Broken Body, Broken Mind

The emptiness

Sitting down to do my morning Bible reading. A few chapters in Job, one of my favorite books.

Having a hard time of it lately. A new chronic digestive problem struck six months ago, sending me to the emergency room for diagnosis and treatment. It’s generally manageable by diet alone, but occasionally medication is needed.

Many people my age have this condition. It runs in my family. And yet I feel completely alone in my suffering. Why?

When I have that sense of discomfort in a certain part of my gut, it’s always accompanied by weird emotional symptoms. A gloomy darkness. A heaviness. A gulf between me and God. As the discomfort passes, so do the other symptoms. Does anyone else with this condition experience that?

I’m afraid to ask.

Afraid of facing skepticism or judgment. Afraid of being told that it’s all in my head, that a good psychiatrist can fix it. Or that I’m just feeling sorry for myself or giving in to fear. While self-pity and anxiety tend to enter the picture whenever I get sick, with this condition it’s not that simple. There’s some kind of strange connection between my gut chemistry and my brain chemistry.

Can anyone else relate to this? Or am I truly alone?

This latest flare-up has been especially hard emotionally and spiritually. Those symptoms have been building up as time passes. Now the physical discomfort comes and goes throughout each day, but the bad feelings continue 24/7.

It started on a Sunday afternoon. I wanted to get over it without taking medication, but made a mental note to call my doctor for a prescription if it went on for too long.

Somehow I misplaced that note.

The gut symptoms improved little by little for the first week. Then they kind of plateaued. At the same time, the emotional symptoms bogged down. God drew further and further away. A sort of spiritual deadness hit. I reached the point where I was wallowing in the dark, begging for healing, wondering where He had gotten to.

Over the decades, I’ve learned many ways to draw nearer to Him when I’m hurting. I tried them all. Nothing worked. Like Job in 16:6, “If I speak, my pain is not relieved; and if I refrain, it does not go away.”

God, why won’t You heal me? Why are my emotions stuck in such a difficult place? Why do I feel so far from You? Why don’t You pull me in closer?

A week and a half after the worst of the symptoms hit, I was filled with fear and dread. Fear that this time it was more hopeless than with previous episodes. Dread of a drastically reduced diet for the rest of my life. Fear of being told that I needed surgery. Fear of losing my independence.

Then somehow that mental note popped back into my head. I called my doctor, got a prescription, and began to heal again. But I had another minor episode when I’d almost used up the medication, and God was still too too far away.

The refilling

So I sit down for my morning Bible reading. It’s in Job, but it’s not touching me, reaching me, strengthening me like it usually does. There’s a wall inside that I haven’t been able to break through.

I’ve written before about how Job actually struggled emotionally and spiritually. He didn’t just take his suffering in stride, as some evangelicals seem to think. They cite chapters 1 and 2 as evidence of his unshakable faith.

But I look to chapter 3 and hear him cursing the day of his birth, followed by the heart of the book where he openly challenges God, and I’m grateful for the model that he provides, because I need to know that God can handle our questions and complaints with compassion.

As I’m reading the opening chapters this time, my heart is heavy and my spirit is lonely. I’m more critical of my own thinking and assumptions. Job really did say some pretty profound things in chapters 1 and 2. It’s not until chapter 3 that he seems to fall apart. What happened?

First God allowed Satan to attack Job’s family, servants, and belongings. Job’s faith remained strong. Then He allowed Satan to attack Job’s body. Job broke down.

There could be different reasons for this change. Coincidence. The straw that broke the camel’s back. The natural irritability and self-pity that come with illness. Moving through the stages of grief from denial to anger.

Or Job could be so self-centered that even the loss of his children didn’t affect him that much. It was only when his own body was damaged that he couldn’t handle it. That seems to be what Satan expected. With all the uprightness attributed to Job at the beginning and end of the book, though, that doesn’t seem likely.

Then something I’ve never thought of before comes to mind: Maybe the physical changes in his body included physical changes in his brain chemistry. Wow.

Did Job, my hero, my role model, go through the same thing I’m going through? Did Satan’s attack include not just the natural emotional response to physical distress, but a biological change that brought on almost irresistible* emotional and spiritual symptoms?

I can’t say an absolute yes, that’s definitely what happened. But it would explain so much. Job’s strength in chapters 1 and 2. His weakness in chapter 3.

