Henry

He was the kind of person whom you could tell at first glance was trustworthy. Sharply dressed, with a Bible at his desk and an immediate smile, his visage made me turn to my sister and say “I like this kid.”

Our Southeastern team was preaching at a school. We spent our two weeks traveling around Kampala, preaching and ministering in schools, hospitals, and prisons, and, though our programs had to be flexible to meet the specific needs of where we were to be speaking, we held greatest importance and focus on preaching Jesus, no matter what. We presented the Gospel wherever we went – even if it wasn’t in the “job description,” per se.

By that, I refer to the school where I met this boy, whose name is Henry. For most of the schools we visited, we came into offer a program of career guidance, counseling, and a session on HIV/AIDS, which was abstinence-focused. Those are the topics on which we spoke at every school, and the outlets through which many headmasters gave us a significant audience, carved out of the students’ rigorous daily schedule.

It wasn’t an act of deception that most schools let us in as counselors and not as preachers, but there were occasional misunderstandings whereby our team was called out for presenting the Gospel message. The most memorable of instance occurred at Henry’s school which, coincidentally, was almost entirely under Muslim leadership.

It was not a Muslim school (though we did visit a few of those later), but the majority of the administration were devout followers of Islam. This is not a problem, apparently, until you begin to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ to their students.

Going in, we knew the circumstances of the school’s leadership. We were generally unconcerned – rightfully considering the fact that the faith of the individual students is their own decision to make, and expecting that the headmaster and others would respect that.

So we went about the program as normal. We divided into smaller groups and split into different classrooms. I had the happy blessing of being in Henry’s classroom.

Though the room was brimming with hundreds of students seated a dozen to a desk bench, Henry was front and center. I knew we were going to get along when he smiled at our team warmly and seemed politely attentive – a trait that cannot be under-appreciated in a room packed with that many students.

We went through our program, giving talks about picking careers and staying dedicated in school, committing to abstinence and avoiding HIV. In between talks, just to keep the attention of the room and have some fun, our Ugandan colleague asked one of us to lead a song.

It was loud in there, and we were losing the students’ attention fast. So I hiked up my long skirt and hopped onto a desk at the front of the room. I taught the classroom a lively song about the power of Jesus, which I often pull out in these situations, that I absolutely love. It’s full of larger-than-life actions, inhospitable key changes, and requires one to make a fool out of oneself to teach it properly.

So, as I taught the room, and we fed off each others’ energy, I asked for any student participants to volunteer to hop up next to me on the desk and perform the song with me.

Any takers?

Just when I was getting worried that every one of those hundreds of kids would be “too cool” to get down to this song with me, Henry’s hand shot up in the first row. He and another girl got right up there with me and we had a blast – he sang at the top of his lungs, not necessarily on-key, but with all his heart. I was actually taken aback by the joy he seemed to find in the words of the song.

But that’s not the last time Henry came through for me. I was set to be the one preaching that day, and I had a man to translate for me, but I wanted to have my passage read in Lugandan as well as English, just to make sure that everything was clear to the audience. Henry was the only student who had a Bible, that I could see. Though it took a few tries to adequately communicate what I was asking him to do, when he finally understood, he hopped right up there next to me and read the passages I asked him to.

I talked about identity that day. I talked about the fact that the image and inscription that God puts on is His own name, and we owe Him ourselves, in the same way that we are to “give Caesar what is due Caesar, and God what is God’s.” However, though we are like the coin that belongs to God, sometimes we get lost. Luckily, God cherished the “lost coin” so much that He gave a parable about it. He longs for us to come back to Him so deeply that He tears the house apart looking for the single lost coin. And rejoices mightily when He finds us. So, my point was, no matter what we choose to spend ourselves on, we need to know that we truly belong to God, and He longs to be our true identity. He finds us, and in that, we find our worth.

