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Read biographies to strengthen your soul
This morning I woke up in a warm bed with a roof over my head. I took a hot shower, brewed a pot of coffee, and enjoyed breakfast made from my well-stocked fridge and pantry. Electricity, phone, and plumbing worked at my beck and call. Compared with most people around the world and throughout history, I am spoiled rotten. These comforts and conveniences are a gift, yes; but they can also be a grief. Gift because God appoints us our particular place in history, geography, and culture (Acts 17:26-27)—so this very location and set of circumstances are from Him. But gift quickly turns to grief when my passion for eternal realities is dampened by an all-needs-met existence. This physical wealth can numb my soul, and I’m daily at risk of living in spiritual poverty. And what good is it to have everything I need at my fingertips, yet lose the very essence of who I’m created to be? (Luke 9:25) I was made to love and serve others for Christ, to joyfully spread God’s fame in my little corner of the world and beyond. Whenever I sense this sluggishness of soul—a craving for all things convenient, a reticence to do hard things—I revisit “old friends,” Christian men and women who have long since passed into glory but whose lives have indelibly shaped my own. Even as a young teenager, I was spellbound by their stories. Reading Christian biographies became the kindling of a fire in my soul that would spark countless decisions and desires for years to come. These were real people with real frailties and failings (sometimes embarrassingly so), but they lived in such a way that showed the surpassing greatness of Christ. Their faith was rugged and resilient, unashamedly rooted in the hope of the gospel. They considered their sufferings and sacrifices well worth the eternal rewards awaiting them, and proved it by giving up all manner of comfort, success, even life itself. They didn’t expect life to be easy, fulfilling, or successful. They expected to lay down their lives for the sake of their God and His Kingdom work. It’s hard to conceive of a life of selflessness, of utter self-denial, in a culture that promotes its antithesis. We vehemently value our autonomy, our rights, our health, our comforts. We’re tempted to live in the superficial and act as if this is our permanent home. For the sake of our souls, we need a bigger view, an historical perspective, and the company of those who have gone before us. However, Christian history has largely (and sadly) been relegated to theological seminaries and Bible colleges, and most of us rely wholly on modern advice and methodologies, neglecting a wealth of sound counsel and proven wisdom in what Hebrews 11 calls “so great a cloud of witnesses.” If we were honest, many of us would admit that our culture, our peers, and social media hold more sway on our life trajectory than does any influence pre-1980. Today there are thousands of blogging, book-writing Christians on the scene, and many of them have good things to say. Biblical insights to share. Counsel to impart. But a diet consisting largely of blogs and books written by modern-day men and women who have lived a mere three, four, or five decades in affluent America—it’s a recipe for spiritual malnutrition. We’re glutted with writing on God’s love, our personal griefs and journey to recovery, applying the gospel to our modern-day messes, and buzzwords like community, authenticity, and wholeness. But when is the last time you read an author who wrote like this? Nothing will seem too much to have done or suffered, when, in the end, we see Him and the marks of His wounds; nothing will ever seem enough. Even the weariness of deferred hope will be forgotten, in the joy that is not of earth.” – Amy Carmichael, 1867-1951 Or this? I remember, when I have preached at different times in the country, and sometimes here, that my whole soul has agonized over men, every nerve of my body has been strained and I could have wept my very being out of my eyes and carried my whole frame away in a flood of tears, if I could but win souls.” – Charles Spurgeon, 1834-1892 Not only does reading Christian biographies put iron into our souls, it is also extremely practical for daily life—giving us a richer, broader perspective on relationships, education, career, marriage, parenting, spiritual disciplines, politics, and ministry. As C.S. Lewis said, it gives us eyes to see “the controversies of the moment in their proper perspective.” Lewis argued passionately for the reading of old books, for My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad of eyes, but it is still I who see.” These flawed-but-faithful believers are not meant to be the object of our gaze, but rather, they serve as a looking-glass through which we see Christ more clearly. Our sights are lifted beyond our present circumstances and we are strengthened to run our course well. God has gifted us with a cloud of witnesses—because our own eyes are not enough. Don’t let the testimony of these lives be lost on you. Walk with them awhile, learn from their mistakes, consider their counsel, imitate their love and obedience to God. To encourage us in this pursuit, the True Woman blog is featuring a new biographical series called “25 Women Who Impacted the World for Christ.” These inspiring life sketches are posted on the blog every Thursday.
