My heart is bent toward worry. I would say my mind, but my worry knows no logic. It’s impressive, really. My mind can remember all the statistics and likelihoods of something happening, but my heart will shout WHO CARES?! and go about its merry way worrying.
You know what helps that? Children. If by “helps” you mean expands and expounds and rewards a black belt in worry. Did you know that dry drowning is a thing? Did you know that if their car seat belt buckle is an inch below their armpit level, your child may not survive a car accident? (I did. Because someone “informed” me on Facebook after seeing a pic of my kid in a car seat. Yay.) Did you know that terrible things can happen at any second of any day anywhere and at any time? I did. Because worry.
My worry-bent heart doesn’t even let my husband utter the word “taxes.” We usually have to pay, and I’m pretty sure I’ll make a mistake on the return and be sent to jail. And then who will be able to clip my four-year-old’s fingernails because there are VERY specific steps you have to follow or she flips out?! (Oh my sweet word, the worry is SPREADING generationally.)
Basically, my heart is able to leap over every reasonable conclusion with a single bound and land at the worst possible conclusion. Every time.
This past year God has basically ripped my chest open and exposed my little bent heart. Does that sound painful? It was. It was humbling and scary and vulnerable. And the best thing that has ever happened to me.
Left to its own devices, my heart had led and would continue to lead me astray. I had looked for security in all the wrong places. I looked for security in our bank account, in my husband’s job, in the doctor’s report, in my own self righteous actions. If I do this or have that, we would be okay.
But none of that solved the problem of my bent heart.
“Some trust in chariots, and some in horses: but we will remember the name of the Lord our God.” Psalms 20:7
What was I trusting in?
When you plant a young, tender tree, you have to bind it to stakes. These unmovable stakes in the ground help the tree grow straight and strong. Left to its own devices, the tree would be susceptible to strong winds. It would bend and yield to surrounding forces. Left to its own devices, my heart would bend and yield to my flesh. It would surrender to worry, and bend and twist, trying to repair itself.
I realized I had to bind my heart to strong, unmovable stakes.
In David’s day, it was tempting to trust in chariots and horses. The more chariots and horses you have, the more likely you were to win the war, right? Not exactly. The Bible is full of battles between Syria and Israel under the rule of King David. Syria had a huge amount of chariots and horses compared to Israel. But David knew that wasn’t the key to the war. God was. And is.
Today, I’m not tempted to trust in chariots or horses. I’m tempted to trust in money. I’m tempted to trust in the approval of others. I’m tempted to trust in doctors reports and job security and insurance policies. But those aren’t firm stakes.
“My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever.” Psalms 73:26
So I have learned to bind my heart to His. To tie myself to the Word of God. To trust in His promises. To rely on His unfailing love. His eternal kindness. His thoughts of hope and peace for me. His unchanging, unmovable, undeniable, unmeasurable, unquestionable Authority.
Now, every time I open my bank account app, I see little chariots instead of digits. I tell myself “some trust in chariots, and some in horses.” When the numbers look low, it reminds me that my security isn’t found there. When the numbers look high, it reminds me that my security isn’t found there. When the doctor runs a blood panel on my little one who’s not growing, I remind myself that the report isn’t my heart stake. When the heating unit fails in the winter and the air conditioner fails in the summer, I remind myself that my belongings aren’t my heart stakes. When we receive an unexpected check in the mail, I remind myself that money isn’t my heart stake. When I hear “good job,” I remind myself that others’ opinions of me aren’t my heart stakes.
I’m staking my little bent heart to His. What are you staking your heart to?
My fifteen-month-old daughter is not a cuddler. She would prefer not to be touched or bothered, thank you very much. If she is held at all, she prefers to be held facing out, taking in as much of the world as she can. She wants complete independence and does a VERY good job of asserting her demands. We joke that she could be a quarterback – or whatever guy it is that sticks his arm out and can block even the biggest attacker. She swings her tiny little arm with fierce determination and puts deliberate distance between herself and anyone who dares come near.
But when she is sick, she wants nothing else but to be held. She’ll toddle around, sniffing and rubbing her eyes, and then dive head first into my legs, crying to be picked up. She’ll nestle her head right under my chin, tuck her little arms in, and rest.
As much as I hate her being sick, the cuddles are just everything.
This past week she was sick, and I happened to catch sight of us in the mirror as she was taking a rare rest in my arms. My heart jumped at the image. As much as she likes to push me away, when she is in need she knows where to turn.
