Tag: Breathing Eden: Conversations With God

‘For once you were full of darkness, but now you have light from the Lord. So live as people of light! ‘ Ephesians 5:8(NLT)

FATHER, CAN I CURL UP next to you now? I lean against you. Will you hold me tight and let me stay here? I no longer have the answers that young girl had, yet I still want to believe I can make this marriage beautiful. I still want to believe I can live a story worth telling. I still want to believe I can paste pages of hope in an album my children will want to read. All because of you.

I am done chasing fairy tales. I am done faking this, done pretending everything is okay. I want your kind of real life. I want to choose love here—even if it is more work than I ever thought.

So give me wisdom, Jesus. Let me see the path. Set my feet upon it. Let me hear your voice: This is the way. Walk in it. I will receive your wisdom and stay here with you, your arms wrapped fast around me, never to let go.

I believe in you. I believe in light flooding dark places. I believe in change, hope, transformation.

I believe anything is possible with you.

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MY DAUGHTER, I WILL STAY here with you. I will stay here as long as it takes. Holding you, drawing you in close to me, is what I love to do most. I’m not going anywhere. I love sitting here too, you know. I love having you close. I will stay here with you. I will never leave you, if you want me to stay.

I love to comfort you. I love to remind you how precious you are to me. I stay here, with you, listening to the rise and fall of our chests. It’s nice here, you know. You with me.

Real life here is better than anything you could dream up on your own. It is hard and beautiful, all in one. You weren’t naïve when you believed love would lead. You did not have an incorrect view of marriage, only an incomplete one. The romance you yearn for is a true desire. It is good. I’ve placed within you the desire to be wanted, seen, pursued. It’s how I’ve made you. The hard part is that love requires the dying to self.

Dying, you see, is never easy.

It is strange, I know, that love begins with death; but you know, as you look to my Son, that this is true.

Don’t give up on romance. Don’t give up on love leading. See that window there? It will not be night forever. See that hint of gold shining through? The sun can’t help but come in. You know this: you can’t close out light, child. You can ignore it. You can run. But it will shine all the same. You see it by knowing it’s there, even if you only feel darkness around you.

The light is large enough to cover everything, each sliver of darkness that wants to remain. No darkness stays dark. No problem stays the same when the light touches it. Darkness cannot stand against the light. It has never overcome it.

I stay here with you, watching light come in. I stay here with you, helping you desire light. I stay here with you, teaching you what light feels like on the skin, on the face, how it reaches every dark place—each corner of this room, each corner of your heart.

Tell me where you want the light to shine. Ask me how you can open to it. Take my light in you and raise it high. In my name, nothing can withstand it.

I have given you the light, and I hold you in it, and you are filled with it, and you are not the same as you were before. All who see you and hear you and stay with you are responding to my light in you.

That light, daughter, lets nothing stay the same.

Pray:

Father, so many of your daughters are struggling. They want more of you and ache for your light to shine—in their marriage and in their heart. I need you too, God. I can’t figure out how to live well without your guidance. I don’t have wisdom on my own. I can’t fix all my mistakes. Help me trust and seek you with my whole heart. I believe your light floods the dark places of my heart and life. You bring hope, love, and joy. Flood my heart and life with your light. When I feel disillusioned, help me know your never-changing truth. Help me seek you and see you. I surrender all of me to your light. I am yours. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

from Breathing Eden: Conversations With God

‘This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”’ Joshua 1:9(NLT)

DARK GRAY PAVEMENT STRETCHES OUT straight and boring. The coffee I grabbed from work is lukewarm now, and cars crowd this busy freeway on all sides. Dusk is falling, and it’ll be 40 minutes before I get home. Turn the radio up. Grasp the steering wheel. Focus on the road.

I am weary, Father. The days are long, but I am grateful for the work I get to do with you. I so want my co-workers to see you in me, your calm in my chaos, your presence easing my worry. I can hear you, when I pause. I can see you, when I seek. But I forget you a lot, don’t I? Am I doing what I’m supposed to be doing?

When I am with you, I know who I am, and I am content, not restless, but still. But I struggle to stay with you, in the long hours at work, and in the night when I am exhausted. I want to disappear then, open a magazine and see what things I can buy. Or I want to go shopping with girlfriends and leave the stress of everything behind. I use pornography sometimes, too, to distract—or a romance novel. The visuals, the story, overwhelm me, and I place myself in them. I forget you so easily then, and I admit I feel empty. I hate heeding the lie that whispers: “anywhere is better than this place.”

How do I stay with you—and not try to escape—in the middle of stress, in the middle of tough decisions, in the middle of weariness? I don’t even give you a chance, do I?

Wake me up, Father. Help me not be complacent with this life you’ve given me.

DO YOU THINK you can ever escape from love? Do you think you can stay away from your home? I don’t force my way into your heart. I pursue you, yes. But I don’t push my way in. And you know this. You know what it is like to be with me and to look for me, yes.

Do you know how I love to watch you, no matter what you are doing? Do you know I have formed you, just like this, to move with grace? I fill you with grace. I fill you with me. Don’t fret, my dear. Don’t worry about the weariness and the disquiet and the restlessness you feel from the work I’ve given you to do. Practice looking for me during the day, when you are at work, just like you do when you are still, with me. For you know what it is like to be with me.