The gift of illness
I’m not in a wheelchair. I’m not on chemo. I’ve ended up in the hospital only two times, for brief outpatient visits. To see me, you’d assume I’m the picture of perfect health. But underneath this strong exterior lies deep weakness. I’ve been given the gift of chronic illness. And while I would love to reject such a gift, it has been my invitation into a thousand moments of grace—to feel where I was once numb, see where I was once blind, hear where I was once deaf. It’s been my merciful undoing and my gracious remaking. You see, in my own strength, pain-free and healthy, I am Pride and Self-sufficiency and The Greatest People Pleaser. But here, in the throes of weakness, I am forced into postures of humility and dependency upon God. This brokenness has surfaced every cranky, weary, impatient, mean, insecure, fearful, shortsighted aspect of my character. So I cry out to Him. And I find Him. Why Healing Isn’t Everything Over the course of these seven years of illness, I’ve been prayed for and prayed over by countless people. I’ve seen medical doctors and homeopathic specialists. I’ve changed the way I eat and exercise…multiple times. I’ve made progress and then I’ve regressed—taken five steps forward and four steps back. Because sometimes God says “no” or “not yet” or “only in part” so that we learn how to sit in silence a little longer, till our heart is on a first-name basis with Surrender and we go deeper with Jesus. These aches and pains and frailties, they are a telescope to see distant glory up close. The God of the Universe is near to the brokenhearted and He lifts up those who are bowed down. And that nearness is my good. He says, “I see. I hear. I care. And I am with you. I have everything you need for this.” Too Much and Not Enough In every season of our lives, there comes a time when we feel that God has given us “too much” and we’re “not enough.” We look at our circumstances and then at our resources—and we despair. Why do You push me so far past my limits, Lord? When I was young and healthy and had the world on a string, I envisioned a life of monumental and celebrated ministry. But on this side of weakness, I’ve been surprised by the joys of small and simple servanthood. When I’m tempted to bemoan my limitations I remember that God can feed more than 5,000 people with just two fish and five loaves of bread. My weakness serves to highlight His strength. I feel as if He regularly poses the same question to me as He did to stammering, fearful Moses: “What is that in your hand?” But instead of a staff, I have a 4-year-old son to love and disciple; a laptop and an hour to write an encouraging word; dinner, doubled in portion, so we can share with friends; a chair in my living room and an ear to listen to a hurting young woman. On the weeks of better health, I do a little more. On the weeks of bad health, I do a lot less. I’ve found that God is happy to be with me no matter how I feel or how much I can get done. So while I still ask Him to heal me, I also thank Him for the miracles He’s working through illness. In the most unlikely, unexpected ways He has been carving out unique ministry for me, increasing my joy in Him and in others, and working all things together for my good. It doesn’t look anything like it was supposed to—but it’s beautiful this way. Dare I say, it’s better this way? It’s better that I wasn’t healed quickly like we all wanted. It’s better that I can’t praise a doctor or medicine or methodology for my healing. It’s better that my marriage and motherhood have been forged in weakness. It’s better that I have needed Him so desperately. We are made for perfection, aren’t we, dear one? We are made for eternity. This chafing against weakness makes sense. But someday soon (sooner than I can imagine), I will be made perfect, and so will you. And all these trivial maladies—these light and momentary troubles—will be forgotten in the Glory that far outweighs them all. We will run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint. We’ll see our Healer face-to-face, and He will wipe away every tear from our eyes. Whether your struggle is with chronic illness or some other form of weakness, God is not wasting it. He’s fulfilling the purposes He’s planned for you since the beginning of time. He sees, He hears, He knows, and He cares. May you experience the gift of His nearness and goodness today. Scriptures referenced: Isaiah 40; Psalm 73; 2 Corinthians 4:17; 2 Corinthians 12:9; Revelation 21:4; 2 Corinthians 1:3-5; Psalm 34:18; Mark 6:34-44; Exodus 4:2
We need each other