It was a short and simple message, and at the end, I did what we always did while preaching in schools – I gave a salvation call. I asked if there was anyone in the classroom who wanted to “be found” by God, and begin to find their value in Him. But I didn’t let them off easily, with a simple hand-raise. I told them that the Bible says that when we acknowledge Christ in front of the world, He will acknowledge us in front of the Father.

And so I asked anyone who was serious about coming to Christ and being “born again” to leave their seats and make their way to the front of the classroom.

The response was overwhelming, and brought tears to my eyes. Kids flooded down the already-crowded aisles to be received at the front, and I led the group in a prayer of repentance for salvation.

It was a triumphant moment in the Kingdom of Heaven, seeing all those lost coins be found, and we had seen it at many of the schools we’d gotten to visit.

But, the very moment we said “Amen” to our salvation prayer, things changed.

All of a sudden, in the background of the classroom, I heard someone bark “This is not career guidance and counseling!”

Uh-oh.

I turned to see the headmaster of the school, livid and repeating that phrase over and over. He walked around furiously, ripping from the hands of the students the booklet on salvation that we’d just distributed.

He accused us of forcing these kids to “convert,” which struck me as odd because the demographic of the room did not strike me as overtly Muslim, and clearly, nobody was being forced.

He ordered us to leave, and ordered the students to lay their booklets in a pile at the front of the classroom. Some of them reluctantly cast theirs onto the table, only to pick them up on their walk out. The rest simply snuck them into their pockets and headed for the door.

Class was over, and we were, incidentally, being kicked off the premises. Whoops.

Our lead missionary and several other personnel headed to the office of the headmaster to talk things out, while the team and I headed to out to our bus. Which is when the real fun began, and Henry proved his courage once again.

The school was in a state of disarray. We were supposed to be giving a morning session to half the school, and an afternoon session to the other half. At this point, however, with the school’s leadership up in arms and our sessions terminated, both halves of the students were released into the yard in a state of disorientation.

They flooded our bus like teenage girls during the height of Beatlemania. They wanted the books on salvation that we gave out, and we started furiously passing them out to the groping hands that clawed at our windows. We told them to put them away immediately, and read them when they went home so that their headmaster and teachers wouldn’t see (cool and subversive, I know).

We started receiving notes from the students, written on torn-off pieces of loose leaf paper. If I was under any illusion that these students were only interested in the books for the sake of gleaning free materials from foreign visitors, these notes showed me that they knew exactly what our true purpose was in coming to the school.

The notes were astounding and varied. Most of them thanked us for coming, many of them expressed joy at the fact that they became born again that day, and hoped that their lives would never be the same. We were told that we were inspiring, and that we shouldn’t listen to the disgruntled headmaster, because they were glad we came.

It was overwhelmingly rewarding, as we spoke with kids and handed out booklets as fast as we could open a new box.

But some team members showed due concern. We were just passing through this school. We had received the worst of our reprimand in getting yelled at and kicked out, but we were about to shuttle off and never come back. These students, however, could not make the same getaway. Would they be punished for having the books we were giving out? Were we going to be the very agents and enablers of their suffering under the wrathful headmaster? Were we basically handing out detention slips and letters of expulsion, or worse punishment?

We don’t know. I still don’t know.

Maybe I should’ve thought about it more, but all I cared about was that we got the truth of the Gospel into the hands of these children. To me, the stakes were so much higher for this school. For others we had visited, it was clear that most students were Christian, and taught Biblical values and held worship services on campus. But for the kids of this particular school, we had no idea whether or not they would have another crack at hearing the Gospel presented to them like this. The school leadership kept them pretty sheltered or, more accurately, under lock-and-key. We had broken that barrier, and had a limited window of time to present Jesus to their hungry hearts.

These thoughts consumed me as I passed out the booklets from my window, again and again expressing the importance of keeping them secret. I felt a hand on my arm.

“Can I have some to pass out to students who aren’t here today, or who are too shy to come up to you?”

I looked to see where the request came from.

