What Looks Like Freedom...

I threw back the last of my Diet Cherry Pepsi and raised Jason Aldean's volume up to 'REALLY LOUD". I wove my way through autumn colors and into the brilliant sunshine. The weather was unseasonably warm, allowing for holes where glass should have been and jet black upholstery where dog hair once was. I listened for the growl of the intake as I accelerated, taking advantage of a nice stretch of road and no sign of the authorities. Sounds like freedom, doesn't it? Quite the opposite.

I had a lot of anger growing up. My coping mechanism was to "throw caution to the wind," "let my hair down" -- all those gentle euphemisms for live recklessly and party as much as possible. I said I didn't care. I said nothing mattered. But that wasn't true. Everything mattered, I was just tired of admitting it and watching it all burn to the ground. I figured if I shrugged it all off, put up a hard, angry exterior, eventually I could convince everyone they couldn't hurt me. Especially the person that needed the most convincing -- me. When I grew tired of living that way, when I finally realized it wasn't working, I was almost forty. I sat down in front of a wonderful counselor who asked me to list all the things in my life that hurt me. Breaking out my notebook, staring at those lines and blank pages, I began to write. Slowly, at first. Then, for days. The list was pages long. The girl no one could hurt, the person who did unto others before they could do unto her had come clean. She was full of hurt. And anger.

The following week, the counselor asked me to number those hurts. "Number the biggest hurts '1'; number the next biggest hurts '2'; and so on." I think I made it to the 5s. The next week, she said, "Okay, let's talk about the 5s." And we did. She asked things like, "Why did that hurt?" and "What could you have done differently?" and "Was that really your responsibility?" On and on, chiseling away at the hurts I carried. And reading books like, Co-Dependent No More and Telling Yourself the Truth. And journaling -- something I hadn't done for years. Healing and working, working and healing.

Today, I'm in that place again. I am wrestling with hurt and anger, and they have a hold on me -- for now. My behavior may not be as reckless as it once was, but I have a husband whom I love, and children who need me, and a job that pays the bills, and a relationship with Jesus that has untold value. So I keep a firm grip on those things as I battle the demons within. And I guess that fact -- that I value those things above letting pain and rage get the best of me -- is a good start. But, seeing this behavior in me (Diet soda and country music, really?) for what it is -- atypical, deconstructive, behavior I left behind years ago -- tells me I am heading somewhere I do not want to go. It tells me I am handling my hurt and anger in a human way. Perhaps I need to recognize I am a human -- for the moment -- to soothe those human hurts. But never forget I am Christ's human. Never forget that He is the one who offers true freedom. He is the Way, the Truth and the Life. Never forget that, as His chosen I can never be satisfied outside His will and He will pursue me relentlessly until I am completely within it. Never forget that anything but full surrender to Him is bondage. Never forget that He is my strength and my song, and the way out of the pit and back to freedom.

We Can Forgive AND Forget

Thirty years ago I began work for UPS at an airport facility. It was great! I loved working outside on aircraft, constantly surrounded by action and, at the same time, surrounded by land as far as the eye can see. Philadelphia International Airport is over two-thousand acres large with four runways -- lots of wiiiiide open spaces, making the land attractive to lots of wildlife as well as to me. Although the ground around our facility was "ours," if we failed to develop it, and protected species chose the land as their habitat, it would force the government to name it as reserve, and we would lose the property for future operations. As a result, we brought in heavy equipment and continually graded and dug up those areas. Level, overturn, level, overturn -- it was an endless cycle to ensure nothing could survive there.

This morning I was reading Proverbs 17:9:

"He who covers a transgression seeks love, but he who repeats a matter separates friends."

The study guide I was using asked me to replace some of the phrases with modern euphemisms: "He who forgives and forgets seeks love, but he who rehashes wrongs separates friends." I wrote. I recalled sitting in church when one of our children was about six or seven. The pastor used the word "forgiveness." Her little voice whispered next to me, "Did he say, 'forgotness'?" How astute! I'm sure she didn't realize, but praise God, the Holy Spirit rendered that amazing assessment through her!