I’ll never forget Miss Moss, with her Coke-bottle glasses and a disability that left her slow and kind. She loved writing notes of encouragement even though her handwriting was chicken-scratchy and sloped down the page. And Earl Roland. He was a hunched old man who loved to pray. In the absence of an acceptable singing voice he’d mastered the art of whistling, and he whistled loud and strong through the hymns we sang in church. So to honor him we whistled “A Mighty Fortress” at his memorial service. I remember little old women in polyester who fawned over me, and the wrinkled man in a wheelchair who had a big black Bible and said, “But God…!” (Because he knew stuff the rest of us didn’t yet understand.) But it wasn’t just the old and the weak that made a strong impression on me. Roland and Naomi were seminary students in their late twenties when I was a teen. They never missed an opportunity to love on me. When I graduated from high school and no one else my age was left at church, they invited me to join their young married small group. Roland and Naomi wanted children but their arms remained empty. I watched them navigate barrenness with quiet trust, and it changed me. And there were friendships forged over food. My parents set the stage for rich and relaxed community by hosting myriad meals, even on a shoestring budget. Neighbors, newcomers to church, out-of-town friends, they all gathered around our table and lit up our home. Missionaries-on-furlough ate pot roast and told stories from the field. Giddy newlyweds talked of love over casserole. Sharing meals with people seemed as natural as, well…. eating…. and left me with an incurable taste for joy. And what I couldn’t have put into words then, but I understand to the marrow of my bones now, is that community is life. It grows you up. It anchors you down. It humbles you. It heals you. It’s laughter. It’s tears. It’s the warp and woof of our existence. Now I’m the one with a family, and we’re living in the fastest-paced generation in the history of mankind. Despite some physical limitations that naturally slow us down, our family can still find ourselves dashing here and there, squinting sideways at our calendar to see how we’ll squeeze in another birthday party or baby shower, and communicating instantaneously with dozens of people in the course of one day. My husband and I have to regularly fight against the tug of too much. We keep asking ourselves, “How do we pursue authentic, consistent, unhurried relationships? How do we do this in a way that builds up our family and doesn’t splinter us in a dozen different directions?” How can we make sure our son doesn’t miss rubbing shoulders with the Miss Mosses and Earl Rolands of this world? The old and the weak, we miss them when we’re in too much of a hurry. We haven’t stumbled upon any easy answers. Community looks so different for each one of us, in each new season of our lives. And as soon as we think we’ve found our groove and figured it all out, life changes. The mom with three small children, the overseas missionary, the 50-year-old with aging parents, the one who’s chronically sick—they’ll tell you there’s no cookie-cutter shape for community. But one thing’s for certain: we need each other. We can’t work through our yuck, see our blindspots, grow in grace, and experience joy on an island (no matter how exotic it might be). And while God alone is more than enough for us—and He should be our first and greatest relationship—He knows we will love and understand Him more when we’re living in authentic relationship with others. So we prioritize it: Be with others. Set food on the table and open the front door. Tell each other our stories. Confess sin to a friend. Meet a tangible need. Laugh together. Pray together. Sit quietly with a grieving one. Seek the wisdom of older friends. Forgive each other. Say yes to an offer of help. And say “no.” A lot. Say no to relationships that bring out the worst in us and distract us from God’s purposes (Proverbs 13:20). Say no to pleasing everyone. Say no to doing it all. I’m not sure if it’s just me, but a too-large social circle and a bleeding calendar are some of my greatest hindrances to loving others with authenticity and joy. I’m so grateful for the kaleidoscope of people who shaped my world when I was a child, and those who continue to shape it now. I pray that someday my son will also tell of how he was molded not only by us, his parents, but also by the people we did life with: the young and the old, the weak and the strong. I pray his identity in Christ will grow within the context of community. Dear one, this world feels half crazy, doesn’t it? But our God has not left us alone. He is with us and He has given us everything we need for life and godliness—including His people, “the excellent ones in whom is all my delight.”