Know that I am present with you, my darling, even when it feels like I am far. In your work and in your play, there is no place I don’t want to be with you. Don’t focus only on doing your days right, whether or not you are doing a good job of seeing me or looking for me. Choose me by loving what I love. Choose me by continuing to seek me. Choose me by desiring to stay.

I am here.

I am with you.

But I am not like you.

I am bigger than you can know. I am more than strength, more than safety. I am all things. You know me, and I only want to show you more. It is good you miss me when you have gone away. It is good you recognize how your heart yearns for me. But ask me to quiet the fears. Ask me to touch my hand upon your heart and deafen you to thoughts of worry. And let me guard your heart, your eyes, your ears, your imagination, your mind. There are dangers that can make your desire to escape weariness be an opportunity to run far away from me.

Be my daughter. Be my girl. Stay.

Stay awake.

Pray:

Father, you hold me. You are near me. In all moments, in all trials I face, and in the regular, everyday moments too, you treasure me. I want to be with you. You have written my name in your book, and you have chosen me, your daughter. You call me beloved, dearly loved. I am yours. Guard my wandering heart and body and mind. Amen.

from Breathing Eden: Conversations With God

‘Ask me and I will tell you remarkable secrets you do not know about things to come. ‘ Jeremiah 33:3(NLT)

I WANTED TO BE A MOM. I wanted to stay home with these precious kids. I quit my job, surrendered my identity—the young, just-out-of-business-school-turned-professional. I believed my choice was narrow—just one or the other: Be a mom or work. (Are these my only choices, God?) I didn’t want to miss puddle-jumping, block-building, hand-holding, park-playing days like this one. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to make that decision. I am. I just didn’t know I would struggle so much. I didn’t know this would be so hard.

I thought I would feel different, God. I thought I would do this better—that I would be more organized and wouldn’t feel so depleted all the time. I said I wanted to stay home with my babies, and I know it is so amazing that I can. But here is what is hard to admit, even to you: I don’t like it as much as I thought I would. I’m afraid I’m not good at it. I’m even less confident now that we have two.

I’m going to mess them up, God. I know I am. I lose my temper, I raise my voice. And when I am not yelling out loud, I feel like I am screaming inside. I know that’s an exaggeration. That sounds so melodramatic, “screaming inside.” But no other words feel right.

Why do I feel so trapped, so stuck? I don’t know who I am, or what I love to do, or what it is that might be fun for me anymore. I should feel parenting is so fun, so completely fulfilling. I’m sorry that, right now, I don’t, and it isn’t. I’m sorry for who I am. I’m sorry I am so far from you and don’t know how to find my way back.

Can you help me find my way back?

DAUGHTER, YOU CAN BE ANGRY. I can take it. You can be sad. I can take that too. Keep running to me when you are sad and overwhelmed, and I will give you what you need to get through a day. You think that you are camouflaged, but I see all.

You can do this, you know. You can mother him and love him, and I will help you find your way. You ask me what you love? Who you are?

Let me tell you what I see: I see you. I see you in the early mornings when the baby is crying and you rise. I see you bend to scoop him up out of his crib, hear how you sing to him. I watch how you stumble, so tired, back to a rumpled bed.

May I sing to you now? May I sing to you, my daughter who is found?

Lift up your head, my darling. Lift up your head, and see me looking at you. I have made you with beauty. I have made you with strength. I have made you with tenderness, a soft heart for me that will sustain you. I sustain you. Keep your heart soft, and I will sustain you. Keep yourself vulnerable, and I will lift you. Keep yourself close to me, and I will show you, step by step, what it is you love, what it is in you I see.

There’s a lot coming, dear one. You are both a light that shines and a warrior in my name. How this looks—your life in me—will unfold as you trust me. In you, I keep creating, dear one. I love being with you as we partner in your work, bringing what is to come.

Yes, I see you. And I want you to begin this day again, knowing I see you, knowing I know you. I dance over you. My gladness overflows.

You are my dear heart, my bright flower. I father you and I mother you. I care for you, and you rise again, letting me lead, letting me take charge, letting me be the door you walk through each day when you are lost and you are wondering how, again, you can face another day.

You don’t need to face another day alone. You can greet each day with me. You can rise with me, stay with me, listen for me. In the creak of the high chair at lunchtime. In the jingling of toys as Jonathan and Lucas laugh and cry and play. In the hush or whimpers of the night.

My strength is enough for you. My presence is with you. My Spirit is in you.

I sustain you, never leave you. There is good coming.

There is good right here.

Pray: 

Father, you are unashamed of me—your love is wild and perfect. I love how you have made me. I love how I don’t have to hide from you, no matter what I am feeling. You give me a voice to call out to you, and you answer. You reveal to me yourself, showing how you are present with me, how you care for me, how you hold me and never let me go. I have what it takes to love those you’ve given me to love. I have what it takes to get through this day, holding your hand. Help me to do all these things, knowing I stay with you. In your name, Jesus, Amen.

from Breathing Eden: Conversations With God

‘In those days when you pray, I will listen. ‘ Jeremiah 29:12(NLT)

GOD, LET’S DO THIS QUICKLY. You know I’m uncomfortable praying. I struggle to find the right words when I’m talking to you. I second-guess each word I say. I hear how you’re safe. I read how you love me just how I am. But I can’t help comparing myself to my friends as they pray aloud.