We hear all the time, "I can forgive, but I can't forget." In Christ, you can. When true forgiveness takes place, forgetness becomes it's partner in labor. When we are willing to let something go, that means we are willing to forget it. As we forgive by the help of the Holy Spirit, we feel the pain or anger begin to disappear, sometimes instantaneously, sometimes over time. As we continue to surrender to the Holy Spirit's work, we will begin to realize we have no recollection of ever being outside of fellowship with this person, or if we do, we can't exactly recall why. Forgotness grows because peace and love have sown their seeds in place of the offense. 

Going back to the overturned ground, nothing can settle there -- turtles can't lay their eggs there, eagles can't nest in trees; nothing can grow there -- not water plants or food for wildlife. Unforgiveness is like that. Unforgiveness, the rehashing of hurts, the cutting open of old wounds, the overturning of anything that has begun to cover over and restore smoothness to rough ground, keeps growth, sustenance and new life at bay. When the memory of wrongs begins to fade, and forgotness sprouts up to take their place, unforgiveness comes along like an excavator and digs up that hurt, stirring that soil so that peace and love are unable to settle, ripping out the roots of the Holy Spirit's work and preventing growth. Forgiveness does the opposite. In the stillness of a heart not constantly overturned by thoughts of unforgiveness, forgotness grows because peace and love make their home there. Forgiveness makes a safe, stable place for the seeds of peace and love to take root and forgotness to grow. Forgiveness says, "I am willing to let this go; I am willing to allow the Holy Spirit to erase not only my hurt, but any memory of this whole thing." Forgiveness says, "I am more interested in my forward movement, in your forward movement, and in the forward movement of our relationship, than I am in constantly revisiting this hurt." Forgiveness is the stable, fertile ground in which peace and love are sown, and forgotness bursts to life, bearing the fruit of relationship.

It's Personal

Visions are not my thing. I don't usually get some sort of image as I'm praying; I don't get any heavy revelations as people talk to me about my problems or theirs. I finalize my thoughts after I've mulled it over, after I've found the words for them. But not long ago, I had a vision, only the second one I can remember in my entire life.

I was standing before God's throne. And here's the thing -- what do you picture when you picture the throne of God? Mist or clouds. Bright light. Maybe a few feathered angels standing guard close by. Not in my vision. The room was red with some black hombre thing going on. Yeah, I know, sounds like I made a wrong turn. But it was magnificent, and red and black is my favorite color combination -- maybe my vision afforded me some creative license. I could barely make out the throne, but it was definitely gold and its Occupant was robed in white. The part of all this that really struck me was the figure beside me. Were it not for Him, I don't think I would have realized where I was. Standing next to me, moving with me, escorting me as one eager to introduce me, was Jesus. That was the feeling that washed over me -- He was eager to introduce me to His Father. He was sort of sidling as He walked, His hand on my arm, encouraging me, pulling me along, and at the same time glancing back and forth from His Father to me, His Father to me, as if to say, "Look, Father, look who I found just standing in her kitchen today."

In Luke 22:31-34, Jesus tells Peter that Satan desires to upset and afflict the disciples, but tells Peter specifically that He has prayed for him. Perhaps Peter's temperament placed him in more danger of falling than the others; perhaps Jesus knew the temptation Peter would face would be harder to resist. Whatever the reason, Peter received a special intercession from Jesus. It was personal. And it came from Jesus right to the throne of His Father on behalf of an ordinary man.

In my vision, Jesus brought me to His Father. To walk alone into that room, despite the fabulous decorating, I would have been terrified. This was obviously the majestic dwelling of a very powerful and important King. In and of myself, I did not belong there. But Jesus brought me to Him -- and gladly so! "Look! Look, here she is! The one I've been talking to you about. I love her!" In the scene from Luke, Jesus laid His concern for Peter before His Father, He poured out His heart that Peter might continue to stand. He took His knowledge of Peter's weakness or of the greatness of the temptation Peter would face, and He prayed for him personally. 

That's the point. Jesus knows each of us personally. Jesus prays for us personally. Jesus imputes His righteousness to each of us that we might stand before the Father, perfectly qualified through Him. Jesus loves us with a never ending and pure love. Jesus is the one and only gate through which we can enter the presence of God. Jesus is alive and working; He takes up our cause in a personal and loving way. And Jesus has assured us we will one day be in heaven with Him if we know Him -- personally.