Some evangelicals won’t like this idea. One reason I’m having a hard time getting my memoir published is because there are many Christians in positions of power who deny the possibility that biology can directly influence emotions.

Some publishers won’t consider my manuscript because it clearly declares that my first depressive episode wasn’t cured through spiritual practices. They helped a lot—they saved my life!—but only an antidepressant could restore my brain to its normal functioning.

There’s a link between our physical bodies and our minds and souls. Changes in brain chemistry can badly damage our emotions and our spirits.

I always feel so alone and misunderstood when this happens to me. But now, for the first time in my many years of being blessed by reading this precious book of Job, I’m seeing something new and profound. Job himself just might have suffered from the same problem. (And if he did, then maybe other people in the Bible did, too.)

I’m not alone.

I’m in good company.

The company of one who was declared by God to be blameless and upright. One whose story God has chosen to include in His inspired Word.

And God loves me enough to come to me when I feel like He’s so far away, and to open my eyes to see an incredible truth that I’ve been missing for all these years.

My head collapses onto my folded arms on the desk in front of me. I cry hard. I release the tears that have been bottled up inside, unable to escape for the last couple of weeks even though I’ve tried to let them go. I pour out the pain and frustration and emptiness. And, eventually, the joy. God has brought me home to Him once again.


*A note to my evangelically-correct friends who might think I’m saying that we have no responsibility for thoughts and emotions that spring from biological causes: We might not be able to control the thoughts and emotions themselves at the instant when they strike, but we have at least a little bit of control over how we handle them.

The more we practice responding in more biblical ways to the feelings that seem so unmanageable, the better we’ll be able to handle the next attack. Christians also have the Holy Spirit inside strengthening us when we’re at our weakest, enabling us to deal with these challenges in more godly ways.

 

 

The Ascension

The Mount of Olives

Forty days after the resurrection, Jesus ascended into heaven from the Mount of Olives. He returned to His Father to sit at His right hand. (Acts 1:3-12, Hebrews 10:12) Evangelicals don’t often mention the ascension, yet it was a watershed moment in the history of mankind.

Definition of a literal watershed: “A ridge of high land dividing two areas that are drained by different river systems.”

Definition of a figurative watershed: “A critical point that marks a division or a change of course; a turning point.” (Source: The American Heritage online dictionary)

The Mount of Olives was both.

According to Wikipedia, it’s a literal watershed. It divides the river system on its west side from the river system on its east.

It’s also a figurative watershed. A turning point. It’s where the Glory of the Lord was last seen by Ezekiel after it was removed from the temple (Ezekiel 11:22-23). It’s where Jesus ascended into heaven. It’s where He’ll stand when He returns (Zechariah 14:4).

The old and new covenants

It’s a figurative watershed in another sense, too. According to Crosswalk.com, from the top of the Mount of Olives you can look to the west and see the city of Jerusalem flourishing on Mount Zion and to the east and see the dry open desert. Quite a contrast.

A contrast elaborated in Hebrews 12:18-24. In this passage, the author is comparing Mount Zion to Mount Sinai, a comparison between the new covenant and the old.

Mount Zion represents “the heavenly Jerusalem, the city of the living God,” while Mount Sinai is in the hot, dry, dusty desert. (It’s not literally east of the Mount of Olives, but since it’s in a desert my mind combines the symbolism of Sinai with the desert east of the Mount of Olives.)

Sinai was filled with “darkness, gloom, and storm.” The scene was so terrifying that Moses was trembling with fear. It was the site of the old covenant, a covenant of law, mediated by the man Moses, ratified by the blood of animals, and based on earthly things (“a mountain that can be touched” and promises of tangible blessings). Few were allowed on Mount Sinai.

In contrast, Zion is full of “thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly.” It represents the new covenant, a covenant of grace and joy, mediated by God the Son, ratified by the blood of Jesus as the perfect sacrifice, and focused on spiritual things (“the heavenly Jerusalem” and eternal life). All are invited to Mount Zion. (My thanks to a Bible teacher at my church who presented this information in a class that I was taking when I wrote this article.)

I imagine myself standing on the top of the Mount of Olives. First facing the desert that symbolizes Mount Sinai. Filled with the fear of a perfectly righteous God and the hopelessness of never being able to fulfill all the requirements of His Law. Never being able to earn His forgiveness. Seeing God’s holiness and judgment in the darkness and storm. Feeling a great distance between us.