Kings, kings, and more kings (a poem)
I love reading through the Old Testament books of First and Second Kings, where I see God’s justice and love, fierceness and faithfulness on display. In these pages it’s impossible to focus on just one of God’s attributes to the exclusion of the others. His dealings with His people and her kings are such a stunning look into who He is. But to be honest, I’ve always been confused about Who’s Who in this record of royalty. So last summer I spent weeks reading and researching and connecting dots, and this poem was the result—a study aid for my forgetful, oft-confused brain. May it come in handy to a few of you as well. (I’ve highlighted the Kings of Israel in orange; the Kings of Judah in green. And where possible, I’ve tried to use exact words or phrases from Scripture.) Poem of the Kings Here is a look at Old Testament kings: Saul (the first) was promising, till disbelief and folly won— then in stepped God’s anointed one. David’s heart was wholly true, but Solomon didn’t follow through. Rehoboam closed his ears to counsel from those wise in years. Jeroboam made calves of gold, Nadab’s sin was just as bold. Abijam took up all the sins of his father before him. Asa came and saved the day— idols, prostitutes were put away. Basha sinned and sealed his fate (the dogs were waiting in the gate). Elah was a drunkard king whose brief reign ended suddenly. Zimri did evil in the sight of the Lord; Omri did evil—but even more. Omri’s son Ahab outdid his dad, embodying the look of bad. Jehoshaphat made Asa proud (yet the high places were still allowed). Ahaziah took a great fall, through some lattice high on a wall. Wicked Jehoram wed Ahab’s daughter yet mercy came instead of slaughter. Joram was evil, he had no peace, and Ahaziah tried to flee, for Jehu was on a bloody mission— Death to royalty and sons of perdition! Jehoahaz sinned, then sought the Lord, then sinned again (back and forth). Athaliah was a usurping queen till Joash, at seven years old, became king. (When Jehoida counseled him, he was wise; but with the priest’s death came his demise.) Jehoash made Israel to sin again. Amaziah’s reign was half a win. Uzziah obeyed God zealously till his pride bred leprosy. Jeroboam II was wholly evil but God showed mercy, spared His people. Then five more in murderous succession sat on a throne of endless transgression: Zechariah, Shallum, and Menahem, Pekahiah, Pekah—royal mayhem. Back in Judah, King Jotham restored the beloved gate of the house of the Lord. When evil Ahaz took his turn as king he burnt his son as an offering. Hoshea was king when Israel fell to Assyria (and was locked in a cell). Hezekiah showed God to be gracious and finally destroyed all the high places. King Manasseh did not follow suit, a bloody and idolatrous brute. Amon came after—like father like son— he also abandoned the Holy One. But King Josiah read the Law, humbled himself in penitent awe, led the people in covenant, restored and reformed till he was spent. Then came three who couldn’t win: Jehoahaz, Johoiakim, Jehoiachin. Alas, Judah’s days came to an end when King Zedekiah could not contend with Nebuchadnezzar and his men— a promised curse for the people’s sin.
