A few months ago, I was in a rather desperate place, really needing to see God move in my life. I needed to see something tangible to let me know that He heard me, and that my whispered prayers (an…
Source: The Hand of God
The Hand of God
A few months ago, I was in a rather desperate place, really needing to see God move in my life. I needed to see something tangible to let me know that He heard me, and that my whispered prayers (and also screams and shouts) weren’t just futile attempts to cope with my pain. One day, while I was driving to work, I literally cried out to Him: “God, I need to see your hand!” Those were my exact words.
Now when I prayed–or rather, shouted–that prayer, I was expecting a particular response. Something like a phone call from one of my spiritually deep friends saying that God told them to tell me that He loved me, and that I was not forgotten. You know, something like that. Yeah, no. That’s not what happened at all.
I had left for lunch a few minutes early that day. This is still the same day that I was shouting at God in the car. I was driving to Babies R Us to get stuff for my kids. As I was driving, I saw this young girl, late teens, early twenties maybe, walking along the side of the road, pushing her baby in an umbrella stroller. The road was rugged with no sidewalks, and as I was passing her, I saw the strain on her face as she tried to walk on the road without endangering her baby. Even as I drove by cautiously, I felt like my car was way too close to her stroller. And that’s what caught my attention.
It takes a whole lot for me to reach out to people I don’t know. That’s not a thing that I do–especially a stranger on the street. But that pained expression on her young face, seeing her struggle with that baby, it tugged at my heart. And I now know that heart tug was really the Holy Spirit tapping me on the shoulder.
I turned around in the middle of the street, rolled down my window, and posed a question to this young woman I didn’t know and had never seen before: “Excuse me ma’am. I know you don’t know me, but do you want a ride?” I asked, only half-confident that I was doing the right thing. “Yes!” she exclaimed without a moment’s hesitation. I could hear the relief in her voice.
I pulled over to the side of the road and helped her in. I have two kids. Her son in the stroller just happened to be about the same size as my son, and he fit ever so neatly into my son’s car seat. I folded up the umbrella stroller and placed it in my hatchback while she buckled her son into the car seat. We both got back in the car and I started to drive.
“Where are you headed?” I asked. “I’m headed to State Court. I have to pay a traffic ticket.” “Oh, I can take you there, no problem. I’m Whitney, by the way.” She introduced herself to me. I’ll call her Paige. We chatted during the short drive to State Court. She was a young, single mom who had moved down here from New Jersey. She had an unpaid parking ticket from back home that she forgot about. The ticket suspended her license, unbeknownst to her, which resulted in a ticket and her car being towed when she was stopped by the police down here in Georgia. She was working a minimum wage job, with no money to get the car out of impound, so there she was, walking to court to handle her ticket.
She was headed back to Jersey the next day to live with her mother who could give her more support with her son. She had some job interviews lined up in Jersey as well. Once she got a little money up and got back on her feet, she planned to come right back to Georgia to try it again.
We pulled up the courthouse. “I actually used to work in State Court,” I told her, “maybe I can help you. Do you know where you’re going?” “I have no idea,” she replied. I represented clients with misdemeanor cases in State Court for two years, so I knew the lay of the land. So we got out of the car, got the umbrella stroller, put baby in stroller, and headed into the courthouse. We located her designated courtroom on the screen in the lobby. It was the exact courtroom I was in before I stopped working in State Court and moved on to my present job. Imagine that.
As we rode the elevator up to the courtroom, I explained the courtroom procedure to Paige, the pet peeves of the judge, (one of which was children in the courtroom), and gave her general advice about how to handle her case. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here and there are a lot of new prosecutors,” I told her as I got off the elevator, “but maybe I’ll recognize a familiar face.”
As we walked into the waiting area outside of the courtroom, I looked through a conference room window and locked eyes with one of the prosecutors for that courtroom. And I knew her. I knew her well. She was talking with someone else at that moment, so we waited. Now, I was getting anxious. What was I going to say to the prosecutor? “Hey, girl! How are you? How’s the fam? Right, so I just picked up this complete stranger off the street and drove her here. Can you help her?”
I laugh now, as I reflect on that moment, because that’s essentially what I said. After chatting it up, I explained the situation and told her that if there was anything she could do to help Paige, it would be so greatly appreciated. I won’t bore you with all of the mundane legal details of handling Paige’s case, but in the end, the prosecutor was such a huge help. Paige ended up getting her case dismissed and not having to pay any money at all. And the prosecutor wrapped up Paige’s case before lunch, so she didn’t even have to wait until her assigned 1:30 p.m. court time to handle her case. We got to the courthouse at about 11:30 a.m. We were finished by noon.
Paige and I exited the building. I was just shaking my head at this point. There was nothing I could really say. I was just in awe. We piled back into the car, baby and all, and I drove off, headed to her apartment. When I saw just how far she lived from the courthouse, I was blown away. During the 15-minute car ride, I took in the route, all the way back to Paige’s apartment, just so I could get a feel for how long of a walk it really was. And it was a really long walk. An unimaginable, exhausting trek for a mom with a 13-month-old son in a flimsy umbrella stroller.