Then turning in the opposite direction to face Jerusalem. Seeing God’s intense love expressed in the sacrifice of His only Son for the sins of the world. Relieved that I’m completely, totally forgiven by His grace, not by anything that I have to do. Filled with the Holy Spirit and His fruit.

An analogy of the gospel. We must first face the scorched desert. The hopelessness and vastness of the sin that separates us from God. We must see this in order to recognize our own personal need for salvation and our inability to earn it for ourselves. Then when we turn around and see the New Jerusalem, we can begin to grasp the love and grace of God, the enormity of what He’s done for us in order to bring us into fellowship with Him.

At the watershed moment of salvation, we turn from the dry dusty desert of selfish worldly desires that can never satisfy us but only increase our thirst. We turn in the opposite direction (the literal meaning of the word repent) to the glory, beauty, and joy of the heavenly Jerusalem where the river of life flows and the tree of life bears continual fruit and provides leaves for the healing of the nations (Revelation 22:1-2).

The impact of the ascension

I stand on this watershed, turning from east to west, from Sinai to Zion. Then look down and up. Down to the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus was betrayed, bound, deserted, and taken away to face His trials. Up to where He ascended into heaven. A sort of vertical watershed.

At that moment, in this place, everything changed. Jesus ascended to sit at the right hand of the Father.

“Sitting signifies a permanent abiding.”

“Abiding is about being in a place where one remains close, where a relationship is sustained.”

“‘Sitting at the right hand’ indicates authority from and special privileged access to God.”

“To sit with denotes intimate fellowship.”

To sit down also means the work is finished. A couple of Bible teachers have pointed out to me in recent years that there were no chairs in the tabernacle or temple. Until Jesus’ death and resurrection and ascension, the work of restoring man’s relationship with God was never completed.

Since His ascension, Jesus permanently remains in a position of authority with special access to God and in intimate fellowship with Him. The disciples were “filled with grief” when He told them He was going away. But He assured them that it would be better for them when He did. (John 16:5-7)

Because of the context, I’ve always understood His words to mean that the change for the better would be the coming of the Holy Spirit to dwell within us. But it’s also so much better for us that He’s now abiding at God’s right hand, exercising authority and interceding for us, rather than walking the earth, even in His resurrected body.

The fullness of our salvation, of our restored relationship with God, was made possible by every watershed moment in the Gospels and the first chapter of Acts. Jesus’ birth. His death. His resurrection. Last of all, and most often ignored or forgotten by evangelicals (including me), His  ascension into heaven.

Redemption

A place of trauma

After eating a special meal together, they went with their leader to a mountainous area outside the city. There was something different about him tonight. He’d been unusually solemn at dinner, telling them frightening things. He would be going away soon, where they couldn’t follow him. One of them would betray him. Another would disown him. They would all desert him.

When they reached a garden where they often gathered, he took his three closest friends apart from the others and asked them to watch and pray with him. He was troubled. They were worried. He seemed to need their support. Had that ever happened before? They weren’t sure how to respond.

They were exhausted from the stress and anxiety and confusion of the last few hours, even though their leader had made every attempt to reassure them that everything would work out for the best. If that was true, why was he struggling so much with his own emotions? They were shocked by his weakness. He’d always been so strong and calm anytime they were feeling overwhelmed.

When he walked away from them to pray more privately, they were able to let their guard down, to relax a bit. As a result, they fell asleep. Three times. He woke them up three times. He finally told them to get up and go with him. They were ashamed, keenly aware that they’d failed him.

And then they heard the crowd approaching. Their companion, who’d left them at the end of the dinner, led some soldiers and officials up to their leader and kissed him to identify him so the authorities could arrest him.

One of his followers attempted to strike up a fight, but his leader stopped him and actually healed the injury that he’d caused. When it all looked hopeless, when their beloved leader was bound and taken off to be tried, his frightened and bewildered followers all fled. (Matthew 26:20-56, Mark 14:17-50, Luke 22:21-54, John 13:21-18:12)

It was a traumatic night and a traumatic scene. A great injustice was done, triggered by an act of betrayal. The group as a whole behaved badly, unable to support their leader in his most trying time, saying the wrong things, doing the wrong things, and running away for fear of being carried off with him. If they were like me, the memory of the emotions and failures of that night would remain intense long after the events had occurred. Healing, forgetting, moving on would be difficult, if not impossible.

