The Dangers of the Introvert Movement.

When I first saw the introvert-pride blogs and memes begin to surface on the internet, I was thrilled. I was quick to share these articles and cartoons, happily proclaiming my introversion to the social-media world. Finally, people who understand! People who appreciate who I am! 

I wasn't made aware of the problems of this mentality until many months later, when reading a reactionary blog from an extrovert who felt attacked by introverts. This individual was clearly hurt that extroverts were so often portrayed as shallow, obnoxious, and lacking in intelligence and creativity.

I suddenly saw my introvert-pride for what it really was: just plain old ugly pride. My continual promotion of introverted values had created an us vs. them mindset within myself, and I had actually begun to think of extroverts as "less-than", as people who could never really "understand" or "mesh" with me.

But in fact God has arranged the parts of the body, every one of them, just as He wanted them to be. If they were all one part, where would the body be? As it is, there are many parts, but one body. 

 The eye cannot say to the hand, "I don't need you!" And the head cannot say to the feet, "I don't need you!" There should be no division in the body. Its parts should have equal concern for one another.

-1 Corinthians 12:18-21, 25 

And what's worse, we introverts have begun to use our introversion as an excuse. An excuse to not
preach the Gospel. An excuse to avoid reaching out. An excuse to only participate in ministry that is "introvert-friendly." An excuse to remain rigidly within our comfort zone. Because God "made us this way for a reason," and He certainly would never call us to do something "against our nature."

As much as I, as an introvert, would like to believe that, when I look at Scripture, I simply can't. The true children of God act first and foremost not from some nature they were predisposed with from birth, whether introverted or extroverted or whatever else, but from the nature of the Spirit of God, which is love.

Some claim that Jesus was an introvert (personally, I tend to think of Him as somewhere in the middle of the introvert-extrovert spectrum--the perfect balance). But let's imagine for a moment that He was an introvert. Not for a moment did that nature keep Him from reaching out to people. Long after His disciples were exhausted and ready to go home, Jesus had compassion on the crowd and continued to minister to them.

On the flip-side, let's pretend Jesus was an extrovert--would that give Him the excuse to avoid spending time alone with God, because it wasn't "in his nature" to be away from people? Certainly not!

We're all different. We have different struggles, different temptations. We are all prone to disobedience in different ways, but the propensity of our natures does not give us the excuse to indulge in that disobedience. God will call both introverts and extroverts alike to behave in ways that go against our natural bent. It is in those circumstances that it is most clear that we must rely not on ourselves, but on His Spirit within us.

That is the true danger of the introvert/extrovert dynamic. It causes us to look at ourselves. It spurs us toward selfishness. But this life is not about us. It's about following the voice of God wherever He leads, with the trust that His power will see us through.

Be Served.

"No," said Peter, "You shall never wash my feet."

I've known many beautiful, servant-hearted people. People who are willing to pay for your meal, give you the shirt off their back, surprise you with gifts for no reason at all. People who are willing to get down on the ground and scrub the scum from beneath your toes so that you don't have to.

But I've noticed something else. Oftentimes, whenever I attempt to serve these dear, dear servant-hearts, I receive a reaction much like Peter's--You shall never! I find my own hope to serve squelched by their unwillingness to accept it.

We imagine that when we refuse someone's service, it is out of love. Oh, allowing them to wash my feet is not a nice thing to do! I would be a much better person if I never let anyone ever make any kind of sacrifice for my sake.

And yet, Jesus said, "Unless I wash you, you have no part with Me."

Jesus' illustration wasn't just about serving; it was also about being served. In fact, the only reason we know how to serve, and more importantly, how to love, is because Jesus first served and loved us. If we don't accept that gift, we are condemned for our pride.

Do we really think that same pride is acceptable among the members of His Body, the Church?

Because that is truly where I believe that refusal comes from--not from love, but from pride. Love is humble, and self-forgetting. Pride keeps tallies, and feels "better than" when at the end of the day, it has given more service than it has received. Pride says, I don't need anyone's help! Not a free meal, not the shirt off your back, and certainly not a feet-washing!

