Encounter with God

Have you ever seen one of those videos where some person has had a horrible wreck and yet walked away from it alive? We look at the pictures and it just doesn't make sense. Sometimes the accident is so bad that it grabs media attention and witnesses describe what they saw. We listen to these stories and just can't wrap our minds around it, how someone could have survived so much trauma. Yet, these stories exist. 

Just last month, I watched a video of a woman whose car was smashed during an accident with a semi-trailer. I still to this day don't understand how that woman rose up out of her smashed vehicle and lifted her hands up to the sky to acknowledge that the only way she had survived was because of some divine intervention. To the dozen or so people on the scene that were watching (and a few filming) there was no denying that this woman had experienced a miracle. She had been saved from death. There was a celebratory yell from bystanders when she rose up and walked away from the scene of the accident. There was no denying that she had experienced something miraculous. 

Some of you reading this might know a little bit about me. You may have grown up with me. We may be cousins. You might be my dad (hi, dad). You may have met me at church. You may be my best friend. Or pastor. 

You may know that I am blessed to be married to the love of my life, have two wonderful sons, attend the same church that I was raised in, went to Florence Mattison elementary and graduated from Conway High School (class of '98, woohoo!). 

You may have previously heard my story, about how I struggled with self-worth from as far back as I can imagine, started drinking heavily while I was in high school, and then moved on to heavier addictions after that. You may know so much of this about me, but if you have missed the message of Christ in my life, then I am afraid that you don't know me at all. 

So many times have I talked myself out of airing my personal life.  I have clearly heard God whisper to me that I  need to speak out to those who may need to hear. So often have I used my platform to tell you about how amazing it is that God allows me to do missional work with the homeless of Conway, yet kept my mouth shut about why I am called to do what I do. How I see myself in so many of my brothers and sisters that are sleeping in stairwells and showing up for food each night. Each has their own story and while I won't deny that addiction and mental health are not prevalent in our society, they are no different among those who show up for dinner and those who sit in our churches on Sunday morning, for addiction and mental health affects everyone. 

I thank God for the fact that I have never been forced to eat from a garbage can because I just needed to survive for the day. During the hardest years when I knew my family wanted me to come home, I always knew that I could. I chose not to because I didn't want them to be disappointed in me. I have never questioned if I had a warm bed to sleep in because of the love of my family that prayed me home many times. But I do know what it was like to run and hide because of what my life had become. 

Thank God, it doesn't end there. I, too, walked away from an accident. I, too, lifted my arms in praise when I was found, and haven't put them back down since. I, too, found out what it means to know that I would go on living despite circumstances that could have easily had me sleeping on park benches like my unsheltered brothers and sisters. And I, too, hope that they all find hope in a God who yes, loves His flock, but still comes after the one. 

After all, I am the one, and he found me.

I fought back writing this because every time I get personal about my own life on social media, to be frank, I come under attack. Not from any flesh and bones, but from the one who would have me hang my head low and remind me that all I am is just someone who should have been thrown away. Then I remember how precious I am to the One who called my name. Who told a prodigal daughter that her life was paid for with a price and that she has a story of hope to share.

After Peter and John told the lame beggar to get up and walk in Jesus' Name (Acts 2 in the Bible), there was no denying that the man had changed. Where he laid on the sidewalk each day, there was no longer a person there. He was gone. Like the woman from the wreck, there was no denying that something had saved her life. She knew it. And when the religious folks asked Peter and John in whose name they had performed the healing of the lame man in and they declared "Jesus," there was no denying it. The name of Jesus is powerful, and I have experienced it. 

So forgive me if I can't sit quietly. But you see, I once wandered through a wilderness where my back was always against a wall. Now I have found freedom. My testimony is nothing to be embarrassed about, because it's no longer mine, rather the testament of an Almighty God who still performs miracles today. I just so happen to be one of them. The mistakes that I have made in the past can't be changed, but I will not allow them to silently wear down the truth that God has placed in my heart. 

I know that there will be others that will read this and need to know how precious they are to God. How you would probably look me in the eyes if we were sitting right in front of each other and say, "You don't know the things I've done." You're right, I don't. But I know the things I had done and through some miracle, I've been brought back to life. There is hope. He is Jesus. His love for you is incredible, for he already knows your name. It is precious to Him. He is calling you back home. 