It turned out that their leader, Jesus, was right, as usual. Everything did work out for the best. Way better than anything they had imagined. He was crucified, suffering a painful and shameful death, but even His crucifixion was God’s plan, God’s timing. It was a sacrifice for the sins of the world. The way to make peace between God and men.

On the third day He rose from the dead. Through the Holy Spirit He could now be with them, in them, each one of them, for the rest of their lives. He could provide strength and peace and hope like they’d never known before.

Memories of the same place

The disciples knew their relationship with Jesus was restored, but did some of the shame from the night of His betrayal still haunt them? Did any sight of the Mount of Olives stir it up again? According to a map in my 1985 NIV Bible, a road passed through the Mount of Olives between Jerusalem and Bethany. They probably traveled that road at least a few times between the resurrection and the ascension. What kind of memories did that journey bring back?

This was where they’d been standing when Jesus sent two of them to get the donkey that He rode into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday (Matthew 21:1-11). Memories of His triumphal entry.

This was where they’d asked Jesus for more information on His overcoming evil at the end of the age (Matthew 24:3-51). Memories of the prophecy of His future triumph.

This is where they’d often left the crowds behind for a bit of time alone with Jesus (John 18:2). Various memories, probably including prayer and teaching and maybe even laughter.

This is where they stayed every night during the last week of His life (Luke 21:37). Powerful memories of time spent with a loved one during His final days on earth.

But up against all the positive memories stood the shame and trauma of that one evening.

Redeeming the place

This is also where Jesus met with His disciples for the last time before rising into heaven. This is where He promised them the coming of the Holy Spirit, who would give them power to witness to others throughout the world. This is where they watched the Messiah physically ascend into heaven. This is where two angels promised that He’d return in the same way. (Acts 1:6-12)

By Jesus’ own action, the Mount of Olives was redeemed from a place of shame and sorrow and injustice to one of promise and glory and power. It’s never named again in the New Testament.

But it’s mentioned a couple of times in the Old Testament. This is where Jesus will stand when He returns (Zechariah 14:4).

God redeemed a place of trauma. He didn’t do it for the sake of the dirt and the stones and the trees, but for the sake of those who had suffered, and watched His Son suffer, in that very place.

Jesus intentionally led them back there in His own timing. He brought them as a group. Since they’d gone through the trauma together, the healing would be richer and deeper if they were together when they faced the emotions that the Mount of Olives triggered. Redeeming the place was somehow tied in with redeeming them.

God redeems us by His grace, through our faith, when we confess our sins and believe that Jesus is Lord and that God raised Him from the dead (Ephesians 2:8, Romans 10:9). He redeems our souls, giving us eternal life with Him. Such a gift is grand and glorious and awe-inspiring beyond our comprehension. But He doesn’t stop there.

One day He will redeem our mortal bodies, transforming them into glorious bodies (1 Corinthians 15:42-44). Even now, He’s redeeming our minds and emotions. He heals our hurts, grows the fruit of the Spirit within us, and transforms our thoughts.

Sometimes that means going back to a painful physical or mental place, as the disciples returned to the Mount of Olives. Sometimes Jesus Himself will lead me there in His perfect timing.

It might hurt. I might hesitate. But when I go, I know that He will be there with me. Sometimes He provides me with the support of friends who are returning to that same spot for the same reason. And in the end, what started as a place of failure and trauma will be redeemed by God into a place of hope.

 

 

Considering

Blessed through suffering

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” (James 1:2-4)

“We also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.” (Romans 5:3-5)

My thoughts as I’m considering these passages:

How similar they are, even though they’re written by two different authors.

The use of the word know in both passages. No excuse for not rejoicing. We know that suffering develops perseverance.

“Pure joy”? Not just some joy? Don’t think I’m there yet. But it helps to consider a pastor’s teaching from years ago. He said that the Greek word for “consider” is an accounting term. James isn’t telling us to expect to walk around in total bliss when life is at its most painful, but to rejoice as we look at the balance sheet and see that the profits far outweigh the costs (2 Corinthians 4:17).

What really stands out as I’m reading them this time around, though: The appeal to my selfish nature.

Consider it pure joy when I suffer, because it will bring me to the point where I’m not lacking anything. Rejoice in my suffering, because it will produce hope.

