twilk68

The Balance Beam

For the past two weeks, I’ve been doing physical therapy for my shoulder, and though it has usually been exquisitely painful the day after, I have been seeing results–the increase in my range of motion has been worth the pain. I can see that it is making a difference, and when we get to the strengthening portion of the rehab, it will really start bearing fruit.

The two PTs introduce a few new things each time I go, and today they had me sort of pedaling what looked like an upside down stationary bike with my hands, and literally climbing the walls with my right arm. I suppose it was more like “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” but it felt like I was climbing Mount Everest. After that, the male PT had me go over to the training table where he’d placed a piece of foam about the width of half a coffee can and roughly four feet long.

“OK,” he said. “I want you to get on the table and lay down on this. You want one end right at your butt and the rest of it directly along your spine.”

“All right.” I said. It looked uncomfortable, but I supposed he knew more about that sort of thing than I did.

I got up on the table and laid down on the foam. It was quite uncomfortable, but didn’t quite get to pain. It was like laying on my back on a slightly padded, round balance beam. I was alarmed to notice right away that it also made my stomach and nether regions start rumbling in a sinister and terrifying manner.

Oh, no, I thought. Not now. Not here. There’s a room full of people here, five of them women. So I did what anyone did, and I clenched up my works with all my might. I probably could have produced a diamond if I’d been sitting on a lump of coal instead of a piece of uncomfortable white foam.

I got through the five minutes on the balance beam, and then it was time for my electroshock and ice therapy. They put these electrode things on my three surgical scars, and then give me some voltage while icing my shoulder. Supposedly it messes with a person’s pain sensors and throws up a road block between the injury and the brain. And it feels weird as hell, especially when taken with the ice.

Fifteen minutes of that, and the male PT removed the ice pack and electrodes from my arm, and the padded block from under my knees.

“You’re done,” he said. “Let’s go for twice next week, too. Maybe three times after that.”

“Ok,” I said, and began my struggle to get off the table (it’s tough when you can only push up with one arm). I swung my legs over the side of the table, and then pushed against the wall a little to help myself sit up.

And that was when it happened. It was like a burst from a minigun. BRAAAP!!!

“Dear GOD!” I cried. “Excuse me!”

“You’re good,” said the PT.

“No, man. That sounded like one of those mortar tube things they use to launch fireworks on the 4th of July…”

From directly behind me, the female PT said “Really, don’t worry about—“

“I’m just gonna go to the lobby and curl up in the fetal position.”

The other three older women getting worked on looked around the room, at the walls, the machines, the door.

“So see you next week, then” said the female PT.

“I don’t know if I can come back,” I said. Then I had to laugh, because life (and my guts) is just ridiculous sometimes.

“Some of the stuff that happens on these tables…” she said.

“Oh, God, don’t talk about it,” I cried. “I’m gonna be a dinner table conversation tonight.”

“Maybe after dinner,” she said.

I made my appointment and vowed to do anything to stay off that balance beam next week.

Musings on Persecution

Here is something else that has been on my mind.

I watched the documentary Love Costs Everything last week, and it really made me feel something. It was sad, and tragic, and at the same time, extremely joyous. These men and women and children lost so much, yet maintained a level of faith I can only aspire to.

It made me think about the coming day of prayer for the persecuted church, and the 24hr prayer vigil that my church does every year.

Then over the past few days I heard again and again about the terror and murder going on over on the other side of the world in Kenya and Egypt. People being shot, burned, or blown up because of how they worship, or don’t worship. They choose to love God, and serve God, even though it can cost them their lives. I think about the persecution toward God’s people–our brothers and sisters in faith–and it makes me feel like a crap sandwich about my own faith sometimes. I’ll be standing in our beautifully designed lobby with my panties in a bunch because they’re not playing songs I like during the worship service, while people are being gunned down or blown up during their own worship service.

People say there isn’t any persecution of believers in the United States, and I believe that is true, to an extent. But I also believe it could certainly come to that eventually.

