We Are Not Our Own

Our lives are not our own.

We hear that over and over in church settings. It tends to go in my left ear and out my right. But our lives truly aren’t our own. We don’t choose when we’re born and we don’t get to decide the day of our departure (unless we violate the principles of life).

We are in the hands of a creator. The Creator. I was feeling distant from God this morning. I get that way if I get sidetracked and stop tuning into Him. As I was trying to find my way back to that sweet place, I said to Him, “You really do love me even when I stop talking or ignore you.”

He responded, “When you’re not doing?”

His point being: You are viewing my love as dependent on what you do, not who you are: My beloved child.

That caught my attention. I want to walk free from performance with a fierceness you can’t imagine. I crave that freedom. So many Christian terms have become bubble-wrapped in a religious mindset. For me anyway. They trip off our lips so easily they’ve lost their meaning and power.

Mercy. Grace. Redemption. Sanctification.

What do those words truly mean?

When we talk about being wrapped in His arms of love, do we really feel wrapped by Him? Do we steal into a place of freedom and love that His presence is supposed to bring?

I do. But I don’t know if many people follow that invitation. Or if they even know what freedom looks like.

I have met him in the still places of my heart. I’ve heard his laughter, felt His arms around me and looked into His eyes.

And I want more. I want to dive into the deep places of God.

That’s His desire for each one of us.

Want to join me?

Grace and Brussels Sprout

My youngest son threw his dinner in the sink on the sly after we'd left the room. It was a huge bummer as we'd been planning on playing games as a family and he was now headed for an early bedtime.

When we explained his consequence to him, he was very upset and said, "But I forgot," adding with a hint of accusation, "I'm only seven."

How often we do that. Want to grow up and have more freedom, but diss the responsibility. Adam did it in the garden. When God asked him why he ate the fruit, his first words were, "It was the woman you gave me . . . "

We've been shrugging off responsibility since the beginning.

My blame comes out when I'm late or I lose my temper with the little people. The three-year-old in me stomps a foot and casts an eye upward. "If those kids you gave me would mind a little better . . . "

God probably shakes his head and says, "I know. I have the same problem with my kids."

Without grace and forgiveness we'd be sunk. We'd live in our funks and pity parties.

Sometimes God gives us a little squeeze and dusts off our knees while our lip hangs low (my seven-year-old has the pout perfected). Other times he'll give us some room to get a revelation about our me-focus.

The cool thing is, He always loves us. (I can't say I adore my children in the midst of a tantrum—if one of them threatened to run away, I might toss an empty suitcase their way).

When I'm living through a rough day, I cling to the verse, "His mercies are new every morning." I know that once my head hits the pillow, the day's ickiness gets erased and we get to start fresh.

My youngest found another way to grace. We thought he was headed for his toothbrush as we set the cards out for a fast and furious game of Nerts. But he wandered back into the room with a big smile, his cheeks stuffed with the brussels sprout he'd fished from the sink.

I know what you're thinking. I was thinking it too—I wanted to bleach his mouth out. But I figured he survived the time he chewed on the end of the toilet plunger as a toddler, so a few germs from the sink wouldn't kill him.

And we had a fabulous evening playing cards. Grace works wonders on the big people and the little ones.