Dear lovelies, do not be deceived. We are a Body, bound by love. We all need each other. To serve, and be served.

So let's lay down our illusions of self-sufficiency, and take our part with Jesus. That we may be washed. That we may be new.

David's Son.

Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.

For a long time--and by long, I refer to the large majority of my (albeit meager) lifespan--I never really cared that Jesus was David's son.

When people called Him the Son of God, now that was something. That was power and beauty and majesty.

David was a cool guy, sure enough. Man after God's heart, and all that. But in the light of God Himself, David was nothing--a broken, sinful wretch like the rest of us.

Why appeal to Jesus as the Son of Man when you can appeal to Him as the Son of God? It seemed to me, the Son of God would be much stronger to save.

But.

(It's funny how that word changes everything.)

One day I fell, in a way I had never fallen before. I felt the weight of dirt and blood settle on my struggling body and I knew it would crush me. I knew I would lose, and I did, and I lost again and again and I couldn't

look up

anymore. Shame, and fear, smothering me.

I couldn't look at God. I was so far away from holy.

That's when I understood that cry.

Jesus. Son of David. Son of Man. Son of a broken, sinful wretch like me. You who were born into this same mess of a world. You who bore the curse of your flesh and endured every temptation. You who dwelt among us. You who became us. You who understand weakness, who have experienced frailty. Please. 

Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.

i hate everything

what if all we needed
was one day
to go absolutely
starkravingmad
knowing
at the end of that day
we would have
(undeserved)
their forgiveness
knowing
at the end of that day
we would
still
be loved

when did love become so weak

when did we learn 

to lock up

the passion when did 

we learn that we could 

never be both

we could never 

be honest if 

we wanted to be loved

Unmerciful Servant, There Will Be Weeping.

Why are you surprised at this, as if something strange is happening to you?

Of course. Of course the Enemy attacks our relationships. Of course he rips apart the sinews of the Body. Of course he snaps the tendons, tears the ligaments, shatters the bones. Of course.

He heard, too, that day God said It is not good for man to be alone. It is the day loneliness became a weapon, isolation a tactic of torture.

And we accept it so willingly. Blame, embitter, hate. Withdraw, retreat, run away. Flinging away our antidotes--forgiveness, mercy, love--far from our sob-wracked hearts.

We'd rather lay down and bleed. We'd rather curl up and die.

If you could hear these words spoken in my heart's voice, they'd be screaming. Dear brothers, dear sisters, have we fallen so far? We claim to follow the Perfect One, the Flawless, the Beautiful, who said of those who crushed Him, Forgive them, for they know not what they do--and yet, we will not fight for our brothers, our sisters? Because of a mistake, because of a sin? Because of our pride, because of our laziness?

We blame our inability to love on the other. I cannot love him, I cannot love her, because they did, they didn't do.

But it is our flaw, Beloved. It is we who refuse to love.

May God have mercy on us.

When I Looked Through Better Eyes Than Mine.

What do I think? I think there are bigger, more beautiful horizons ahead, love. You will paint them yourself, in bold, brilliant strokes, with the colors that even now drip from your fingertips, honeycomb golds and deep-water blues--a hand-printed portrait of your heart's spillover.

I hope I'm close enough to see the mess you'll make. Blossoms of beauty erupting on everything you touch, spreading from your smile that reaches up like a flower to sunlight (stretching higher still). And everywhere you walk, green shoots springing up from once-dirt, cradled in the shadow of your footfalls. I'll smile as they, too, curl their newborn heads toward the sun.

But time is twin to change, and distance more than darkness takes its toll on the eyes. So if I cannot watch as you wade knee-deep in beauty (drifting deeper still), at least I know I'll hear you. Because the sound of glory reverberates for miles, sprouts wings and leaps oceans to enter the ears of the listening. And I'll be listening for you, love. I believe I'll recognize your song.