I believe persecution starts with hardened hearts. I think a hardened heart toward people professing a “Christian” faith has already begun for many people.

Certainly there haven’t been people in our country persecuted to the same level of those in the middle east and other parts of the world. Yet it would be difficult to deny there was much ridicule, mockery, descrimination, and marginalization directed toward people of faith by people without. Labels such as “hater” haphazardly handed out because somewhere along the line society decided that if I do not agree with something you do or they way you do it, then that means I hate you.

It makes me think of Germany a little bit, in the early and mid-1930’s, in the way the persecution of the Jews began. It started with marginalizing them. Marginalization led to descrimination, which led to mockery (just Google some of the German newspaper cartoons and other propaganda of that time if you want to see what I mean. Mean-spirited humor was only the beginning), which eventually led to something dark and horrible that changed the face of not just Europe, but the world.

I am not saying the treatment of Christians is anything like what happened to the Jews of Europe and other parts during WWII, but I am saying it’s foolish not to believe we as a people could be headed in that direction.

Setting a group of people apart and making sure everyone knows how “different” they are is just the beginning. Who knows how long it will take, or if things actually will take the same form? It may be different. But how can anyone deny the erosion of “religious” freedom we are experiencing as a country? It may be slow, but it is surely happening, and will continue to.

I don’t really know where I’m going with all this, but I suppose I’m trying to suggest something about being prepared. It makes me think of familiar words attributed to German Pastor Martin Niemoller during the 1930’s:

First they came for the communists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a communist.

Then they came for the socialists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a trade unionist.

Then they came for me,
and there was no one left to speak for me.

I wonder if it will come to that here? I believe it could. Whether or not it will is up to us.

It Happened at Walmart

I spent about half an hour or so this morning talking to Ken and Linda about parenting. I love having them in my life to draw wisdom from because prior to knowing them the only parenting example I really had came from my long-ago memories of my mom and dad, and from the example my sisters set with their families, which was pretty good. I think if I had not been mostly brought up by those three amazing women I would not be the person I was today. Whether they meant to or not, I think they taught me how to treat women in the way God would want them treated. It was all I knew growing up, and it’s how I hope to raise my boys up, so that when they’re older, they won’t depart from it.

But this morning, I was thinking about how I need to really reboot myself and my life in the way I handle things like conflict, and disappointment, and even something as simple as inconvenience. We talked about how important it is to treat the boys the same. Not that I meant to do differently, but because he’s only now entering his toddler years, John understandably got a lot more attention. David spent the first 6 years of his life as an only child, and it had to have been incredibly difficult for him to suddenly have this new person come along and feel like he was booted into second place.

It’s on me to rectify any problems, because there’s nothing wrong with the kids that isn’t the result of some behavior of mine, or to a lesser extent my wife’s. Their behavior is a result of ours. If I want them to behave differently, then I need to get my head out of my butt and do the same.

I had an experience this Saturday at Walmart with the boys that I shared with the FCC kids yesterday that maybe would illustrate my point better than my words alone.

We had gone to the Ave B Walmart to get just a few things, and the excursion went relatively smoothly, with the exception that I had forgotten to take anything for my shoulder, and I had been moving around quite a bit, so it was tired and pretty sore. David got into my car fine, and John had just climbed into his seat but had not been buckled in yet. I was loading my few purchases into the trunk and I could see them both looking at me through the back window.

Come on, I thought. Get in your freakin seats, I wanna go home and hit the extra strength Tylenol. I was one-handing a twelve pack of Fresca into the trunk, when I sensed two people walking up. What now? I thought, and sighed.

It was a man that looked to be in his late seventies and a woman in probably her 50’s pushing an empty cart. The man looked healthy, but tired, and smelled of Old Spice. It made me think of my dad. The woman was wearing what could probably be best described as a “grandma dress,” and looked to have Down syndrome. She had that look of youthful wonder on her face that all Down syndrome people have, and she walked right up to me and smiled, then pointed at the sling on my left arm.

“What happened to your arm?” She asked.