It was Henry. Of course.

He had the same smile and gentleness and confidence. I yelped and embraced him through the bus window. I gave him the remainder of my stack of booklets.

Holding his hand out the open window, I asked him about what it was like to be a Christian at this school. He expressed that it wasn’t easy. The headmaster tried to discourage it and make it nearly impossible for Born Again students to gather and practice their faith.

I cannot emphasize enough how opposite a case that is from most of the other schools we toured.

I asked Henry what was to be done about it. He smiled his award-winning smile and looked at his shoes.

“Do you see that mango tree over there?”

He pointed to shaded area next to the school gate. I nodded.

“Our Scripture Union meets under that tree to pray and read our Bibles. We keep it as secret as we can.”

I asked him what I already knew. “Are you the leader?”

He smiled bashfully and nodded. What a champion.

The Scripture Union is an institution in most Ugandan secondary schools. It’s, for all intents and purposes, the Christian Club of the school. From what I observed in the schools we visited, the club can range to the height of popularity among the school population, or be all but dead. Never had I come across a club that was practically illegal, however.

I thought of my time in high school. As ashamed as I am to admit this, I was something of a spiritual coward during my high school years. I wasn’t overtly involved with the one Christian organization on campus, though it was started by one of my best friends. I wouldn’t be seen at the See You at the Pole day every fall. I didn’t deny my faith, but I was content to “lead by example” instead of actually lead when it came to my relationship with Christ. Which is ironic, because I was pretty a voracious leader in every other respect. It's funny sometimes how you can be ashamed of the thing that is most important to you.

I thought of how important it was for me to make a good impression on our principal and school administration. Though I didn’t encounter any overt religious opposition in high school, I cannot say with confidence how I would’ve handled it. I know what I would like to believe, but I also know that I was a much different person then than I am now.

Henry, on the other hand, showed no signs of fear.

Actually, I take that back. The only fear that Henry exuded was the fear of the Lord. His passion burned bright to me in the short time that I met and got to know him. He struck me, overwhelmingly, as a Moses character, calling his people to undivided worship and service to the Lord, even as they were figuratively beaten down and discouraged.

As our leaders joined us, back from being detained in the headmaster’s office, I suppose, and we made our getaway in our purple bus, I saw Henry. He was under that mango tree, giving out our booklets, and smiling that famous smile.

I will never forget that boy. His courage was so complete that it didn’t seem like intimidating fortitude. It simply seemed like the joy of a servant who lived to please his Master. It was child-like, quiet, but extremely powerful.

I don’t know what Henry is going through as a Christian leader at that school. I don’t know what other religious persecution he will experience in his life, but I will tell you this: I believe his faith will last him a lifetime.

Some faith is adopted from parents. Others is accepted limply as something that “seems nice.” Other faith is strong behind closed doors, but crumbles in the daylight of opposition. Other faith is only for show.

But Henry’s faith is a true faith – a faith that stands against all that comes against it, and lands right-side-up. 

Which is exactly what people like Henry are doing: turning this world right-side-up. 

Esther

Bravery. Courage. What do you think of when you hear these terms?

I think our answers vary depending on where and how we’ve been raised. For the majority of Americans, me included, we’ve been groomed and conditioned to have a picture of bravery in our heads that looks remarkably like the Iwo Jima memorial. And I wouldn’t say there’s anything necessarily wrong with that; great courage is shown in great sacrifice, and we should be awestruck and grateful to think of the sacrifice upon which our nation stands.

But that’s a severely limited perspective.

I’m learning a lot about bravery here in Africa. I learned about bravery from a group of mountain-dwelling children in Ethiopia who hiked through countless kilometers and changing altitude to get to and from school every day.  I learned about bravery from the orphans in the children’s village in Malawi – full of kids who have seen more devastation in their lives than many adults could even imagine, and still persevere for a hot meal and a game of net ball.

