sold our
house, reduced our possessions to what would fit in a 26 foot truck and were
ready to go.Like the rising bubbles in a lava
lamp, each of our relationships rose to the surface and began to slowly break
away.
On a sunny September evening as the
sun lowered itself behind the western hills, we hitched the car trailer to the
truck, bid teary goodbyes to faithful friends, and headed south out of Rutland.