God isn’t saying here, “Rejoice in what I’ll do for others through you.” He isn’t even saying, “Rejoice because I will use this for My glory.” He’s saying plain and simple, “Rejoice because I will bless you in this situation.” As selfish as it sounds, it must be okay for me to do that.

Pressuring myself

My life verses, 2 Corinthians 1:3-4: “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.” The key words in my mind: so that.

In trying to resist our me-centered culture, I get hung up on sacrifice and denying self. I consider it absolutely necessary to turn my thoughts every time from “How does this benefit me?” to “How can this bring glory to God?” or “How can I use this to minister to others?”

The Christians who earn my greatest respect (and envy) are those who don’t consider themselves, but live lives of sacrifice. I end up making an idol of my own sacrifices and turning a blind eye to God’s generous blessings for me.

It can be so confusing. We’re told to put others ahead of ourselves. Jesus says to deny ourselves and take up our cross and follow Him (Matthew 16:24). To hate our own families if they turn us from our total commitment to Him (Matthew 10:37). Nothing less than dying to self is demanded of us.

And yet here God is, in the very challenging passages quoted at the beginning of this post, telling me to do something because it benefits me. Period.

Sometimes I need to hear this. Sometimes I need to remember that God rejoices in blessing me, that He takes pleasure in my joy and even in my happiness.

The pendulum

During certain periods in church history, the judgment of God was emphasized much more than His grace. Christians lived in terror of Him rather than in fellowship with Him.

Church leaders used that fear of God to control people. If they could threaten members with punishment and damnation, those members would be more likely to do what their leaders said. It was a source of intoxicating power.

The impact of the Protestant Reformation came from its return to grace, not works. To a God who loves us even when we’re sinners. Who forgives us when we simply believe and repent. But the pendulum always swings back and forth.

My understanding of twentieth century Christian history is that it began with a tendency to legalism, as expressed in the fundamentalist movement. Then in the fifties or sixties the pendulum started swinging back to an emphasis on grace, as modern evangelicalism spread.

Many Christians in my generation grew up in legalistic Catholic or Baptist churches. When they saw the light of the gospel, they were freed from the burden of fearful obedience to the law and began living in the joy of grace.

But through its own momentum, the pendulum has swung too far. From a legalistic focus on the law to an obsessive focus on my freedom. Christians began to consider the love of God for me as more important than any other aspect of the gospel. His righteousness and holiness and judgment and glory took a back seat to my importance in His eyes.

Self took center stage. In our evangelism. In our worship. In our prayers. In our teaching. In our lives.

I struggle with this. I’m part of this culture. Sometimes I can’t even tell when I’m being selfish because it comes so naturally and because it’s reinforced by everyone around me, including my fellow believers.

When I do see what’s happening, I overreact. I harshly judge myself and the Christians I know by how much we’re sacrificing, how much we’re giving up, how much we’re putting others ahead of ourselves. No room for grace.

It hurts. It’s not healthy. I pay a price for it.

Encouragement

Maybe that’s why the Holy Spirit leads me to these passages. I don’t usually read them back to back and make the connection between them. But for some reason, I recently read them just a few days apart and began to consider them, not in isolation, but together. When God repeats something in His Word, He’s emphasizing its importance.

It knocked me off my judgmental pedestal and threw me to my knees in thanksgiving. These verses tell me that it’s okay to consider what God’s doing for me. Not for how I can use it to glorify Him or minister to others, but just for my own sake.

That’s how much He loves me. That’s how well He understands me.

Of course I need to consider these words in the context of the Bible as a whole. They can’t be seen as an excuse to dive into greater self-centeredness.

But right now, He’s using them to comfort me, to encourage me, to let me rest in His great love for me without judging or condemning myself. Without pressuring myself. And it might just be that He’ll use that comfort and encouragement and rest to glorify Himself and minister to those around me in ways that I’m not even aware of.

 

 

Light in the Darkness

Expectations

Let your light shine!

There’s a dark world out there. But if you’re really a good Christian, then you’re always filled with a cozy warm glow. You’re doing all you can every day, every minute to pump up the brightness. You’re making sure it’s always flowing out of you to where it’s needed so badly.

That’s how I usually take this admonition. And I don’t take it well.

Then one Sunday morning we’re singing in church and the words jump out at me: Let your light shine*! But this time I get a new mental image.