I pulled up in front of her building and asked if I could pray with her before she got out. She agreed and we prayed. She also lived on the very top floor (third or fourth level, maybe) of her building, so I helped her carry the stroller up the steps, while she carried her son. Once we got to her door, I wished her well and left.
I got back in my car, and just sat there and cried. I had seen the hand of God, but not in the way I was expecting. It was amazing. God used me to bless someone else, and blessed me in the process. I didn’t receive a reassuring word or a prophesy that day, but without a doubt, I had experienced God. The reassurance I felt from helping Paige was exactly what I had asked God for, and exactly what I needed. I had seen the hand of God, and it touched my heart.
Confidence
For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus. ~Philippians 1:6
I grabbed my partner’s arm at the back of the ballroom. We walked slowly to the front of the room, all eyes on us. We parted ways when we reached the officiant at the top of the aisle. As I walked to my designated position, my red full-length gown flowing around me, gracefully sweeping the floor, shoulders and neck complimented by a sweetheart neckline, I heard someone whisper “she’s pretty.”
And it wasn’t just the whispered compliment, though that was nice. It was more than that. In the months and weeks leading up to my cousin’s wedding, I had been trying to eat well and workout regularly, mindful that I had already had my final fitting for my bridesmaid’s dress, and that this was do-or-die time, and there was no room to put on any inches. And because of my efforts, I had to admit, I looked good in my dress. Thank you, Jesus. But it was more than that.
A week before the wedding, I had gotten my hair done. I had chosen to have my hair styled in a braided up-do for the event. I usually wear my hair in a tight Afro, with very little shape, might I add, and I wanted to do something different and a little dramatic for the wedding. So I had my hair braided and it was really beautiful. The style took some years off my face while adding a flair of elegance to my everyday style. It was a nice hair style. Thank you, Jesus. But it was more than that.
I had gotten my face done by a professional makeup artist. And although I didn’t have time to get lashes like I really wanted, my face was definitely painted differently with some pinks and hues that I don’t usually use. And I liked the finished product. My lips, cheeks, eyes, nose and mouth all painted to perfection for my cousin’s big day. I felt beautiful. Thank you, Jesus. But it was more than that.
I felt confidence–the kind of confidence that comes from a woman who knows that she has been touched, changed by her Lord. I walked with my bare shoulders squared and head held high because I was sure of who I was. I was sure of who God had made me to be: His.
For the first time that I can remember I didn’t jealously compare myself to the droves of other beautiful women in the room. I was too busy hugging and playing with my kids and husband whom I hadn’t seen in a few days because of wedding prep. I was talking and laughing with my family and the other bridesmaids. I was enjoying the blessings that God had given me.
And I used to be that girl. I would always compare myself to other women–always. I was never as pretty as the next woman. My nose was always too big. I was pretty, but… There was always a but. I used to always define myself by what I wasn’t. I wasn’t cool like this woman I knew. I wasn’t as stylish as this other woman I knew. I didn’t attract the attention of men and have them eating out of my palm like this other woman I knew. I was never enough–for myself or anybody else. And I stayed this way even when I dated, married and had kids. That was how I saw myself. I was never enough. I was never confident enough.
And then I had an encounter with the Lord. Through months of intense worship and prayer and time with God (see my previous posts), He showed me who I am: His. The Lord showed me that I am enough because He’s more than enough. It was as if, through those times of devotion and worship and prayer, he wiped the dirt of insecurity and low self-esteem off of my face, held a mirror in front of me, and showed me that I actually looked like Him. And I was beautiful in His sight–and finally my own. It is amazing what God will do when we give Him the room to do it. Add in a good ol’ fashioned prayer of deliverance from my old mindset (shout out to my work BFF for that), and here I am, a changed woman. A confident woman. God’s woman. And it feels so good.
When the Bottom Falls Out
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. ~Romans 15:13
I have been through a lot of challenges in my life lately. Some of which, quite frankly, have left me on my knees before the Father asking for and seeking revival and renewal. He is answering that prayer, and to watch him put the pieces of my life back together is simply amazing. And as the pieces fall into place, I am discovering a new life. I am discovering joy.
Before now, I never really got it. Church folk would always say “the joy of the Lord is my strength.” (Nehemiah 8:10). And just like any good Lord-lovin’ churchgoer, I would recite the verse and keep it moving in my busy life, too busy to notice or even care that I had no idea what it really meant to be strengthened by God’s joy.
I mean sure, the joy of the Lord was my strength, but I had coworkers at the job who made me smile and laugh. I was happy. I had my kids who’d act like goofballs at times and say funny things that would make me smile. I was happy. I’d go out to dinner with my girlfriends from time to time, that would make me happy. I didn’t need the joy of the Lord, per se, because, you know, I was happy.
But then my life took a turn, and in one crushing blow, I found myself at 32 years old, living back with my parents, with two kids, no husband (we had separated), and staring down the barrel of divorce. Suddenly I was driving four hours per day in the car to get the kids to school, myself to work, the kids from school, and all three of us back to my parents’ house, which was an hour from their daycare. I was not happy. I cried often. I didn’t eat. My life had come to a screeching halt, and I didn’t know what to do.