I saw the boys looking out the back window, and I realized I was going to have to man up and not be a jerk toward this woman and the man who looked to be her father no matter how I felt.

I told her I’d gotten an operation to fix my rotator cuff.

“Does it hurt?”

“It hurts sometimes,” I said, “But I take medicine to make it feel better.”

“My daddy takes medicine, too” she said. “I take it sometimes.”

“I don’t like it,” I told her. “But it helps, so I take it.”

“How many kids do you have?” She asked.

“Two,” I said. “They’re in the back seat right there.”

“How old are they?”

“They’re nine and two.”

“What are their names?”

“David and John. John is the little guy.”

“You must be so happy,” she said.

It was like a smack to my self-serving consciousness. Of course, I was happy. “They’re pretty great,” I told her. “God’s really blessed me.”

“Ok, bye,” she said, and she and her dad began walking into the store.

“Well, then.” I said. The boys had begun what sounded like a cage match in the back seat, and I realized I was going to have to get moving, especially if we were gonna get the house squared away before my wife got home.

David asked me why I was talking to the woman, and I explained to them that God had made that woman special, and that sometimes people like that need a little extra kindness, because they often don’t get any at all.

It was really an amazing experience, and I don’t think I will forget that beautiful little woman as long as I live. She didn’t know me from anyone, but she just shined when she was talking to me. It made me understand why so many people refer to others with Down’s and other similar syndromes and disorders as angels. I think they are angels, in a sense. They have no guile about them, They have a pureness and a soft beauty about them that to me is very humbling.

So this morning when I left Ken and Linda’s after I dropped John off it occurred to me that we are all special, and all have special needs.

But we are also all the same.

Down syndrome, autism spectrum disorder, tourette’s syndrome, cancer, Aspergers. Or “normal” people (whatever that means).

We are all the same.

We have a need within us that can only be filled by love.

I have the responsibility as a parent to show my kids where that love comes from, and that no height, or depth, or famine, or sword, or anything can separate them from it.

I can’t do that if I’m so caught up in the areas of their lives and personalities that I feel need repair that I cannot see them for the imperfect yet beautiful creations they are.

I can’t do that if I forgot to love them before I try and discipline them or teach them anything.

I can’t expect them to see Jesus outside the home if they don’t first see it inside the home. Like it or not, whatever understanding they eventually come to about God will be made through a filter that looks like me.

So I need to show them Jesus in my life before he can mean anything in theirs. I need to put my own garbage on the back burner and man up.

You must be so happy.

Yes, I think I actually am. I plan to start acting like it.

Figuring Things Out

I think I finally got my mind around what I wanted to say about church last night. It just took a whole day, chicken fingers, Diet Mt Dew, and getting socked in the basket by an enthusiastic toddler to make realize what was going on in my very large bald head. I believe that at the crux of it was that Zeb touched on why I believe, and in order to get at that, I had to go back to a time I did not want to think about.

Allow me to explain.

Zeb talked about a great many things during his sermon, but at the heart of it was more or less not caring for the statement people often make to believers when something bad or tragic happens: well, you know. God never gives a person more than they can handle. This is often postscripted with, “It’s in the bible.”

It isn’t, actually.

That statement was taken from an oft-misquoted scripture, 1 Corinthians 10:13, which says this:

13 No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.

Another thing Zeb mentioned was that, sure, sometimes we can’t handle things. At least, not on our own. The other annoying thing people say to Christians when something bad happens in some stupid crap about whatever the tragedy was being part of God’s plan. Part of his context was 9/11/01.

That doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with me, or what was dug up in my heart last night, but maybe in a sense it does. Things will come up in our lives that are much more than we can handle. I know they did in mine. And that was where I went last night.

I have not had anything particularly serious or that tragic happen in my life in many years, and probably not since the 1980’s, which featured several very dark years near the end of my teens. Those of you who have read much of what I have to say or have heard my testimony know what I’m talking about, but for those who do not, from the time I was 16 until I was 18, three people close to me died, pretty much one each year. My dad from a heart attack when I was a sophomore in high school, a good friend took his own life when I was 17, and my mother finally succumbed to cancer when I was 18.