It will be much different than the faltering, hesitant melody you started with. The colors a blend of something new. But I'll recognize the beauty, love. And I'll know it belongs to you.

The Sadness That Didn't Belong to Me.

Alone in the kitchen at half-past ten, I was crying out my eyes, the tears long past control, when the thought came piercing through--

I wish I could take all their pain. Bear it myself so they wouldn't have to. So they wouldn't have to.

And then His voice, so quickly after--the clear, deep stroke of thunder following lightning's flash--

I already did.

My heart that night was the heart of the Father. The anguish I felt for the ones I loved, His anguish. And how much more He must feel--to have borne the pain of our sins on His body on the tree, so we wouldn't have to--and then to watch as we reject that gift daily, to walk in the curse instead of freedom, to walk in death instead of victory. I believe He watches, and weeps, with a heart infinitely more broken than mine as He calls--

I took all your pain. Bore it Myself so you wouldn't have to. So you wouldn't have to.

Dear,

I crafted - the curve of your cheekbones from riverbed clay - smeared my thumb along the lines that formed your forehead. I blended - the paint I dipped your skin in - spun the colors threading the numbered strands of hair - I stitched to your scalp. I polished - your irises' deep-sparkling gemstones that burst - into bloom - at the center of your eyes. I loved - I loved - I loved.

You run - your fine-tuned fingers along the cracks - in the clay. You search - for imperfections - in the flawless form I made ( - and remade). You believe - the reflection rendered in your shadowed mirror - you are caught - in distortion, caught - in the absence of light. You despise - the fragility I cherish. You cry - weakness. You turn - that face, still marked - by the pattern of My fingerprints - and ask - why. And I answer - because, I love. I love - I love - I love.

I love the way you need Me - the way your weakness makes you desperate - the way your poverty drives you into My arms. I love that I alone can restore you - that I alone can make you whole. I love that your heart is tied forever to Mine - I love that in once-dirt, I unveil now-divine. I love that this is who I've designed you to be - a beautiful, inseparable, part of Me.

(The Rib Wasn't Enough to Save) Our Hearts.

My dear, dear sisters, I know the curse. I know your desire will be for him and he will rule over you, I know. I watch it, I live it, I get it. I too, am a woman. I too, have measured my value by the light of approval (more often, the lack) that sparks (or fails to) in a man's eyes. I have tailored my beauty to the rhythm of their compliments, I have weighed the words (or silence)--I have found, always found, myself wanting.

But, when. I stop looking at me, stop looking at them, and start looking at you, I see something else. The grace in your step, the strength in your eyes. It causes me to wonder. To catch my breath, to pause and stare. I see you, and I say: My God! Your daughters are lovely.

I once burned with jealousy, to see your beauty. You were filled to the brim with beautiful things--I found each and every one. And I hated every wonderful piece of your heart, every flawless line that shaped your face. I despised you, because I saw the way you drew their eyes away from me.

But, then. I met the Lover who broke the curse. He stripped away my shame and clothed me in (such perfect!) light. He whispered, My darling, there is no flaw, and I saw myself (reborn). I saw who I was, who I am and will be.

What I saw was all-beautiful, and I knew I would never need their eyes again.

And now I see you. I see your loveliness, and I do not fear it, anymore. We are more lovely together; we are symphonies and tapestries, we are bright-burning souls that shine like stars.

But it breaks my heart, beautiful ones, to see the way you tear your (beautiful, beautiful) selves apart, tugging your heartstrings from the seams of every doubt and insecurity that haunts the stitches of your scars--the remnant of the wounds their arms (or absence) burst open. It breaks my heart, beautiful ones, that you do not see your self, but only the distorted reflection in the darkened mirrors of their eyes.

Sisters, I beg you: See what I see. Look into the Lover's eyes, and believe the words He promised me: You are altogether lovely; you are altogether free.

Completely in Love.

"Perfect love casts out fear," (1 John 4:18). 