Father, 

Thank you for loving us. Thank you for not giving up on us. Thank you for sending your son Jesus so that we could live life abundantly. I lift up the one reading this that needs to know you, too. May they lift up their hands and rejoice at the new life you have to offer to them, too. May all who encounter you walk away changed so that the whole world can undeniably declare your goodness.

Amen

Church camp!!

Sunday night, 1:10am. T-minus seven hours and fifty minutes until I get to leave for church camp. AHHHH!!! Church camp is the best! I look forward to seeing all of the kids, watching their little minds learn about this awesome Jesus that loves them so much, and eating smores around a campfire while I eat foods that no sensible adult should ever touch. And the snack shack. Oh, thank you, Jesus, the snack shack. 

So why am I sitting in the ER at this time? As fate might have it, I am looking at a big ugly diagnosis of strep with the following companion of a shot in my rump to fix the problem. Okay, no big deal. Church camp is tomorrow and this lady says I am good to go, so off I go! I get home in record time and fall asleep with a smile on my face knowing that tomorrow will bring so much goodness. 

There's only one thing. Just because that ER nurse said I was good to go doesn't mean that my body agreed. About two hours into the morning on the first day, my head starts to pound. My throat is on fire. My fever spikes every 3 hours and 45 minutes so I am eating Ibuprofen like they are M&M's. This first day will be the hardest and the rest of the week will be great! Or not. I carry on this way for the next few days, having times where I feel much better and am convinced I am on the uphill climb, only to feel my teeth chatter when the fever spikes once again. I enjoy the moments I can and rejoice through sick eyes at the fun taking place all around me. Good memories are happening, but I spend much of my time thinking about what it would be like to lay down in my very own bed. 

Today arrived and I am sad that it is time to go home. I think about the new little kids I got to meet and promise myself that I will remember their names for next year. I think about what kinds of backgrounds that some of them have and wonder what kinds of homes they will be returning to. I know most of the kids that came with my church, but there were over 300 hundred kids each with his or her own story. Did I aid in pouring into them during their time spent at camp, or did they see the sick,  crabby side of me? God, I ask your grace to go before me if I spoke from a place that was more human and less of you. I pray that I didn't, in all of my sickly crabbiness, that their main take away from their church camp experience is you.

We pull into the church parking lot to return kids to parents so that they can tell them all about the fun time they had at camp. I load up two people's worth of luggage into my car (mine and Paxton's) and finally am on the road to my own home, my own bed, my own medicine, my refuge. I unload everything and just as I can see the end in sight, hear the voice of my teenage son say, " Mama, I am really hot." Mama instincts kick in and before I know it I am touching foreheads in search of a fever, only to discover that the heat he is feeling is due to an issue with the central AC. What I thought was going to be bedtime now turned into an impromptu trip to the pool so that everyone could jump inside and not overheat. We make it back home just in time to hear the words "You have to leave it off for a few hours while it thaws." Yeah, so great. Who needed that bed? Who needed those meds? Who needed to sleep for about 16 hours to get back into a normal functioning mode? Apparently, it would have to wait. 

My gosh, what a pity party. I think about the kids from camp and what going home might feel like for some of them. For the little girls whose home is not a safe haven like mine is. For the little boy who doesn't know who will celebrate his decision to follow Jesus for the first time at home the way he was celebrated at camp. Or for the staff member who pours herself out year after year for the kids that pass through the craft hall yet will return to an empty home this time due to the recent loss of her husband.  I know Jesus came back to save us all, but I pray that those are the ones that he is especially close to as they go home. 

With or without their sickness. With or without their air-conditioned home. With or without their exhaustion. I pray that Jesus was waiting for them all at the front door the minute they walked inside. Would you pray for them? 

Miracles on stage

I applaud you, Sunshine Academy. Here's why.

Rewind two years ago.  There was this precious little girl who (in my opinion) totally stole the show. It was our sweet Piper girl, and life pre-cancer was busy for our little performer. The following year, I had been invited back to the show to see a little girl in my Sunday school class perform. I found myself distracted by the thought of wondering when or if I would see Piper grace the stage with her presence again. I ran to the foot of the cross time and time again, reciting Isaiah 40:31 over Piper's life. That she would run and not grow weary; walk and not faint; soar high on wings like eagles.