Stories are light (in a dark world)
As summer draws to an end and school beckons us into our fall routine, I’m catching my breath a bit. The past few months have been all manner of strange and surprising. Not much has gone as we’d planned it would (shout-out to James 4:14-16). But the one consistent thing that has seemed to weave together these odd, disjointed days has been a littering of books all over our house, and the ritualistic reading of them. Old books, new books, big ones, little ones, audio books, library-smelly loans, Costco-cheap editions, hand-me-down freebies—books! And while our calendars and our health and the world in general have felt all topsy turvy, we’ve read and read and read…. What is it about a good book? A good story? Kate DiCamillo puts it beautifully in The Tale of Despereaux: “Why would you save me?” Despereaux asked. “Have you saved any of the other mice?” “Never,” said Gregory, “not one.” “Why would you save me, then?” “Because you, mouse, can tell Gregory a story. Stories are light. Light is precious in a world so dark. Begin at the beginning. Tell Gregory a story. Make some light.” We don’t always need a physical book in our hands to feel the light of a story. This summer my son asked me to retell him the biblical account of Samson again and again. (And again.) He asked for stories from my childhood and he wanted to re-enact scenes from his audiobooks. He told endless tales himself, as if our days were the very pages of a book. I asked him to dictate one of his stories to me (odd as it was) and I typed it into my computer with all the gravity of an editor. Because stories are light. And light is precious in a world so dark. Especially one story. A story with all the elements of intrigue and romance and rescue. A story that is so epic it makes life worth living. Before the beginning of time, there was God. And He spoke us into being, into a perfect world of happiness. But we questioned His love and goodness and chose a serpent’s lie over our Creator’s truth. And sin had its way with us. Shame and despair and deceit and death replaced pure unadulterated freedom and pleasure. But God loved us so much that He stepped into our despair and rescued us, made us His again. Now death doesn’t master us, but Life does—and an eternity of ever-increasing happiness in His presence awaits us. Does my son see me light up to tell the Story of All Stories? Does it shape my heart in such a way that I don’t even need to speak words for him to see its light? The gospel story illuminates all of life, not just at the moment we believe it, but also every moment thereafter. It is indescribably precious in our dark world. Every good story is an echo of this one. And our own smaller stories find their place within this larger one. When my son has questioned God’s goodness in not giving him a sibling, I tell him the story of my longing years, when I prayed and waited for his daddy and for him (and his eyes sparkle as I tell it). My anguishing wait gave me a story to tell—light to give—to a little boy who already wrestles with “Does He really love me?” What’s your story, dear one? You have one worth telling, you know. Some of its chapters are long, some sad, some happy, some magical, some mundane, some yet unfinished. All the best stories include suffering and waiting, hope and redemption. Yours has all those elements, doesn’t it? Are you telling your story in light of His? Are you illuminating your corner of this dark world? Am I? A couple of years ago, in the thick of a difficult season, I sat with a dear old man who told me the story of his life. I was transported. I was reminded of beauty and faithfulness and kindness and perseverance. I was humbled and strengthened. His words shined light into my darkness. Let’s tell stories, shall we? HIS story and our stories and grandparents’ stories. Let’s read heroes’ biographies and classics and books that tell tall tales, enlarging our hearts for the unseen and the “not-yet.” Let’s remember what God has done and recount it to each other again and again. Because stories are light. And light is precious in a world so dark. This article also appears on ERLC.com.