Of all the relationships, God chose to portray Himself as the Father and we as His children. I know that He must feel that same sense of delight when we come running to Him when we are at our lowest, when our needs are beyond our capabilities. But how much more would it mean if we stayed close to Him even when we didn’t feel like we “needed” Him? If we stopped trying to slip out of His embrace when our needs were met? If we stopped trying to do everything so independently with stiff arms clearing our own ways?
Being held when you’re sick is great, but being held simply out of love is even better.
Today I’m going to find my rest in Him. I’m going to dive in head first, tuck in my arms, and just be held.
My baby starts school next week, and I’m overflowing with all the emotions. Proud of the ways she is growing up. Excited for this new adventure for her. Eager to see her personality continue to form as she’s exposed to so many new things. Worried her sensitive heart might not be handled with care. Guilt that I haven’t been a good enough, present enough, fill-in-the-blank enough mom. Concerned about all the things she can and will be exposed to.
I know this is “just” preschool, but it is the very first step that she will take alone. For the first time, I will walk her to the door and then turn around and leave. And now, for the rest of her life, she will be discovering a whole new world that I am not a part of, nor do I control.
As much as she’s learning newfound independence and change, I have to figure out a new role, too. I don’t want this end of an era to pass by without marking it. I don’t want to have to learn how to trust God with my baby when she starts going home with friends or gets her permit or moves out. That’s too late.
So, as I’m learning to relinquish control, and as she is learning to take those brave steps alone, we turn to the Life Giver, the One Who holds the world in His hands.
God, give her the courage and strength and boldness to be her own person, apart from our walls of safety. Give me the strength and faith to allow her the space to grow beyond our walls.
God, give her a hedge of protection for her safety and innocence, but allow enough adversity to come her way so she can learn how to stand with her own two feet on the Rock of her salvation. Give me the wisdom to know when to step in and protect her from pain, but also when to stand by her side, direct her eyes to You, and allow her to learn from the disappointment.
God, give her an ear to hear Your truth more clearly than anything else competing for her attention. Give her a clear mind to separate facts from agendas, to separate truth from opinion, and to see Your hand working in it all. Give me the words to say when she comes asking me the hard questions.
God, give her a passion and heart for the hurt and lonely. Give her clear eyes to see the opportunities she will have to show Your love and light to her classmates. Give me opportunities to reach out to her teachers and the other parents, joining with her in spreading Your love.
God, give her the gift of understanding and a clear mind as she’s learning, but help her to not become obsessed with grades and performance. Give me the gift of encouragement as she navigates hard lessons and patience when she’s had enough.
God, give her an even greater sense of Your presence when she’s alone. Give me an even greater sense of Your peace when she’s not with me.
God, I rest in the knowledge that You have called her to be salt and light to this world. What is salt if it is not applied? What is light if there were no darkness to illuminate? I pray she adds salt to every conversation, every recess, every confrontation. I pray she adds light to every agenda, every influence, and every situation that was meant for evil.
… And God, please help her wake up in a better mood in the mornings because mama don’t have time for that.
My dad and brother were interviewing my Papa, Muncia Walls, on their Kingdom Link podcast, and this quote of his went straight to my heart. They had asked him about some of the pitfalls young ministers need to watch out for. One of his answers was jealousy, and then he quickly followed up with be faithful in your limitations. Basically, be yourself. Don’t worry about others. Do what God has called you to do.
I was listening to the podcast while mowing our grass, and kept repeating the phrase in my head until I finally just turned the lawn mower off and jotted it down in my notes app.
And it has been reverberating in my head since then.
This phrase goes against everything this world promotes. According to culture, there are no limits to which we need to be faithful. Marriage can be signed away with a pen. Life can be ended in a doctor’s office before it even has a chance to begin. There are no limits to gender or to desire. No boundaries. No drawn lines. Be whatever you want, want whatever and whomever you want. All limits have been erased, and this new “freedom” is promoted to be what will allow us to accomplish anything.
Who wants to be limited? Who wants to be restrained? Who wants to be told, this is not for you?!
This message can even slip through into the hearts of believers. We sing, Through You, I can do anything, I can do all things, ‘cause it’s You Who gives me strength. Nothing is impossible. I love that song – it’s biblical! Philippians 4:13 says it plainly, “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”
So that sounds an awful lot like there are no limitations placed on us, right?
Not exactly.