What if I’m dim and dreary inside? Can I shine a bit of light even when I’m hurting? Will my attempts to crank it up turn it into a cold artificial glare?

Can God shine His light through me when it seems like there’s nothing but darkness within me? The darkness of a painful loss. The darkness of financial fears. The darkness of loneliness or depression or guilt.

Can God still use me, when I’m in this condition, to brighten other people’s lives without denying my own darkness?

In the same service, the pastor comments on our responsibility to praise God even when we don’t feel like it. I’ve always been intrigued by the phrase “a sacrifice of praise” (Hebrews 13:15), which Pastor mentions here.

How can praising Him involve sacrificing? Sacrificing hurts. I usually associate praise with feeling good. Isn’t that why we sing happy songs?Aren’t those the only ones that truly praise Him? (That seems to be the subtle implication in many of our worship services.)

But maybe that sacrifice of praise occurs when we’re suffering and we don’t seem capable of praising Him in that moment. Or when we’d really rather be doing something else. Or when we’re actively rebelling against Him. To resist our impulses and follow His will (not just lip service, but genuine praise) would be a sacrifice. Maybe it’s an example of intentionally letting His light shine in spite of our own darkness.

An illustration

A few years ago, I was in one of those bleak places. One Saturday night I got bad news concerning a family member. It hurt so much, I seriously considered skipping church in the morning. I didn’t think I could make it through the service without weeping, and I hate to cry in public.

I couldn’t share my burden with anyone, because it concerned a confidential situation. I wouldn’t be able to explain my tears if they came. But it hurt so much, I knew I needed to be there, in my community, in worship with my sisters and brothers in Christ.

As I was leaving my house on Sunday, in an attempt to turn around my obsessive thinking about my own problems, I prayed, “Lord, let me be a blessing to others.” I didn’t think of it this way at the time, but I was basically saying, “Let Your light shine through me in spite of this darkness inside.”

It wasn’t until I was almost ready to head home that I realized that God had answered that prayer without my even trying to make it happen. He allowed me to be honest with Him about the suffering I was enduring. No denial. No fake smile. No pretending it didn’t hurt. But He also used me to minister to others.

During the service, Pastor interviewed a couple about a difficult experience that they’d been going through for the last several years. They didn’t minimize the pain and confusion. They’d had a tough time understanding what God was doing and why.

But He was there for them in ways they hadn’t anticipated. They could see (and so could I) how much they’d grown in their relationship with Him because of their circumstances. The service was a time of celebrating God’s goodness and wisdom.

(One of the fascinating things about the morning was that during the nearly ten years that I’d been at this church, Pastor had never replaced the sermon with a conversation with someone from the congregation. He hasn’t done it since then, either. The timing of this unique presentation was perfect in light of my prayer and my need.)

I’d met this couple at another church that I’d attended. I’d listened sympathetically to the wife’s stories about thwarted hopes. I’d shared the burden of her sorrows. But our paths hadn’t crossed very often since then. After the service, I made it a point to find her in the crowd and let her know how much I appreciated their testimony.

Her response: “I’m so glad you were here. I was hoping you would be.”

Without even planning it, without knowing that she and her husband would play a large part in the service, without having any idea that she was thinking about me, my presence had been a blessing to her. Out of my darkness, I’d shone a bit of light into her life.

Later, I talked to two or three people in my Sunday school class. I didn’t want to. I wanted to just sit like a lump and listen to the teacher’s message, hoping it would help me somehow. I had too much pain inside to intentionally reach out to others. But they reached out to me.

And I found myself speaking words that brought them a little deeper comfort and understanding. Being a blessing to them. Shining a light from my darkness into theirs.

The blessing

By the end of the morning, it hit me. God had gone way beyond what I’d expected in answering my prayer. (And I didn’t even cry!)

It doesn’t always work this way, and that’s okay. I don’t want to be pressured, every time I’m really down, to shine my light all over the world. I don’t think God wants me to feel that kind of pressure, either. Sometimes I need to be the one receiving an illuminating and refreshing and purifying light from others.

But when it does happen, when God shines His light through me even when I’m feeling so dark inside, it’s not just a blessing to those around me. I am richly blessed, too.

*Sorry I can’t give a reference here. We were singing a medley of songs, so the title wasn’t given in the bulletin. When I tried looking it up on the internet a few weeks later, I found several different songs with this phrase, but none of them sounded like the one I was looking for.