At the time, no one said anything to me about God not giving me more than I could handle. I would not have listened if they had, because at that time God was an abstract concept, not a real “person” to me. At best, he was like the president: I knew he probably existed, but he was never going to really be a part of my life.

And the truth was, all of that stuff was more than I could handle. A lot more. I didn’t give any of it to God at the time, and wouldn’t for many years. What I did do was try to handle things myself, and while I was able to hang on well enough while I was in high school, afterward I became a walking cautionary tale about how not to deal with things like depression, loneliness, guilt, and abject sorrow. I indulged. I self-medicated. I binged. I did all kinds of horrible things to try and fill the ragged hole down the middle of me.

Nothing worked, and I ended up unfulfilled in nearly every way, and wondering if this was what life was always going to be like.

What does that have to do with why I believe? Glad you asked.

When I came to belief, and as CS Lewis said, “admitted that God was God and kneeled and prayed,” God spoke to my needs at the time, and gave me to understand what I needed to know about him, and myself, and spoke truth to the lies I had always believed about him and about myself. The cavern of emptiness within me was filled, as an adult.

I believed, but something was still lacking. I believed in God, but I did not know Jesus. It took years of seeking, years of prayer, and some very clear signals from the man himself. I was made to understand that the person I was now was forgiven, and the things I was unable to handle before I could handle now–or at least better handle–because God now resided withing me.

What really made me believe–and not just in actually having a relationship with Jesus, but in being restored by him–was the truth that while I was young, and felt alone, and couldn’t handle things, Jesus was there at my side. Angels were at my side. Handling what I could not handle, and fighting the fights I was unequipped for. The truth that was spoken to me back in San Diego shortly before I met Jen and again last night in the Upper Room was that his heart broke for me then, and breaks for me now, when I willfully choose other than his perfect will for my life. Not that my parents illnesses were some sort of punishment from God, or that they somehow chose them. No.

What I felt last night was the sense of being loved through all the horrible things that happened in my teens. I was able to feel the able and strong hands of the carpenter on my hands, guiding them. I was able to feel them holding the broken parts of my heart in his hands and binding them together. It really is something when you feel that.

Then the worship team played King of Glory, and it was all I could do to keep from getting verklempt.

I guess my point with all of this is that sometimes we misunderstand God like we misunderstand scripture. I certainly did. I forgot about what to me is the most important part of the verse:

But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.

The way out God provided me (without me giving him any part of my life), was school, in the form of acting and singing, and discovering that I would never be alone in a drama class. There was a plethora of fellow geeks available, probably 24/7. I threw myself into drama for the last two years of high school, and began to sing as well when I joined the men’s chorus. I listened to music, and retreated to the warm solace it provided when I would have been lost without it.

It’s different now. Bad things still happen. Sometimes I doubt, or feel sad or alone in some way. Yet it isn’t long before Jesus sends someone into my life to speak truth. Such has been the case over the past year, what with becoming good friends with Sam and Zeb.

Left to my own devices, I would probably still be wandering and lost.

Sometimes You Just Need to Bitch

It’s only been a week and I’m at defcon 4 frustration level with the recovery process. Hating this sling:

Hating my damn repaired shoulder:

Hating the fact that the damned Percocet works, but makes me feel sick and gross.

Hating the fact that the damned shoulder exercises hurt like a m————, but probably works pretty well, too.

Frustrated, tired, uncomfortable, with my shoulder buzzing like a cloud of hornets.

But.

I trust in You to make something of this. Something you can use. Something I can use. Something worthwhile. The dr was not kidding when he said the recovery process would be painful. It has been on several levels.

I guess feeling this way is just part of maintaining faith in a world where faith doesn’t make sense. Where I can sit on my couch at 0344 and bitch, when some really hard stuff is going on in the world.