Before I became an urban missionary, I worked for five years with special needs kids. I loved it, too. From babies that were born at 24 weeks and spent the first few months of life in the hospital before they were taken home by their parents; to children diagnosed with a low-functioning autism diagnosis and getting ready for kindergarten: I was blessed to play even the smallest part of a support for them and their families. And I prayed. My goodness did I pray. For their survival, for their development, for their cure, for the words I believed they would one day utter: I prayed.

When Piper was being born, I set an alarm to wake me up every hour while my sister-in-law was in labor so that I could cover her entry into this world with prayers of safety for both her and mama. What I am so happy to see now is that those prayers have not expired, and I believe that God still intercedes on her behalf, cancer or no cancer.

When Arellia announced a few weeks ago that Piper was going to be in a performance, I jumped for joy! Look at God, I thought. I forgot about those prayers, but he had not. It is funny how a desperate prayer said one year prior had been lost in my memory bank, yet not lost on God. The show would go on, and so would our Piper girl. It was the group that she performed with that caused these eyes to weep.

Of the eight children that performed that night, five of them had been covered in my prayers at one point during their life. The little girl whose heart had been operated on more times that anyone else I had ever heard of; the little girl whose smile far exceeded the attention her wheelchair brought her; the little boy who stole my heart at Sallie Cone and his little sister, too. And of course, our Piper girl. All of these children with different diagnoses and accompanying prayers. The show was amazing and God allowed me to see that He had heard my prayers for each child and was showcasing it right before my eyes.

At the end of the song, the performers huddled into a circle facing inward.  It was then that a precious little girl was lifted high from within them, and the realization that Piper was "flying high on wings like eagles" was being displayed from an ever-present God whose timing in all things is always perfect.

Please consider to #prayforpiper.

He left the 99.

I hesitate to write about this, simply because as a follower of Jesus, I am called to be a peacemaker. This post may have folks on both sides hating me, and that's ok. It's to be expected when you feel led to seek the approval of God and not man. I hope that those that read this will read through eyes glazed with grace, but I understand if not. Still, I will press on.

I am normally not the kind of person to look for the shock value when I write. I have nervously typed out the word "whore" in my writings before and obsessed whether or not using that type of wordage would somehow blemish my witness. I guess that's why I am thankful that at the end of the day, it is not my desire to please man; rather God. But like I said, this may leave both Christians and un-Christians alike not too fond of me, and that's ok.

Let me drop the first bomb and just get it out of the way: I feel sympathetic to Judas Iscariot.

Judas is the epitome of betrayal. His mockery of the marginalized came in many forms, sometimes acting as if he cared if the hungry ate, only to secretly hide his own greediness as he stole the money that people collected to feed those in need. He was a truly despicable person. Yet somewhere at the end of his story as Jesus' trial and impending crucifixion draw closer, we see a panicked Judas. Rushing back to the religious leaders and realizing what the cost of his betrayal would mean, Judas begs them to take back the money that he was paid for selling out Jesus. Though the Bible doesn't describe it exactly this way, my translation of that conversation would sound something like a frantic man having the biggest realization of his life, and begging to give back the money. Then as he realizes that the harm has been done, in all of his panic and shame and regret, he throws the money at the feet of the leaders as he rushes off to hang himself.

Judas was indeed human and while there is no one else who can claim that their actions directly impacted future generations as he did with the betrayal of Jesus, we find him panicking at the thought of the weight of his consequences. And just like Jesus reminded the criminal hanging beside him at Calvary, His sacrifice won the victory that would have those who call Him Lord free from the bondages that hold on to us; a chance to claim that victory over our own lives. What is the difference between me and Judas? I could point out some things, but at the end of the day, I was once just as lost as he. Panicked about what my life had become, the mistakes I had made, the choices I was running from: I guess you could say that when you measure it like that, I was Judas. No, I didn't directly betray the son of God or anything, but when I was lost, my claim to know an unknown God would have been the same answer as Judas's. What would it have looked like for Judas to receive intervention from God?