And Uganda is, by far, a place of more courage and fortitude than I’ve ever experienced.

So I have four stories. Four stories of resilience, blistering courage, and incredible inspiration.

The first story belongs to a young woman of fourteen named Esther.

I met Esther one night at the Kampala Harvest Crusade in June. At that time, my incredible team from Southeastern was still here, and though they impressed me to no end and hardly needed the direction I was prepared to give them, I felt like I was too much in “leader mode” to encounter many first-hand ministry stories of my own.

But that all changed one night at the crusade. Now, I am in no way familiar with the knowledge of my readership of what we would call “spiritual warfare.” I don’t want to make assumptions, so I feel I should explain some things before I launch into it.

I don’t know what you believe personally, or what your relationship with God is like, or what you have and haven’t seen or heard about during your days on earth. But, as extreme and foreign as this might sound at first, I must express that earth is the constant battle ground between forces of darkness and forces of light. Whether you want to call the darkness demons and the light angels, or something different entirely, I don’t mind.  I’m just telling you what I’ve experienced. What I know to be true, though it is still mysterious and unfathomable to me, even as I walk through it.

In my previous entry about Kampala, I mentioned demonic bonds and ancestral worship. These forces cling tightly to many of Uganda’s people. It can be as simple as a desperate mother consulting a witch doctor in order to save her baby – that baby will have a trace of witchcraft, or a demonic spirit, attached to him or her for the rest of their life. Unless something breaks that bond.

Demons attach themselves to people for various untold and mysterious reasons, but the important thing to remember is that they are not friendly and they are not harmless. They are hell-bent on destruction (pun totally intended).

So, the main point I want to stress when it comes to demonic powers is that, no matter how they manifest or what they do or the power they seem to have, it is all for the sake of hurting God’s people. It’s not interesting, it’s not impressive, it’s tragic, and it’s urgent, and, like a perilous flesh wound, it needs to be dealt with as soon as possible.

For many, there may never be a chance for them to be delivered of demonic oppression/possession. For some, it will follow them their whole lives, and attach itself to someone else when they finally die. I’d like to think that unthinkable end doesn’t occur too often, however.

Because some darkness gets dragged into the light.

And here is the second point I want to emphasize in this conversation: the forces of evil are by no stretch of the imagination a match for the power of Jesus Christ.

Though I wouldn’t necessarily call the media’s portrayal of demonic activity accurate, it is overwhelmingly true that “the power of Christ compels them.”

That being said, every bond, no matter how strong, can be broken, utterly shattered, by the name of Jesus Christ, who does not want even one of His children to perish without salvation.

So, now that that’s out of the way, we are ready. Ready to hear about the strongest demonic bond I’ve ever encountered.

Like I said, her name was Esther, and she was fourteen. During every night of every crusade with Africa Harvest Mission, there is a period of prayer and deliverance after those who are willing pray to surrender their lives to Jesus.

During this time, there are usually several demonic manifestations. It’s like an in-breaking of the Spirit of God against the spirits of darkness – like God is knocking on Satan’s door, ready to take back the captives.

These manifestations (usually screaming, convulsing, violent thrashing, etc.) are handled with sensitivity. The people who are showing signs of demonic activity are brought up on stage (usually with necessary applied force) and prayed over (some would say exorcized) by the members of the African Harvest Missions team. 

We cast them out in Jesus’s name, making sure the person is safe from themselves and modestly covered. When the person is delivered and back in their right mind, they are taken to a tent for counseling from a local pastor.

Many of them come back for every remaining night of the crusade, and get plugged into the church community. It’s so powerful to see the transformation of people who have been delivered – their lives go from despair to joy.

So, a few nights into the crusade, I was on stage casting out a particularly stubborn demon. It manifested inside a teenage girl, but it made her brutally strong and gave her an otherworldly voice that certainly wasn’t her own. It also spoke English, and made a point of protesting loudly as we cast it out.