I feel like a child stumbling over my words, nervous that my simple prayers don’t convey enough depth, at least not the depth of love my friends seem to feel towards you. Oh, they share such beautiful prayers aloud to you! Do you know I love you too? Are my simple prayers, the ones in my head, getting through?

If you are safe, why do I struggle to talk to you? I have trouble believing there is not a certain right way to pray. Could it be true that some people can hear you better than I can? The women in my Bible study group talk to you like you are right there, in the room, listening. They act like they can tell you anything. They confess their fears, their regrets, their desperate need for your peace and joy and help. But me? I guess I struggle, still, with thinking of you as a person, as a friend.

I feel pretty alone here, even in this group of friends. Can you hear my heart speak these words to you now? I can’t say this out loud, but…

I don’t know what I’m doing.

YOU DID IT just now, you know. You prayed. Praying is talking to me. And this? What we’re doing here? This is a relationship blooming–because this here is a conversation. You don’t need to worry about what to say to me or how to say it. You don’t need to worry about fitting in or measuring up in any prayer group or women’s Bible study.

You don’t know what you’re doing, but I do, and I love it. Keep it up.

You don’t need to think about what it’s supposed to look like to love me. How the world sees is not how I see. And what I see is a bold and tender warrior woman who loves and does not hesitate to do the hard thing when it counts.

Don’t doubt how I’ve made you. But look to what I’m doing in you.

Isn’t prayer about communicating your heart to me? And in prayer, your heart aligned with mine, you worship. Prayer is not about words anyway. It is conversing with me with more than speech—your mind turned to me as you prepare your presentation at work; your listening for me as you serve, expecting me as you rest, looking for me as you walk, finding me as you dream. I love the different ways I have made my daughters and sons to speak to me—with their hearts, their hands, their mouths, their souls and spirits united with me. I give you your own language, not just in words, to speak to me. Be bold, daughter. Claim how I’ve made you to pray. I have more to show you. I have more of my presence to give you. I want you to claim it. I want you to know it.

Come on now, girl. The two of us together?

We’ve got this.

Pray:

Father, you have made me perfectly, and I am designed to communicate with you. Teach me more of who you are and the language you have given me to speak to you. I want to know our language, the way you have made me to engage with you and know you. I surrender to you my fear of what others think. Let me talk to you freely, knowing that when I am in your presence I am safe. I trust your words are in my heart, and you are in me. Amen.

from Breathing Eden: Conversations With God

‘And the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness. For example, we don’t know what God wants us to pray for. But the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words. ‘ Romans 8:26(NLT)

Pain can make us blind to—or desperate for—truth. Which is it going to be for her? For us? Come on, girl. Come on.

She sits there. We’ve held each other, shared a hundred cups of coffee, trusted each other with our stories. She is my sister, and she feels lost in this darkness. And because I love her, I feel stuck here too. I want to carry her pain, to relieve it somehow. How do we get to you, God? How do we stand and believe light can shine here, right here?

I wonder.

I wonder—how does God see this? How does he see us? How does he see our stories, our pain, our struggles? How does he see the infidelity, the eating disorder, the abuse, the everyday anxiety that makes it difficult to lift our heads? How does he see our celebration, our worship, our experiences of freedom, hope, joy? How would seeing God’s view of our stories spur healing? Would it grant hope?

No matter our circumstances, we need God’s perspective on them. We need to know how he sees us. Come on, girl, he says. Let my light shine in.

I am desperate for his eyes. I am desperate to see this pain and beauty—with new eyes. I am desperate to believe there is more than what my human frailty can see.

Do you want this too?

Prayer takes a listening—a looking deeper. Real prayer uncovers hope that is impossible to see on our own. God knows the wide-ranging emotions we feel—the cries of pain when we are overwhelmed and alone, the songs of joy when we are captured by his goodness and majesty. But what happens when he unearths the silent prayers we didn’t know we had—of sadness or worship, confession, freedom?

How do our prayers sound to him? How does he see us, really see us, when we share our hearts with him? How does he respond? And how might this change us? I need to know.

Do you need to know this too?

Come listen to women who plead for God to come. Come listen to women rejecting complacency. Come listen to women, in their everyday lives, choosing to seek God’s freedom rather than fear. Come listen to women who just want to speak to God and have him speak back. Come listen to women who just want to praise God and be heard. Father, can I hear you? Will you heal me? How do you see things? Where were you, in the night, when the darkness came and I felt abandoned and alone? You’ve come so many times, will you come again?

You are in these pages. Your mothers and sisters and daughters and neighbors and girlfriends are too. Your prayers are collected here, and heard.

Will you listen for God’s response?

Do you want truth?

Do you want light, fresh air, and new things?

from Breathing Eden: Conversations With God