Whenever I hear this verse discussed, the conversation generally centers solely around God's love for us. Which is not inaccurate--truly, if we could receive God's love perfectly, fear would cease to be even the vaguest of memories. But I think there's something we tend to overlook.

The one who is made complete in love is not simply the one who is loved perfectly, but the one who also loves perfectly. This is what John is screaming through the repetitions in these five chapters, the word as constant as the waves of the sea (love, love, love). The one who does not love cannot claim to know God's love. The only response to a perfect love is to love perfectly in return.

If we genuinely loved the lost, no power in Hell could prevent us from sharing the truth that would bring them into the arms of ultimate joy. If we genuinely loved our brothers and sisters, no petty arguments or hurts could ever stand in the way of us crawling to them on our hands and knees to reconcile their hearts to ours. If we genuinely loved our God, we would obey even the most impossible of commands without the slightest hesitation.

When we love perfectly, the fear will leave, Beloved. Love will scoop that darkness from the hidden hollows of our hearts and fling it far, over our heads and into the sky's vast expanse. Our eyes try to follow, but it has disappeared, swallowed by infinite blue. We have never felt so light.

While We are Sleeping.

I've noticed one near-universal rule within American churches: Get the congregation out on time. I hear half-jokes by harried pastors as they carefully arrange their watch beside their sermon notes. I watch worship leaders coordinate songs in precise measurement--not too many, not too few, with just the right amount of repetitions--verse-chorus-verse-chorus-chorus-bridge. But no more than that--people have dinner to eat, movies to see, jobs to work, lives to get back to. It breaks my heart.

In the Old Testament, we see a group of people who responded quite differently to their opportunity to enter God's throne-room.

"The Israelites gathered together, fasting and wearing sackcloth and having dust on their heads. Those of Israelite descent had separated themselves from all foreigners. They stood in their places and confessed their sins and the wickedness of their fathers. They stood where they were and read from the Book of the Law of the LORD their God for a quarter of the day, and spent another quarter in confession and in worshiping the LORD their God," (Nehemiah 9:1-3).

A quarter of the day. That's six hours--not sitting in cushion pews, but standing. Six hours reading the Word, six hours in confession and worship. And we get antsy if the Sunday sermon goes over an hour? Rushing through the service, cutting of the Holy Spirit and checking our cell phones to ensure we're not late for lunch?

Meanwhile, we blame the unbelievers for America's spiral into depravity. We forget, it's not they who have the power to quench the Spirit--it's us. And we do it so well.

Yet even now, Jesus pleads with us: Can you not keep watch with me for one hour?

Dear ones. This is the turning of the tide. The moment of dark that will lead to the dawn. The hour grows late, and our oil burns low. Will we so easily succumb to the heaviness of our eyelids? Will we so quickly give in to our selfish impulses? Will we so nonchalantly stifle the Spirit that is our only hope of rescue?

And even now, Jesus speaks: When I come, will I find faith upon the earth?

A Shepherd's Heart.

As in introvert ministering in the midst of the many members of the Body of Christ, it hasn't taken me long to discover: my strength is easily exhausted.

Quiet time alone with God has been my solace. My source of refocus and replenishment. And I know it is good, I know it is right--after all, Jesus Himself, regardless of the length of His days, was constantly rising with the muffled glow of dawn or kneeling in shadowed starlight to catch a moment alone with His Father.

So at first, I felt justified in my annoyance whenever my quiet time was interrupted. Random family members entering my room, texts demanding to be answered. I was vaguely guilty about the anger that rose up, as it seemed out of place when mere seconds before I had been resting in God's peace. But I simply wanted the world, in these moments, to leave me be--was that too much to ask? I needed this.

The true nature of my selfishness, however, was brought sharply to mind when God reminded me of His Son. Jesus, too, was often thwarted in His attempts to get away from the crowd. The same scenario happens over and over, and He always reacts the same way. Here's one example:

Because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, [Jesus] said to [the disciples], "Come with Me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest."