That first night was a long process. Our team had to get back on the bus and return home for dinner, but she was still being prayed over when we left.

I prayed silently as the bus pulled away, hoping that girl would be delivered soon and that I’d get a chance to see her tomorrow, transformed.

Part of my prayer came true. I did indeed see her the next day, but I wouldn’t say she was quite transformed yet.

She was back on stage, and the demon inside of her was as violent as ever. I made a point that night to pray for her the whole time – I wasn’t moving onto someone else, I would see this deliverance through to the end.

 

When you’re casting out a demon, it’s important to listen. Not to the monster that is trying to intimidate you, but the Holy Spirit. He is ultimately the One who is going to defeat that thing, and you must be obedient and on His side.

So as I was praying over this girl that second night, I kept feeling nudged to use a Bible. For what purpose, I wasn’t sure. To read it over her? To smack the demon with it? To give to her when she was delivered?

I didn’t know, but I started to look around. I knew chances were slim that I would find one; the stage was kept clear of personal belongings, and there would be nothing there but people praying or being delivered. But as I turned my head on stage that night, desperately searching for a way to help this girl, I saw a thick, weather-beaten Bible on the ground directly behind me.

The demon was riled up – she was convulsing and there were words coming out of this girl that were not her own. It seemed like the episode would last all night before it would be cast out. But I had this Bible in my hands. I wish I could say that there was a mystical moment of revelation where Gandalf came to me and told me exactly how I was to use this Bible, this Sword of Truth, to cast out this demon, but that definitely didn’t happen.

So I just put it on her head. That’s right, I took this Bible, and pressed it against the forehead of this girl, and started to pray.

And almost immediately, the demon was quieted and she was in her right mind.

I was incredulous, happy, and exhausted. It was the night I officially made the acquaintance of Esther, the girl I had been praying for for the past few nights.

I was with my assistant team leader from Southeastern, Jordan, and we were kind of in awe of the situation that had just unfolded before our eyes – we had never seen a demon that strong, and we were beyond excited about what transpired with the Bible.

We looked at the girl in front of us. Disheveled is an understatement. Her clothes were torn and falling off, her shoes were missing, she had been ripping out chunks of her own hair, and tears were streaming down her weary, frightened face.

I felt conviction in that moment. Convicted of the fact that I had placed so much of my attention on the demon that I had all but overlooked the fragile young girl it was tormenting.

Unlike the demon, she spoke no English, and so we asked a Ugandan man who was praying with us to translate as he spoke to her.

I was shocked by what I heard.

She was fourteen years old. To be honest, I had thought she was much older, but it was just the trauma she had gone through so many times that aged her.

At birth, she was dedicated to a well-known demonic shrine. The exact name of the demon, or “god” escapes me, but it doesn’t matter. Her family dedicated her life to this demon – who was leader over a legion of them in this area. Like a pastor, but for demons. This demon was powerful, ancient, terrifying, and no match for a young woman.

The translator explained that on the first night she came to the crusade, this girl had surrendered her life to Jesus Christ. The demon didn’t like that, and retaliated. The result was what we saw night after night on stage. She was like a prisoner trying to escape her terrorizing jailer.

When she made the decision to follow Christ, she went home and told her family – those who had dedicated her to the temple like Hannah dedicated Samuel. They were not happy. They kicked her out of their home into the street. She was currently living with a family that helped out at the crusade. They were from a local church and were keeping her safe.

But it was an excruciating uphill battle for her. This demon was losing its greatest servant, greatest vessel. It was as if a powerful king was losing his only heir.

But this girl was fighting back.

I asked her what her name was. She said Esther.

I couldn’t help but smile. Jordan explained to her that her name was prophetic and had great meaning. Esther was one of the bravest characters in the Bible. She was, against her will, involved in a plot to destroy the Jewish nation, but she rose up and fought for her people, fought for her life, and won the favor of the king and salvation for her people.

Two Esthers, two fighters.