The road to Compassion
If you’ve ever spent time around someone who thinks they know everything, you’ve got a pretty good picture of what I was like in my late teens to early twenties. I had it all figured out, folks. I shared my opinions freely. I judged silently but liberally. I was impatient with weakness. After all, I had a clear vision for my future. I was getting ready to lay down my life as a missionary or pastor’s wife and change the world for Jesus. I was too full of important dreams and ambitions to stop for anyone who didn’t fit into my idealistic little world. So I sprinted by them—the weak, the waiting, the hurting, the hesitant—me in my running shoes with a spring in my step. But God was about to stop me in my tracks and make me walk miles upon miles in their shoes. Over the past two decades, He has paved my way with “severe mercies” to teach me how to sit with the wounded in their pain. To listen and learn. To be patient with weakness. To forgive. And one story in particular has helped me embrace the uncomfortable way of Compassion…. ONE LIKE ME At 17 years old, Joseph was a boastful dreamer and a favored son with a colorful coat to prove it. Reading between the lines of Genesis 37, we can easily imagine Joseph being a know-it-all. And we definitely don’t see any signs of tender-heartedness or sensitivity to others. But by age 30, he had become a deeply compassionate man, with a capacity to forgive great injustices and a skill-set that helped him meet the needs of thousands who otherwise would have died. How did this transformation happen in the span of just 13 years? What could turn a priggish little punk into a mighty man of mercy? JOSEPH SUFFERED You know the story. Joseph is betrayed by his brothers, sold as a slave to a foreign land, wrongly imprisoned, and then (insult to injury) forgotten by fellow prisoners he’d shown great kindness to. Because we know this story so well, we can forget the sheer trauma of these circumstances. Can you even begin to imagine your own siblings selling you into slavery?! And then being accused of rape by a woman you’d resisted in purity? Then imprisoned by her husband, the very man you had secretly and faithfully honored? By human standards, Joseph had every right to be an angry, victimized, incapacitated man. Yet somehow Joseph nurtured a tender, forgiving heart, so that years later he was able to look his traitorous, hateful brothers in the eyes and say, “Do not be distressed or angry with yourselves because you sold me here, for God sent me before you to preserve life. So it was not you who sent me here, but God.” Joseph was made of flesh-and-blood like you and me, so he must have longed for vindication when he was so grievously wronged. Inevitably he wrestled through anger, sadness, fear, perhaps even despair. And while suffering must have been a powerful tool of humility and maturity in this dreamer’s life, suffering in and of itself can’t produce a compassionate heart. (In fact, as you and I well know, it often leads to a hardened, embittered heart.) GOD WAS WITH JOSEPH In Genesis 39, we learn the secret to staying tender and tenacious through suffering. Four times it says: “The Lord was with Joseph.” The Lord was with him when his brothers threw him in a pit. He was with him when he was sold as a slave to Egypt. He was with him when he was falsely accused of attempted rape and thrown into prison. He was with him when the baker and the cupbearer forgot about him, leaving him in prison for two additional years. God was with Joseph. And that changed everything. God’s nearness was Joseph’s good (Psalm 73:28), and it resulted in the saving of many lives and the preservation of God’s chosen people. God’s nearness was Joseph’s good, so he was able to say, “God did this to me so that others could live.” Had Joseph remained at home, comfortably cloaked in the favor of his father, history would tell a very different story today. But God mercifully gifted Joseph with a long season of suffering and the intimate experience of His transforming presence. FROM COLOR-COATED TO COMPASSIONATE Still I find myself judgmental at times. Short on compassion. Missing opportunities to meet others’ needs because I’m so wrapped up in my own. But walking through weakness and hardships with Jesus has been a beautiful journey that is slowly changing me. And while I haven’t experienced sufferings like Joseph’s, I’ve experienced the withness of his God. Because God has forgiven me, I can forgive others. Because He has comforted me with His presence, I can comfort others. Because He has walked in my shoes, I can walk in theirs. Because He laid down His life to love me while I was still His enemy…. I long to learn how to lay down my life to love the lost ones around me. If we could sit down together and swap stories, I’m sure we’d both agree that the road to Compassion can be costly and uncomfortable, but it is the way of joy. Because when it feels like we’ve died to our dearest dreams and life doesn’t look anything like we think it should, we finally have ears to hear God say, “Come with Me, beloved child—I have works of love for you to do.” Scriptures referenced: Genesis 39:2, 23; 41:38. Genesis 37-45. Psalm 73:28. Hebrews 2:17-18. Galatians 4:4-7. Colossians 3:12. Ephesians 2:10.