The verses leading up to verse 13 say, “…I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, there with to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound; every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”
If there were no limitations on Paul, if he could do all things, why would he suffer need? Why would he be hungry? If all things were possible, why would he not choose to abound all the time?
I don’t think Paul is saying that he could literally do anything. I think that he is saying that he can be hungry or he could be full, he could have plenty or he could lack, he could be happy or he could be dejected, but he could do it all through Christ. Whatever season, whatever situation, under whatever unmovable limitations, he could conquer it all. He could live in victory.
I firmly, unequivocally, one thousand percent believe that God can do anything. And He could choose to use me to do anything. But He doesn’t. Why would He?
If I could do anything, if I had no limitations, why would He need anyone else? I could do it all. And furthermore, why would I need Him?
He could have chosen to loosen Moses’ tongue and clear up his speech, but He didn’t. He allowed that limitation to rest on him. And He chose to use Aaron as His voice instead.
How frustrating it must have been for Moses to see God turn his staff into a snake, water to blood, day into night, but keep his tongue bound. Limited Moses served an unlimited God. Limited Moses was used to save an entire nation of people. Limited Moses changed the world.
God could have chosen to remove Paul’s thorn in his flesh, but He didn’t. He allowed that hindrance, annoyance, and distraction to remain. And Paul learned humility, steadfastness, and the power of God’s grace and strength.
How frustrating it must have been to watch the Savior of the world wash the dirt off your feet but leave the thorn in your side. How agonizing it must have been to see signs and wonders and miracles, and then limp home in pain. Limited Paul served an unlimited God. Limited Paul wrote half of the New Testament and brought the gospel to an untold amount of people. Limited Paul changed the world.
Be faithful in your limitations.
While God will give us the strength to live through, conquer, and triumph in all things, He will not give us the ability to do all things.
His strength is made perfect in our weakness. His glory shines through in our areas of lack. So why try to cover them up and become something we’re not?
I may never be able to sing like Kim Walker. I may never be able to write a Bible study like Priscilla Shirer. I may never be able to parent the way Kristen Atkins does, or quietly move mountains the way Sis. Pat Wilson does, or be a pastor’s wife the way my mom does. But the good news is that I’m not supposed to.
I have been called to be me. Limited Whitney. He has called me to come up higher closer to Him, dig down deeper into the Word, shed the trappings of this world, and press toward the mark of becoming ever better … but He has never called me to be someone else.
He knows my limitations well. He’s eager to let His glory shine through them. My only job is to be faithful in them. To stay on my own path, not glancing jealously at someone else’s. To continually give my weaknesses to Him to chip away at and mold and form into a new creation.
So today, if you’re reading this, take a breath. Unclench your jaw. Soften and lower your shoulders. Release that tension. Shed that pressure. No one was called to do it all. No one was asked to be the best at everything. And no one is called for the mission you were specifically equipped for, except you.
Be faithful in your limitations. God will take care of the rest.
“The war is over, turn around. Lay your weapons on the ground. The smoke is fading before the light. The dead are coming back to life.
He has made a way for us, born for glory out of dust, children held within the arms of peace. He has made a way for all, mercy waits where sinners fall. He is our victory.
The war is over, His love has come to call us daughters and sons. No longer orphans without a home. No, we have found where we belong.
It is finished, it is done. The blood of Jesus, it overcomes. It is finished, He has won. Yeah, He has won.”
– The War is Over – Bethel Music
This. Song.
I am reminded of a season where I battled fear and oppression almost ten years ago. It was my lowest point. I had to battle for every step. My joy was completely gone and replaced with unexplainable fear. A month into my battle, I went to a prayer meeting at our church. In glorious rescue, God came down and delivered me from the chaos. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. He spoke to me. To me!? And He freed me from that oppression.
But a few weeks later I fell back into my old patterns. That same fear and oppression came creeping back. One night, in desperation, my husband and I called my Dad (who is also our pastor) to come over. I was so confused. I thought I had been freed?
He prayed with us and then said something that at the time felt so confusing. He told me that I had been delivered. I had been freed. But I had slipped into my old patterns of behavior and thought processes, and now it was time for me to change. To act differently. To completely let go of the past and move forward in freedom.
Oh, man. That was NOT what I wanted to hear. I didn’t want it to be my fault. Ha!
But now I get it. The war was over, yet I was still firmly planted in the battlefield. I was cowering and ducking from imagined attacks. I was swinging at a defeated enemy. I can’t help but think of Eleazar who fought the Philistines until the blood congealed and glued his hand to his sword. (2 Samuel 23:10) Super gross. But that was me. I had fought until I couldn’t let go of my sword. I didn’t even notice the sword was still in my hand, it had become such a part of me.