But in the interest of full disclosure, God doesn’t always take stuff away. Sometimes you just have to get through the bad stuff, and take comfort in the fact that no matter what your level of conviction, inspiration, or faith, Isaiah 42:3 is still true and you will get through it. I’ll get through it.

a bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.

With Each Stretch

As many of you know, I had a rotator cuff repair done last Wednesday. I was very fortunate because all of my work was able to be done arthroscopically. That doesn’t mean less recovery time, necessarily, but it does mean a less painful recovery, and I am all for that. It also means this little baby is going to be with me for the next six weeks:

I take it off briefly when I shower (very awkwardly–my wife has to help), and again for about 30 minutes four times a day when I do stretching exercises. I was encouraged by this initially, because it didn’t seem that bad. Also, because my Doctor had seen fit to hook me up with Percocet. With Percocet, I thought:

Taking this off would be no big deal. Because I’m a boss, and I only need one hand anyway.

Except I’m not a boss, and the first time I did it I whined like a b****.

Because after all, it is just three little holes in my arm.

And all I’m doing us placing my hand on a stack of pillows and stretching:

Set of 12 stretches, then 25 empty hand curls. Then another set of 12 stretches and pivot to this angle:

Second verse, same as the first. No problem, right? With Percocet I can do anything.

Today I woke up and I could hardly open my eyes. I couldn’t collect my thoughts. I was a zombie.

Who’d wanna be a drug addict? I thought. So I decided I was done with Percocet. It’s just stretching, right?

All those pics I took were sans Percocet, and every stretch hurt like a mother. Because I’d forgotten something. I thought I had to have my little white tablet friends to help me. I thought with them it would be easy. It was easier, to an extent, but it also messed up my head.

Today, I had to try something different, so I decided to make each stretch a thank you.

Thank you to God, for making it just arthroscopy.

Thank you to Dr Peare, for being good at his job.

Thanks to my in laws, for taking care of my boys so I could work on coming all the way back.

Thanks to Jen, for being a Godly and strong wife.

Each stretch, and each stab of pain meant I was alive and blessed. I had two arms, and a place to exercise them.

I have so much. 6 weeks on disability is no fun, but on the other side of it is a job, and more blessings. Wrestling time with the boys. Being able to hold my wife unencumbered.

With God, and a little patience, I can do anything.

So Begins Healing/Recovery

Made it through the first day, and I have to tell you it was a really strange experience. Just took my 2 am meds and now I’m sitting here in my anti-embolism “stockings,” boxers, and tank top with my arm in a “super sling.”

The surgery experience was strange. The operating room was freezing. I took about 3 breaths of the anasthetic and I was gone. I’m told Dr Peare did the arthroscopy and shaved off the bone spurs. Also a rotator cuff “cleanup” and had to stitch some tendon, which was 70% torn.

Waking up in the recovery room was not much fun. My throat was scratchy from the tube and my shoulder felt tight and under a lot of pressure. And it hurt like a bitch. Then the drain in my wound began doing its thing and that helped a lot. So did getting my wits about me again.

Through it all my wife has been nothing less than extraordinary, and the pain has been manageable, though intense at times. The meds help a lot with that, but keep me pretty high and sleepy. Jen has to dump the little bladder attached to my drain every few hours.

That’s about it. Can’t really do much of anything, but that’s ok. Working on getting BP down is the next thing. That will come, too. I know God and my family has my back. I’ll get through it ok.

For now, I’ve got a loaded iPod and plenty to read. Got 3 Rend Collective Experiment records to listen to, and so far the one I like best is Homemade Worship by Handmade People. They sound a bit like Mumford & Sons.

Gonna try to go back to sleep. Feeling blessed and reading to get to healing and rehabbing my shoulder.

For those that were and are praying, keep it up! It helps. Next target: rehab.

Thanks and God bless. I love my family and friends.