That was the night I met Esther. For the remainder of June, I was on stage with her, holding her as she convulsed and screamed and manifested and fought against the dark powers that were trying to take her life.

And every night, after she had been delivered yet again, I held her as she cried, utterly exhausted. I told her she was the bravest girl I knew, that she had to keep fighting no matter what, and that Jesus was with her.

I grew to love her for her joy, her smile, and the way that she ran to me from across the crusade grounds every night when I arrived.

As the nights wore on, I noticed a change, not just in her countenance, but her physical appearance as well. She started dressing better, and her mangled and ripped out hair was now neatly braided.

Some nights were better than others. I stood with her in the crowd, watching and holding her as she worshiped and wondering if tonight she would be safe or be pulled into the battle ground once again. 

Sometimes she was, sometimes she wasn’t.

But Esther is victorious. The Spirit of God within her has broken the powers of darkness that bonded her so tightly. She has begun a new dynasty for her family – not one bound by demons and fear, but by the blood of Jesus Christ.

I saw Esther baptized in Lake Victoria. She had an ecstatic smile on her face as she climbed out of the water and ran to me for a wet, joyful hug. The nightmare was over for her. I had no idea the kind of pain and terror that she went through in getting closer to Jesus, but she sacrificed everything for Him. And He did not disappoint.

Esther is spiritual royalty. I’ll always remember her bravery, always remember her smile, and always remember the way she danced across the crusade ground in her purple dress, awash in the joy of her hard-earned freedom.

Dirt Floor Moments

Jesus once was telling a story. It started with two men and one request. One man said “of course I’ll do it!” and then trotted off to forget about the command in the sea of the rest of his day. The other said “you know what, I don’t really feel like it,” but later went and completed the task.

One of these men was obedient. The other was a fraud.

I’m writing this today to tell you that I’m a fraud. That’s right – time and time again, I am the first man from the story. I am the very one from whom God asks a favor, and I reply enthusiastically that it will be done. And then I run off and forget. The worst part is, however, that I don’t actually forget.

The Spirit of God is a Nagger. When I know I’m neglecting what He’s asked of me, when I’m throwing away obedience, I can feel it within me. Like a pebble I can’t shake from my shoe. For some people, this kind of conviction calls them to attention and they find their rightful track almost immediately.

For me, however, this sense of nudging conviction and guilt, the warning within me, lately seems to be sliding off me like butter on a hot griddle.

But I’m starting to burn – starting to burn with the realization that lately I’ve been feeling “far from God.”

One hears Christians say this a lot: “I am going through a dry spell.” Now, personally, I don’t credit that term with any real foundation. I don’t think that God withholds His Spirit or His Revelation from His people who are hungry. Those chords of connection are cut by us and us alone. It’s not that God has declared a drought on your spiritual life…sometimes you’ve just got to pick up a hose and fill your own watering can.

I admit that I haven’t been the best gardener these past few days. I am not going through a dry spell, nor do I feel like God has abandoned me, but I know something’s off.  The ease and flow of knowing Jesus and making Him known was so simple and straightforward the first few weeks of this journey in Uganda, and  there were times when I felt like more of an effective vessel than ever before.

But tonight I had a hard time praying out loud before dinner.

What is THAT about?

I’m waking up every day in what the Christian community would call a “missional context.” I have left my home, raised obscene amounts of money, and been incarnated into a completely unfamiliar culture for the sake of the One I now have to strain to communicate with.

How does that work?

On the outside, I appear joyful, secure in my spirituality, and fervent for the Gospel. I suppose those things are true, they haven’t changed. But take a look at my day, take a trip inside my head as Bono would call it, and you’ll see that the overwhelming majority of my daily thoughts and actions are not God-focused at all. 

They are me-focused.

Have you ever seen that slogan on bumper stickers that goes, “If you’re feeling far from God, who moved?”

I’ve moved. I’ve crept slowly away from my devoted life to my Savior, and closer and closer to my own ambition and desire.