So they went away by themselves in a boat to a solitary place. But many who saw them leaving recognized them and ran on foot from all the towns and got there ahead of them. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, He had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. So he began teaching them many things. (Mark 6:31-34)

Jesus didn't respond in frustration or irritation when His time of rest was interrupted. He responded in love. His empty stomach, His weary eyes, were not enough to overcome His compassion for the people. In the middle of what was most certainly utter exhaustion, Jesus continued to serve, with a heart that dismissed its own needs without a second thought.

(And yes, after another full day of ministering to the people, Jesus still took time to be alone with the Father (Mark 6:46)--even when His body ached for sleep, He knew that filling His Spirit in God's Presence was by far more important.)

I pray for such a heart. A heart that obeys the Spirit instead of the flesh. A heart that looks to others, always to others, before itself. Dear Jesus, give us such a heart.

Dear God,

Scoop out this cruel and toxic organ, hidden in my chest with its parasitic grip. A fountain of selfishness that fills my body to bursting, a desperate wickedness cradled in deception. This black creature that presses heavy against my lungs.

So sever the skin, layers of tissue, until You reach the heart of the matter, elbow-deep in blood. And crush that withered muscle into the dust it was once formed of.

And in its place, Daddy, this is my request--give me Your heart.

A heart that burns with jealousy for Your people. A heart that breaks for every wandering lamb. A heart that remembers the least of these. A heart that embraces the prodigal. A heart that does not become weary of doing good. A heart that will spend everything, and spend itself as well. A heart that intercedes for the weak. A heart that is pure. A heart of love.

I cup my hands beneath Your cross and catch the crimson drops that fall, a thick and sticky rain. I drink deeply, my lips stained dark red. This blood, poured out for me, now rivers coursing through my veins. This heart, it beats so loudly, new and perfect and strong.

Poop.

Among a group of friends recently, the topic of changing dirty diapers arose. The general sentiments were ones I had heard many times before.

Ugh. I'm not getting anywhere near poop. That can be someone else's job.

Maybe it's because I grew up around babies. Between my younger siblings and the infants from my mom's home daycare, there were always plenty of foul-smelling garments to go around. I don't remember the first diaper I changed, and even if I did, I would surely have lost count of how many I've changed since. So the idea of cleaning up baby poop doesn't bother me in the least.

But I've noticed when I've heard the repulsed reactions of others over the years, it stirs something up inside of me. As if I wanted to argue the benefits of changing a baby's diaper--especially if the baby was one's own child. Somehow, the idea of someone shying away from it bothered me. And finally, I took some time out of my mental musings to consider why.

Yes, poop is disgusting. It smells (especially, it seems, when it originates from an infant). It also has a tendency to come in all manner of sickly colors. Sometimes, it smears on your hands, or your clothes, or the carpet. Essentially, changing a diaper is one great big mess. But what an act of humility and intimacy and love it is to clean off that mess from one who is helpless to take care of it themselves.

Intimacy is messy. We live in a broken world, and getting close to someone inevitably involves heartache and bruises and tears. Just ask God, the Father who so longed for us to be restored to Him, He entered our mess Himself. He trudged through the suffering and pain and temptation and betrayal. Wooden beams drank His blood so we could be whole.

And the mess goes both ways. When we allow the Spirit to enter us, He gets all over the place. He completely wrecks our "perfect" little worlds--all the things we thought we knew, all the things we thought we wanted, all the things we thought we were. He covers us with blood and anoints us with oil until we're dripping everywhere. This is how Heaven meets Earth: in a flash and tangle and flood. But through that mess, dear children, He makes us pure and clean and white.

Thank God, we have a Father who is not afraid of dirty diapers.

Why I'm Single.

I don't listen to love songs anymore. I avoid romantic movies, when I can. I scroll quickly through "I <3 him" Facebook statuses and "waiting for a godly man" memes. I cut off imaginings of my future husband. I often fight any feelings of affection for the men in my life. And I stubbornly refuse to "date" or "be in a relationship."