The Bottom Line

Today I awoke thinking again about the sermon from Saturday night, and doing everything in our lives for the glory of God, and about living intentionally. I was pretty tired this morning driving in to work, so I decided to throw on a little hard stuff, and I pulled up Black Label Society on Pandora. Here’s a live clip of the song I heard:

It occurred to me to wonder about the crazy talent God gives people. Zakk Wylde, for instance. I didn’t know anything about his spirituality at the time, but I can’t think of any other guitarists I’ve heard recently who can do the insane things with their instrument Zakk Wylde can. Just watch that video and you’ll see what I mean.

Wylde has had the typical rock star struggles with alcohol/substance abuse, which seems evident from the beers he has lined up on the drum riser in the video. Not long ago, though, I heard an interview with another guitarist, who was describing how Wylde had gotten over his problem with alcohol. He had something wrong with him where if he drank again, it would likely kill him. So he had to quit–cold turkey.

What does a heavy metal guitar player have to do with the Glory of God? Well, after hearing the song today, it occurred to me to wonder if recognition of the gifts given us by God makes them any less gifts? And if are not clearly glorifying God with them, is God’s glory made any less?

I think of a CS Lewis quote that says something like: “A man can no more diminish God’s glory by refusing to worship him than a lunatic can blot out the sun by scribbling ‘darkness’ on the walls of his cell.”

So maybe it really doesn’t matter if Zakk Wylde goes on stage and says “this one’s for you, Jesus.” His talent speaks for itself, and it is not made less by whether or not he thanks God for giving him his ability. Nor is God made less by his acknowledgment, or lack thereof.

And then I came work and read this interview Wylde did with an online metal magazing where he was talking about the recovery of a guitar that had previously been stolen. It’s just a snippet, and is buried by the interviewer, but it struck me just the same:

Events such as being reunited with your prized guitar “The Grail” and when that happened out of the blue; does it remind you how crazy this business can be, for you?

Oh, without a doubt. I thank the good Lord every day. I thank him when I wake up and when I go to bed. I thank him in the middle of the day. I’m definitely grateful for everything I have. Hands down.

I don’t need a tragedy to happen to realize how blessed I am. I don’t need that. I don’t need to beat up an 80 year old grandmother and do six years in jail to realize that beating up elderly people and stealing their money is really not a good thing.

On the road, is maintaining your spiritual side important to you?

Yeah, well, I’m a soldier of Christ, man. Without a doubt.

When you say “Soldier of Christ,” what do you mean by that?

The bottom line is that he’s with me all the time.

It was Wylde’s last sentence that really made me think. If he’s with me all the time, then how can I not glorify him? Whatever my gifts may be, if my constant companion is the giver, then how can I not look to him?

It would be like walking some place with your father, and holding his hand. I would constantly look up at him to make sure he was still there, and he would look down at me and smile, assuring me with a look that he was still there, and always would be.

The bottom line is that he’s with me all the time.

Do Everything

Last night Jenny, her brother, mom and dad were all leading worship at church. Ken and John played guitar and drums, respectively, and they would have sounded good playing anywhere. Ken, Jorge and Jenny sang melody on 2 each of the 6-song set. Linda sang harmony. From my perspective (the computer in the sound booth), it was an amazing and powerful experience, and when Jeff came out to speak it only became more powerful.

Not for the first time, it occurred to me that I wished I had a musical gift, even something like a triangle or tambourine. Or a voice, for that matter.

I. Just. Don’t.

I sit in the back, and I hit the spacebar and F9, and I watch and listen.

Jeff said something last night about everything you do, do it for the glory of God. That’s what the players and singers were doing. You could hear it in their voices, and see the light of Jesus shining from within.

How am I to use my index finger to the glory of God?

Then Ken said something during his communion meditation, to the effect of “God knows what He’s doing.” I thought about that, along with Jeff’s sermon, for the rest of the night. I’m thinking about it now, with the dogs curled next to me on the couch and the sun just beginning to lighten the sky.

God knows what he’s doing.

Live life intentionally.

Do everything for the Glory of God.

These things have been running through my mind since then.

I wasn’t gifted with musical or vocal ability, and that’s ok. I may lack the ability to glorify God in that way, but

God knows what he’s doing.

