As I sat on her couch, the tears began to run after each other down my cheeks.
The kind of tears that surprise you, that refuse to be ignored. The kind of tears that have been sitting in the back of your throat, waiting their opportunity to come rushing in like an unannounced tidal wave.
“Can this even be restored?” I asked.
She responded without hesitation conveying confidence in her answer,
“of course! Because I believe restoration is what God does, who He is.”
…
Some things are meant to be buried, to break and remain broken. Jesus has broken the power of sin, our shame has been laid to rest, our chains from our places long devastated are now free. Those things will not be undone. But what about the things we lay in bed at night wondering if there is any hope of life still beating in them? The dream we try to suppress because the fear of failure is too loud, the friendship/relationship that once was, then broke and is now seemingly portrayed as silent strangers, the hope of freedom out of a tedious cycle we can’t seem to step out of long enough to fully live in the freedom Jesus has fought for us.
The tension I often find myself in is the dichotomy between Jesus can and Jesus will. It’s where I found myself on my friend’s couch. Mourning the loss or what was, mourning the reality of what is today and fighting confusion of not knowing where to go from here. I know Jesus can redeem all of this, but will he? Will He do it for me?
God has been showing me in order for something new, for something restored, something has to die in its place. To give way for the new.
The reality of where the relationship now stood is what hurt me to tears. The shame whispering behind me is what broke something inside of me. I am well aware of the power of God, I know who He is. I know He could very well restore, redeem, do the impossible. But I feared not for me. I feared another disappointment on the other side of faith.
Shame. Shame was fighting to stand in place of faith.
Sometimes we can have too much faith in our faith. Our faith is what will move this mountain, what will resurrect this dream from the grave, our faith will heal, our faith in our own ability will get us to the other side. To have faith in our faith just gets us bigger faith.
To have faith in Jesus, that’s the game changer. The kind of faith that will actually move mountains, to resurrect the loss, to do the impossible. The kind of faith ushering in restoration because Jesus is the one who restores, not our faith.
Letting go of something we care about is painful. It can feel like something broke inside of us, something we can’t fix or bind back together and all we can do is sit in the middle of scattered pieces. The brokenness will either drive us into a cave of lies or perch us on a ledge of hope. Shame is waiting for you in the cave. Shame is a liar and accuses us in order to ruin us, in order to ruin the beautiful work of who we are. Shame convinces us in the middle of winter that we too are dead, too far gone, and spring isn’t coming for us.
Shame hides, truth heals.
Shame silences, love speaks.
Shame binds, grace beckons freedom.
Shame aims to bury who you are, Jesus aims to bury your shame reminding you whose you are. And he’s not ashamed of you.
To know me is to know my love for the mountains, for the wild, for adventure and travel. This past January, I found myself in the middle of a winter wonderland, a real life snow globe. I was in the middle of nowhere Canada with no cell service, no wifi, and downright alone. It is a piece of Earth I have dreamt of exploring for years, until one day I decided to make it happen. To do what needed to be done to walk into the dream of Alberta, Canada. My heart felt a continual swell of wonder and amazement while I roamed wild and free in my new happy place.
The wild has this way of accepting the season it’s in. Whether the death of winter or the revival of spring, wilderness embraces the reality of today while never forgetting the hope of tomorrow.
The misconception with winter, with letting go, is that it is a cold, hopeless death. It is a death of what was, but it’s not completely lost. The trees haven't died. They're still breathing life. Maybe they've lost something, but there’s a seed. And if there is a seed, something can grow. We may not be able to see what it is yet, but God can grow something living and reframe everything in our disappointment.
Winter’s death is inevitable, but so is the awakening of spring.
I realized there is no greater picture of hope, of the restoration around the corner, than nature in the middle of winter. Nature is just as alive in the middle of winter as it is in the middle of summer. It simply looks different. It’s a new season. God is doing something new. But we must let Him. We must let go of what was. We must forgive. And then we wait in hope.
Unforgiven pain, wounds, if let unbridled for too long will fester its way into our future like a cancerous sorrow and barricade our future of freedom. We can’t let go until we forgive and we can’t forgive until we face the reality: our truths and the truth of our pain.
Lately, for me, the hardest acceptance has been just that. Accepting reality. The reality of what has happened, the current state of that relationship, the disappointment, the loss, the reality of where my emotions are, all the painful realities surrounding me- reminding me of what’s gone, what’s not, and what’s not yet.
It takes an immense amount of courage to accept reality. But sometimes the death waiting in those realities bring the greatest life.
God does the unexpected with our pasts, our pains and losses. He can and will do something greater on the other side that nobody saw coming. He may redeem it all in the way you hope, but maybe it’ll look completely different. Maybe the relationship will come back better, or maybe He’ll redeem what you really hope to have in love in the form of another. Maybe you’re holding onto the old because you think that’s all you’re worth. Whatever the case, He’s wanting you to see His love in the midst of it, regardless of what happens on the other side.
Death doesn’t mean the end, it doesn’t mean it’s over. God is the one who decides the end, He decides when or if it’s over. What seemed dead to me, doesn’t seem dead to God. What appeared dead to me, God sees as an opportunity to make it new, better than it was before.
There would be no resurrection without the burial.
No awe of love without the loss.
He’s in it with us. And at the exact same time He’s waiting on the other side with restoration, He’s working in the middle of it with hope and He’s standing behind you with healing. There’s no past He can’t handle. No rock of shame He can’t move. No ancient ruin too ruined to rebuild.
In the process of waiting for circumstances restored, I had to bury who I had unconsciously believed myself to be coming out of the circumstances: looked over, disregarded, used, rejected, undesirable. Shame had stolen my confidence. But being able to acknowledge the dark lies aiming to keep me hidden in a cave, allowed God to revive who I truly am. I am seen, chosen, loved, accepted, desired.
It may be broken beyond repair, but He can make it new.
God never stops creating for us. It’s who He is.
The most courageous lives are the ones who went through the wildness and fought for the restoration on the other side. And that restored life ignites a wild fire around her.
One day we will sit on this couch and say, "it was all worth it." Not to justify what’s happened, but to say there is nothing so dead God can't redeem and restore something living in it.
The dense cloud will lift. You will see around the corner and there won’t be disappointment. But a mountain standing where there was once nothing. Delicate and resilient. Resembling the surrendered strength that got you here. You will experience an adventure of miracles and wonder. You will see the revival, the comeback, the freedom all around you.
A thrilling picture of the beautiful interchange that happens when you courageously let go of one thing and allow something new to take place.