I lived in defense instead of offense. I used the same coping mechanisms in victory as I had resorted to in war.
But the war was over. He had won.
It can be scary to go forward in victory. When you go through a season of battle, you have to find ways to cope and survive. But the way you survive in war doesn’t translate well to life in victory. You have to lower your defenses, throw your weapons down, and make that first victorious step in faith.
The battle is the Lord’s to win, but victorious life is ours to live.
Some seasons require battle. They require picking up the sword and the shield and standing our ground. But some seasons require throwing our weapons down. Stepping out in victory. Shedding off our armor. Running free and unencumbered in His glorious light.
Tomorrow my younger daughter turns one, and this milestone feels like it has silently jumped up out of nowhere. Somehow, someway, amidst all of the nose wiping and snack preparing and story reading and child raising, my infant turned into a baby turned into a whirlwind of a one-year-old.
I can’t help but think back to this day last year. The last day we were a family of three. Daddy, Mommy, and two-year-old Ruby. I spent the evening cleaning the house and trying to calm my bundle of nerves. Everyone told me that a planned c-section would be better than my first emergency c-section, but I didn’t believe them. This time I knew what to expect. I knew the vulnerability waiting me on that bed. The cold, the helplessness, the arms strapped down and the numb body. A doctor rummaging around my insides, tugging and pulling.
My first c-section came after 36 hours of labor. The baby that everyone was worried would be born too soon was content to stay inside. I worked so hard to get her to progress, but at the crucial moment of her birth I was powerless. Helpless. Overcome with disappointment and the feeling that I hadn’t become a mother, instead the doctor had just removed a baby. No effort from me required.
My first moment of motherhood was wrapped up in disappointment and the conviction that I had done it wrong. That I was not enough.
Mothering. You’re doing it wrong.
Have you ever felt that? I mean, if you haven’t are you even on the internet? One quick peek at my Facebook feed, and I learn about five ways that I’m failing my children. To vaccinate or not vaccinate. Sleep train or not sleep train. Home school or public school or private school or unschooled.
Birth is just the first of many steps that a mother can plan out to the second, and then watch as everything is turned on a dime and the tightly-held plans are thrown out the door.
With Ruby, I lived in fear of doing it wrong. I did everything by the book. And I knew how to do everything by the book because I read all of the books. Every single one.
I never expected myself to be perfect, but I sure did try awfully hard.
Mothering. You’re doing it wrong.
Before Selah was born, I knew I would need an extra grace. I felt it in my bones. Raising her is like raising wildfire – she is fierce and powerful and exhilarating and leaves me humbled. I have thrown out the books with her and pray daily for God to show me how to be a good mother.
I didn’t know how desperately I needed her.
Ruby gave me the gift of becoming a mother. Selah gave me the courage to be one.
Anyone can write a convincing Facebook post about the right way to get a baby to sleep through the night, but only a mother can hold her child and know whether she needs comfort or solitude. Anyone can tell you how to discipline a child, but only a mother can look into her child’s eyes and know whether she needs a hug or a time out. Anyone can tell you how to raise your child, but only you know how to mother her.
Selah has taught me that I will do it wrong. I will make mistakes. I will lack. But I can never fail her as a mother.
My daughters do not need my perfection. They will see the standard that I hold myself to and try to emulate it some day. If they see a mother striving for perfection and obsessed with the notion of failure, how will they learn to surpass me? How is that drawing them to God?
Mothering has taught me that I do not have all the answers, and I most likely never will. This isn’t a black and white, yes or no kind of thing. Motherhood is shades of gray and doing your best and trying again tomorrow. I refuse to live in the fear of not being enough for my daughters because I KNOW I am not enough. I have never been and I never will be. They were formed with a God-sized void, just like me. They will always need more than what this world has to offer. What I have to offer. My only role is to lovingly raise them as best I can while continually pointing them to the One Who does no wrong. Who is more than enough.
So when my plans go astray – when motherhood doesn’t look like I had hoped – when I am met with insecurity and fear and failure, I trust in this. He set the world in motion. He formed it all with His hands. And He chose to form my two little wildfire miracles inside of me. In my womb, in my heart, in my dreams. No one else.
The Creator of galaxies saw your children and knew that they needed you. With Him on our side, fear and insecurity have no choice but to leave.