It kind of makes sense I’m in the back on the computer because while God didn’t give me music, he did give me words. I am most comfortable behind a keyboard, or talking to people.

I have been given some small ability to turn a written phrase, but it wasn’t until I began doing it for the glory of God that I really began to discover that.

Maybe it’s like that for you. You don’t feel like there’s anything you can do well enough in your life to glorify God with it.

Maybe you wish you could play, or sing, or speak in front of people.

I would say to you, there’s plenty you can do. One of the amazing kids in the youth group once referred to herself as a spacebar ninja, and I guess that’s me, too.

And that’s ok. I think now that my problem was that I wanted to be awesome at something people could see, so they would see me, too, and I would feel validated in some way.

It was my Glory I wanted and not God’s.

It took the realization that all things work together for God’s glory to make the difference in my life. I promise you it’s the same in yours. You don’t have to look for some special way to give God glory. Rather, glorify him with what is in your life.

This song, I think, says it perfectly:

Here’s me in action during Jeff’s sermon:

Beautiful One

In my prior life in San Diego, I was part of a ministry that saw a fair amount of people who suffered from PTSD due to abuse or sexual trauma of one kind or another, and it surprised me because I had no idea how widespread that kind of ‘thing’ was because outside of that ministry I had heard very few people talk about abuse of any sort. This is likely for reasons specific to each person, but from what I experienced in my four + years as an intercessor, shame was the chief reason most people kept silent.

To varying degrees, many of the people I prayed with and for felt blame for what they’d been made to endure. The beauty of this ministry was that in most cases, those same people were able to find God’s truth about where the blame lie, and encounter Jesus in such a way they were able to find at least a measure of healing. Also the knowledge that healing was a process, and it was OK if it took some time.

I became a frequent intercessor for these types of sessions, and it eventually became clear that God had gifted me in such a way, and used me in such a way that I was often able to help these people by protecting them while those leading the session were able to do their own work.

Sometimes, though, I would need to step away a little bit, because I could feel myself moving away from what needed to be done and start thinking about things like how much dental reconstruction that piece of crap would need if I was able to go back in time and get hold of him.

That was not my place, and still isn’t. But the man in me thinks it sometimes. The part of me that loves and respects women as beautiful creations of a loving God wants to choke rapists until they turn blue for making so many women think otherwise.

Today I saw this picture:

And it made me think about that stuff again.

To rapists: while my personal belief is that you are shit on a cracker, I know in my heart that like the women, men, girls or boys your actions do permanent harm to, you are beloved by God. Deep in your sin, where your heart seems so far away from anything loving, you are loved. You know what you’ve done. Seek forgiveness. It can be yours.

To victims: my heart breaks for you as it always has. Know this, and hold it in your heart like the precious truth it is. You are loved. What you feel makes you unworthy is something you had no control over. What you feel makes you dirty is something you did not ask for, no matter what they tell you. This dirt is created by lies, and truth can set you free of them.

You are loved and loved and loved, in spite of what ‘they’ tell you and in spite of what you might think of yourself. Let those words fall away like broken chains.

Try to imagine an oyster, fresh from the sea bottom. The oyster is held in a pair of hands–the sure and strong hands of the carpenter. You can hardly see the pads of scar tissue on his wrists. A small knife with a curved blade appears in one of his hands and he deftly pops open the shell. With the blade he lifts the tissue and extracts a small, slimy ball.

He begins to wipe away the slime, dirt and sediment that has been accumulated by years. Everything falls away at his touch, and he is eventually left with what was there all along; a pearl of great price.

Know this as well: to Jesus, you are that pearl. You are no longer a victim. You are beautiful, and clean, and made righteous.

I want you to know that you are not alone in your pain. The hands that made you wait to hold you.

I want you to know and believe that you are not to blame.

I want you to know that it’s ok to let out what you feel.

I want you to know that healing is available.

My words are failing me now and I will end with what I said before.

You are beloved.

Beloved.