Abortion. It has to be one of the most heatest debates in our nation right now, and everybody has an opinion. "Abortion is murder!" "My body, my right!" We have all seen the political posters and most of us can identify what side of the fence we stand on, yet there is one area that seems to be neglected in the midst of this battle between life and death, and these are the mothers.

Judgment is possibly the easiest thing any of us does, and we do it so easily, don't we? We see someone driving a nice car, we assume they are wealthy. We hear about someone shopping at the Salvation Army, we assume they are poor. We hear about a shooting and assume it is in a poor, or even worse, black, neighborhood. We are quick to label abortion as murder and thus labeling the person that has had the procedure a murderer. We forget that Jesus himself came to seek and save the lost, including one murderer who would become the voice of Christianity throughout the uprising of Christ's kingdom early on: Paul. A divine intervention with the voice of God on the road to Damascus changed the course of Paul's life and it was because of this conversion, many people now understand what it means to encounter Christ and have him change your life. Me included.

Church, my plea is not that you would compromise your beliefs, but that rather you would start to operate outside of the black and white, but look inside the gray. As a person who has watched someone whom I love very dearly go through an abortion, the weight that they carry over the precious life that once lived inside them is insurmountable. I have had countless conversations with women who felt like they were no longer welcome back into the graces of God, let alone a church because of their decision. The church is supposed to be a place of healing, and when we turn those away or treat them any different because of a decision that they made, we are losing the message of Jesus. He came and proclaimed to offer life and offer it in abundance. His offering of love and healing was a message for all, not just those who had led a blemish-free life. And without that message of hope, the legacy that Jesus created for all of us merely becomes a hypothetical point for which there is no need for the kind of reckless love that he would offer to those who chose to turn from their sin and be healed.

For the drunken ones, for the addicted ones, for the betrayers, for the murderers, for the thieves...

Or just for me.

The visit

My husband and I teach a Sunday school class at the church that we attend and one of the things we like to help  our children's pastor do is take roll each morning. It's a simple practice really, and I never really thought twice about it until one name appeared on that list that belonged to a very precious little niece of mine, whose name is Piper.

Last August when her name showed up on the roll, Piper and her parents were already half a year into the treatments that she had to undergo in order to treat the cancer diagnosis. Her immunity would have to be heavily guarded and I found myself thanking God for giving Piper the kind of parents that were more intuned to her medical needs than any I had ever seen  before. As I scrolled through the list of kids that first promotion Sunday, realizing what it must have felt like for my brother and sister-in-law to not send their firstborn off to kindergarten hurt my heart. I remembered what it was like seeing my own boys off those days for the first time.

I looked back down on those list of children and instead of placing a checkmark next to Piper's name, I simply wrote,"God's will be done."

This morning, a beautifully dressed little girl with a long-flowing knit hat made to look like Belle from Beauty in the Beast walked into the children's department at Conway First church of the Nazarene. The other children, though careful about how to respond, rejoiced that the little girl that they have prayed for through her cancer journey, had arrived. A few commented that she had a cool mask on, and I could see her eyes smile beneath her medical mask as she realized that she was among her prayer warriors, and her friends.

The best part of the visit came when I bowed down next to my little niece and prayed during the altar time. I never would have thought that she was watching me or anything, but I realized that she had been when all of a sudden I felt the gentle wipe of a little hand across my face. It was Piper, and she was wiping away my tears. "Those are happy tears, Aunt Sarah, right? Happy tears, right?" she said.

Yes, my love. Those are the happiest tears I know.

Psalms 56:8 You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.

Thank you, Father. For sending your precious little messenger to bring healing to my heart today.

The man whose name I don't even know.

I don't even know his name, yet I can't get the image of his face out of my mind. Like most emergencies tend to be, we got hit twice within fifteen minutes of closing the center. The very-pregnant mama who had literally been walking the streets all day with her boyfriend showed up within seconds of the gentleman whose name I still don't know.

Doing everything in his power to support his pregnant girlfriend, the boyfriend never received his daily pay of $50 for working an eight hour day because the owner said he would have to pay him another day because not enough people had stopped by for business. Each day, the father-to-be would take his daily pay and rent a room at a cheap hotel because saving up for a rental deposit was beyond what he was able to do to keep her from sleeping on the sidewalk each night. But on this night, we received a blessing: we found her somewhere to be. Somewhere with a bed, a shower, a meal. At no cost, except for their separation for there was only one space available for her. It was a sacrifice the dad was willing to make.