So I went to therapy. Thank you, Jesus for therapy. And in one of my sessions my therapist gave me a book by Elizabeth George called “A Woman’s Walk with God: Growing in the Fruit of the Spirit.” And my concept of joy changed. Not instantaneously, but it did change.
How could I smile, I’d ask myself, with the threat of divorce looming over my head. How could I smile with my kid telling me she didn’t want to go to the grandparents’ after school, that she wanted to go home and see her daddy. How could I have this joy when I felt abandoned and betrayed by the only man I had ever loved?
And then it was almost as if God just showed me who He was. Through the daily sludge of getting up each day, and falling to my knees each night, I came to understand that because I knew Jesus, because I had a real and growing relationship with Him, everything was going to be OK. I didn’t feel like everything was going to be OK at the time. But I had to know, deep down inside, that I was going to be OK. I had to know that I could make it through each day, putting one foot in front of the other, because Jesus was with me.
I knew the Lord and He gave me peace in my mind. I knew the Lord, and He gave me strength to get in bed at night, in a room that wasn’t mine, in a house that wasn’t home. I knew the Lord, and He gave me the ability to think straight, to function, even when my life had fallen apart all around me. I knew the Lord and He gave me joy.
It wasn’t a running, happy, leaping, hysterical laughing joy. Yeah, no. My household had just been torn in two. It wasn’t that. Things were bad. But it was a joy that kept me calm. I was able to have lunch and laugh and crack jokes with my coworkers. I was able to counsel my clients on their cases and make court appearances without crying or shrieking or falling to the floor on my knees and ripping my tights. I was able to take my kids to the playground by myself, where I would see other two-parent families playing happily with their kids, and not go to pieces. I was able to keep pumping and provide nourishment for my infant son. I was able to live because the Lord kept me. He gave me joy.
The Lord helped me embrace his peace. He helped me decide that despite the tragedy that I was experiencing, I would embrace his peace and strength. I found the Lord’s joy to be the ability to function normally when things were far from normal. And that lesson, that joy, has been one of the greatest gifts. Thanks, Jesus.
And for those of you wondering, no, my husband and I did not divorce. We are back together and better than we’ve ever been. The Lord’s doing, naturally. (And also supernaturally). Perhaps more on that at another time. The journey to reconciliation was just as important as getting there. And in that journey, I found the Lord. I found joy.
Of This I Am Certain
I think my problem is that I’m looking for certainty in a life where there really just isn’t any. Unless, of course, I choose to create it. I was reading the Bible this evening and came across Psalm 121. In it David assures the reader that God will protect and be a shield from danger.
While reading this passage, I couldn’t help but think of the Charleston 9 who died. I kept thinking while reading this Psalm, about how it seemed like the Lord didn’t protect them. It didn’t seem like he came to their aid, didn’t keep them alive, or make the bullets miraculously miss them. God could have done all of that. Jesus could have saved those people who were in His house, worshiping and praising Him. But He didn’t. He didn’t let them live.
And at first, I had a hard time rectifying that idea. That an all-sovereign, powerful God could, but didn’t spare the lives of his own people. But the picture of God that I was painting as I questioned this event was not the picture of the Lord that I know. I know Jesus to be one who answers prayer. And not just prayer generally, but my prayers. I have talked to God and He has fixed things in my life. I have known Him to come through for me when I needed Him. I know Him to send refreshing healing in places parched with brokenness. I know that God.
But how can I be certain of Him in light of the fact that He let those people die? I can’t. Unless I choose to be. At first I was so uncomfortable with this notion–that I had to chalk Charleston up to the sovereign plan of God, that I had to accept what I couldn’t understand, with no clear explanation. But then I thought about it. I was asking God for a certainty that I wasn’t going to get.
There is nothing that is certain in this life. Nothing. I think people get so caught up in the contradictions of the Bible and walk away from it because there are so many unanswered questions. But do we ever get all of our questions answered in this life? There are people that we think we know like the back of our hand, that we love and cherish, but that still hurt us unexpectedly. It happens to everyone. It’s part of being human and loving other humans. But I don’t walk away from my husband, let’s say, because he hurt me, and I didn’t expect him to.
I don’t walk away from my job just because my boss may make a workplace decision that I neither like nor understand. I may talk it through with my family, if it’s a major decision, but I don’t just walk away. I like my job, and I like what it adds to my life.
And as much as I don’t understand Charleston or how God could allow this to happen, I stay. I choose to draw closer to God, even in the face of uncertainty. I’m creating my own certainty. A certainty that says to God: no matter what, I choose you. No matter the cost, no matter my disbelief, no matter the disappointment, I choose you. And sometimes, like now, choosing Christ is hard. But so is creating any certainty in life: staying married, loving kids through their foolishness, persevering on the job. We choose our paths. We create our certainties. So today, even in the face of what I don’t understand, I choose Jesus.
The Truth of the Matter Asserted 