It starts in small ways with me, the same every time. Little compromises in discipline are always my downfall.

Do I really need to read more than my daily devotion in my Bible today? Do I really have to write another blog post tonight, anyway? Why should I care how much money I’m spending? I’ll read my Bible after I finish this great novel I’m into. I’ll write more blog entries once I get steady internet to post them. I’ll ration my spending money in a week or so.

Sure, Lauren. Sure.

These small things – small acts of obedience – start slipping through the cracks. And pretty soon, the lines of communication between me and Jesus suddenly seem like we’re talking with bad cell phone reception. And it’s me who is out of range.

I’ve known for some time now that I am a fraud. My friends and family who claim admiration for me don’t know how easily and how often I slip into dark periods of non-obedience. They don’t know that sometimes it is a fight for me to be used by God.

But luckily, it IS a fight. Even when I’ve been knocked flat, Jesus never leaves my corner. He makes sure I’m not out for the count. I flutter in and out of consciousness, aware that I’ve been the agent of my own downfall.

But His voice grips me in those darkest moments.

I wrote earlier about so-called “Rooftop Moments.” The moments I’m speaking about here, however, I like to call Dirt Floor Moments.

Because Jesus Christ fights for you, because His presence nags you, because you long for the sweetness of His companionship, the only choice you have is to get off that floor and dust the dirt off.

I’m ashamed of the timing I’ve been missing by ignoring God’s voice in my life lately. I grieve the revelations I’ve missed, the opportunities I’ve wasted to get to know my Savior more every day. And I especially regret the moments He tried to use me to bless others, but I was not available for use.

I’ve been asleep, and I’ve missed a lot.  My life can never be enjoyed unless it is lived in the constant company and grace of Jesus Christ.

So now I know what I have to do. It’s so much more simple than my mind has been telling me for these past few days (or, if I’m honest, weeks).

All I have to do is obey.

I am a child today. I’ve realized I’m not mature or equipped enough to handle life on my own, so I must revert back to the childlike eagerness of awaiting a command from a loving Father. From now on, I will be desperate to please no one but Him.

I’ve been behaving like Martha from the Gospels: scrambling to secure every façade of piety and wisdom before my guests, while Jesus simply asks me to sit at His feet. I need to be more like Mary – to find and to recognize the greatest gift, and know it will not be taken away from me if I only embrace it.

I can tell you this much: that gift is not my pride, and that gift is not my own understanding. I will stop living by those.

So maybe Jesus has the same message to you today. Maybe He is calling you from the unconscious mess of the boxing ring of your own life. I can’t speak for Him, and I can’t speak for you, but all I know is that you can sacrifice your entire summer and fall semester of college to seek and preach Jesus, and still end up feeling far from Him.

But He is a strange God…He requires obedience above sacrifice. One makes you resent Him, the other brings you closer to Him.

Let everything you do be done out of obedience to God the Father. Everything you’ve been given is His.

Today I’m making a choice. It’s nobody’s business what God is asking me to do, or what those nudges in my spirit have been saying to me. But if I want to get closer to Jesus, I’m going to have to say yes.  I’m going to have to be an obedient daughter.

So now you know the truth about me. I am not sacrificing anything to be here or to do what I’m doing. Most of the time, I am a fraud who hides behind other people’s goodwill towards me. I am keenly aware of my lack of understanding, of my poisonous pride, every day of my life. And I still sometimes choose it over Jesus.

But I serve a God who visits me on this dirt floor. He sits down next to me, my confused and disillusioned self, and gives me yet another blessed, hopeful chance.  

All that matters now is that I take it.

Everything bad you see in me is Lauren. Everything good you see in me is Jesus.

The only good decisions I truly make in life are the ones where I take the hand of the Savior, offered to me in every Dirt Floor Moment. I know I’m late, I know I’m weak, but today, I’m taking His hand.

And you can too.