It's not easy. And it's not forever. It's not out of bitterness toward couples--some need to rebel against the culture and charge ahead with a banner declaring my singleness. It's not out of resentment toward men--my respect toward them has only increased, not decreased, in recent months. It's not out of a holier-than-thou mentality that seeks to create rules in order that I might feel better about myself.

No. The reason I'm staying away from romance is because I struggle with it so. It's because this root of my insecurity goes down deep. It's because I've spent years despising my singleness, even hating myself because of it, certain that it was my own irredeemable flaws that left me alone. It's because some part of me still believes that marriage will save me, though my Spirit knows it's a lie. It's because my desire to "fall in love" is an idol I must cast down every day.

It's because my heart is deceitful, and it is always telling me that now is the time love desires to be awakened.

That was why, when I received my second confirmation that now is not the right time, I felt the emotions simultaneously, in equal measure--the disappointment, and the relief.

Because no, this path isn't easy. But it is right.

Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you: Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires. -Song of Songs 8:4

Dumpster Diving.

The phrase is found in John's account of the feeding of the five thousand, a few simple words spoken by Jesus that are easily overlooked: Let nothing be wasted (John 6:12).

We look with shame at the mistakes of our past, crumple the memories in our hands like a letter for which we could not find the right words, toss it into the trash heap and hope no one goes looking. But the words continue to haunt us, our flaws drawn before our eyes in hues of neon highlighter, and we try to ignore them, try to hide, try to run.

Until we hear God digging through our trash. Our heart sinks at the sound, and we come running. We tug desperately at His arm, pleading, Not that, God, I don't want anyone to see that. But He shakes His head and says, Let nothing be wasted.

He pulls out the scraps of rotting fish, the torn pieces of moldy bread. He turns toward us then, and lifts our tear-brimmed eyes to His own. And we are amazed, because His eyes are filled with love.

He says, Beloved. I have loved you and called you, and I am working all things together for your good. Even the mistakes. Even the pain. Even the sorrow. Why have you thrown it away? The Enemy intended it for evil, but I will make it good. Behold, all things have become new. Nothing will be wasted. Not a single moment. What you see as a meager portion, I am prepared to multiply. What you have in abundance, allow to overflow. I have not missed a single detail; I count every drop of oil that anoints the numbered strands of your hair. I know you, completely, and love you. 

I am not a God of waste, Beloved. So stop throwing yourself away.

Jealous for Me.

He is a jealous God. It's a phrase I've heard often enough within the Church, usually followed by hurried explanations regarding the difference between human jealousy and divine jealousy, a swiftly-constructed barricade against any thought that our Creator's jealous nature might in some way mirror our own version of jealousy--petty, selfish, and insecure.

Still, in spite of the explanations, God's jealousy was never my favorite attribute to dwell on. It didn't bring the comforting warmth that came with considerations of His beauty and love and grace, or even the solid pulse of justice that arose from thoughts of His righteous anger.

But then (I'm learning my stories are full of buts). God gave me a revelation.

Yes, I am a jealous God. I am too jealous for you to let anything come between us. Nothing can stand in My way. As I have already spoken: Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation.

And I suddenly felt so safe. He is jealous for me. He's not going to give up, though my fickle heart falls for false lovers and frail idols. He won't allow me to live with a divided, broken heart. He'll never relent, until He has it all. My complete attention, my whole heart, wrapped in His perfect embrace. It will be the most beautiful of days. It will be the day when all is set right.

This is for You.

There's something I want to tell you. It's important, so listen up.

I see Jesus in your eyes. I see the way His Spirit lights you up from the inside when you talk about the things you love. I see the anointing, written on your forehead. The mighty warrior He has called you to be. The mark of Heaven sealed on your heart, on your arm. The promise of victory. The promise of  life.

I believe in you. Because I know the God who stands behind, and goes before. I recognized His voice when He said to me, That is my son, that is my daughter, in whom I am well-pleased. He called you out by name. He smiled as He said it. And I smiled, too.

I see you, and you are beautiful. Just like your Father.