We rushed to get a few things bagged up for them when the stranger appeared. With blood dripping off of his forehead, and obvious bruising on his arms and legs, he was quite a sight to behold. Requesting a bus ticket, we told him that we would have to work on it the next day, that it would take a little time to research. As he accepted the bandages we offered him for his wounds, he asked where the bus station was and then took off walking. He didn't want medical help, only a bus ticket to get out of town.

Once the pregnant mama situation was settled, I felt a stir in my heart for the bloodied man. I began to drive up and down Harkrider street looking to see if I could find him and somehow check to make sure he was okay.  Nowhere in sight. I pulled into the bus station and went inside to see if he was there, but he wasn't. I asked the attendant if she had seen anyone matching his description and she said that he had just left. Thank you Jesus, he had made it! But where was he now? The attendent told me that he had walked around the back of the store so I cautiously started searching. I found an area that I could tell had folks staying in it, but I dared not venture too far in alone. I was very careful to stay where cars in the parking lot could have a plain view of me and what was going on if things got hairy.

I began to yell out, and then cry. "It's me! Sarah from the Ministry center and I am here to help! Is anyone back there? I just need to make sure you are alright!" No one answered. No one came.

I left the parking lot with such an ache in my heart. Thankful to know that he had atleast arrived at the station, I wanted him to know that someone cared about his wellbeing, and not that he was "just another client."

I went on to church and listened to our children's pastor deliver a message about Jesus' response when he found out that his beloved John the Baptist had passed away. How easy it would have been for Jesus to shrink back and demand to have a little time to mourn for himself, yet how he instead selflessly began to take care of all the people who needed him for medical healings shortly thereafter. I tried to hold the tears back again as I struggled not to cry in front of the kids, but I am sure the one sitting next to me noticed my attempts to wipe my cheeks quickly (it was my son).

I pray to God that I did all I could do to show the man,whose name I don't know, that I love him and hope he is alright. I pray he comes back tomorrow. I pray that he remembers us for our kindness even though we didn't do a lot for him. And I pray that I never compare myself to the people from the Bible who didn't stop as they passed the beaten man lying in the road needing help, but rather as the Samaritan who did.

By His stripes...Not her own.

She cringed when she looked down and saw them. The scars had been with her for over twenty years, thus making their appearance less noticeable to her on most days. But today, she found herself staring at them intently. They represented the most painful time in her life--a time where she had once questioned if she would ever make it through. Yet, she somehow had, and had the scars to prove it. 

She noticed other people's scars, as well. Not everyone wore them the same, and their uniqueness carried a burden that only the individual who adorned them would understand for they were the  only one who had fought the battle. Maybe they had support, maybe not, but ultimately the trial that they faced at the time, they faced alone. Or so it usually felt.
Every scar-bearer had a unique story to tell, but her's wasn't one of courage, yet of fear. Fear of regret. Fear of rejection. Fear of life, or what it would hold. Fear of no longer feeling, or living in a world where she couldn't feel anything at all. And now she found herself thinking of the scars of some of her brave friends who had battle scars from double mastecto

mies, from colostomy bags, from ungrown hair patches that had never fully come back, and she was angered because of her own.

Each stripe on her wrist brought her back to the days where she felt more alone than she ever had. A time where she so desperately wanted some kind of control over her own life yet couldn't find it. A time where she questioned if anyone would notice if she simply wasn't around the next day.

And now, she bore the scars to remind her.

Then she smiled. She remembered. There was someone who bore scars, too. Only His scars were to give life to all who would accept them in place of their own. To the one with scars on their chest from a battle with breast cancer; to the little girl with a beautiful bald scalp from her chemo treatments; to the ones whose scars were often invisible. His would cover them all.

No matter if you are like me and look down and find yourself regretting the battle scars of your life, this is a reminder to look up. There you will find the perfect scars of the One who took yours upon Himself and breathed life into them.

"He Himself bore our sins in His body on the tree that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By His sins, you are healed." 1 Peter 2:24

Peace and love to you all, in the name of Yeshua.