The Value of Trust

Recently, I've had my trust in someone compromised. In a serious, big way. I'm trying to muddle through the reality of what it means, while continute to love, and look for opportunities to rebuild what's been damaged.

Someone who is close to me, who knows the dark secrets of my heart, who knows the trials I've experienced, and who knows the tawdy, unhappy details of my testimony is planning to share this information with others. They did at least tell me they were planning to do this, and in what manner, and with whom. . .but still. I feel as though the value of my trust has been reduced to nothing. As though the trust I put into this person means LESS to them than their own freedom to share what they want to share, for whatever their reasons are.

So let's talk a bit about the value, or the worth of a person's trust. For some people, trust is easy. They've had little reason to NOT trust people. For others of us, it's a very complex, complicated process. One that requires tests, and stepping out on lots of faith. For me to trust you means that I give up the right to protect certain areas of my heart, and I allow myself to be vulnerable with you. The VALUE of that trust is not something to be made light of.

Now. . .I again enter the place of trying to understand WHY it is that the Lord requires me to trust, to be vulnerable, to be "real" with people. The experiences certainly suggest that while there are benefits to this practice, when that trust is betrayed it's an indicator that people really are inherently untrustworthy.

And so I begin . . .one foot in front of the other. . .to walk down a new path, trusting that God will heal these wounds, while creating new opportunities, safe ones, in which I can again learn to trust.

Pregnant - whoa

Last week, I sat in my doctors office as he gave me the news about my test results. I was indeed "iron deficient" but it is apparently the "self resolving" sort. It takes about nine months to resolve. Ha!  I sat there on that table covered in crunchy paper and sort of looked past him as my mouth formed the words, "Whaaaat?"  To my credit, I did  not ask, "How did that happen?"

So here I am, 36 and pregnant. Paul is 40. My "baby" is 11, and my son will be out of high school and onto college or the military before this little one makes it to kindergarten. My life is about to RADICALLY change. . .but even in the midst of chaos, my spirit feels at peace.

That's no small thing in an of itself, peace that is. You see, we lost a baby two years ago in April. It happened suddenly, and was the precursor for six months of utter chaos and the sense that God had kind of turned His attention elsewhere. There was no peace - it was just grief and pain and loss. We survived the year, and were happy to finally put it behind us.

This time things are different and while I can't quite put my finger on WHY they're different, I simply know that they are. There is that peace - that sense that everything is ok even though really there's a lot of risk to be considered. I have medical issues that complicate a pregnancy and birth, and frankly, we're a lot older than we'd planned to be when it comes to doing diapers and middle of the night feedings. But the One who is the giver of life has all of this under control.

My doctor told me something profound as I was gathering myself last Wednesday. He said, "Life finds a way." That stuck with me - that two tiny cells, from two completely different people, could create "life" is absurd. That those same cells, in that same situation with a Creator of love could create life is wholly agreeable.

We are the people who choose life; in our spiritual beliefs, political stands, etc. We. Choose. Life.  Period. And so its in making that choice that we embrace this life, for however long God sees fit to make us the parents of this baby. We are hoping and believing that's a long time, but if it's only several weeks, we still choose life.  Because He chose us first. . .

Cancer. . .

My friend has cancer.

My FRIEND has cancer. It fairly sucks and I'm incredibly pissed off about it. I am so sick of this disease and the horror it brings to the people I love. I watched my mother in law die from it, and wept with my sister b/c it stole her fertility. I don't care if you do end up "cancer free" you're never really "free" from the scars it leaves behind.

Tonight, I heard her say several times, "I knew it was going to come back." She'd had it before, the doctors operated, and she was apparently, "cancer free." I'm sorry. . .this probably isn't very "correct" but if this is a representation of "freedom" I'll pass. Thanks anyway.

Which leads me to a new vein of thought - God breathed freedom. TRUE freedom.

While she is suffering, while her body will indeed reject itself and she'll be sicker than she's ever been before, there is freedom within her spirit. She's a child of God who knows her Father's voice, and its the words He speaks to her that will give her HOPE.

I listened tonight as our Purple Sisters poured love onto her - it was spoken aloud, written in cards, drawn in pictures. It came by way of kleenex, blankets, crafted jewelry, and tears.

It will take time for the HOPE to reveal itself. In the meantime. . .we hold fast to the truth that the Giver of Hope will hold her hand, catch her tears, and bring her peace.

I am an OUTCAST!

I have discovered an up and coming artist who I'm falling in love with. Her name is Kerrie Roberts - I know right? Stirs images of some little cutsie, blond hair in a ponytail bopping cheerleader type, right?  WRONG This chick kicks butt. She jumps right out in your face, and Godsmacks you with the truth. I LOVE it.

That said, you best strap in cause I'm 'bout to get all up in your face with some serious truth. I am. . .an outcast. And I am rocking it as hard as I can. I discovered a long time ago that I am not the image of a good girl. I've never been good enough, I've never been what "they" want. I've rarely fit in, and I am definitely a weirdo. I'm an extreme Jesus Freak without a filter. If you get close, it's liable to spill on you, so if you don't want a dose of that anointing you might want to back off b/c I don't hold back, and I don't apologize.

This afternoon, I heard this marvelous song that I was certain was written about me. I just sort of sate there slack jawed, listening to the words, "I'm not good enough, I'm not what they want. But let me tell you what, I know who I am! So just throw me out, I'm not fitting in. I will stand my ground and be an outcast." As inappropriate as it may be (considering this is supposed to be a God glorifying blog) I can't help but stand up and yell, "Hell yeah baby!" I mean, seriously, its about time don't you think?

How many of us "outcasts" have struggled to confrom before finally giving up and accepting that we are exactly who He's made us to be? I was in Hot Topic the other day with my son, and when we came out I ran into someone I know through professional circles. She looked at me, didn't say hello, but said, "Holli! I thought you were a Christian? What are you doing in that place?" I turned around and looked to make sure Hot Topic hadn't turned into a den of inquity in the ten seconds since I'd walked out, and turned back and said, "What do you mean?" See, she had this idea of what a Christian, Godly woman is supposed to look. Translation; good girls don't shop at Hot Topic. Good girls don't buy their kids wrist cuffs with studs or shop the sales rack for colorful, sassy unmentionables. I told her I was pretty sure God didn't care as much about the outside of my vessel as He did about the cleanliness of the inside. (I didn't outright call her a Pharisee, but it was running through my mind.) She kind of did that self righteous, prissy, "humph" thing that good, Godly women do, and just walked off. I just shook my head.

I'm reminded constantly of the folks Jesus hung out with. Take Mary Magdalene for example. I mean, seriously. . .a woman of the night, a temptress, a harlot (let's call it what it is) a whore. And He let this dirty, outcast woman wash His feet, and then dry them with her hair. Can you say INTIMATE?? Think not? Stop and think about for a second; bent low, her face on the skin of His feet, submitted completely, weeping, and then drying Him with her hair. Wow. Later she anointed Him; again, a very intimate act. And yet the Savior of the world, God incarnate didn't shun her. He didn't tell her to go clean herself, to change anything about herself, but rather He openly embraced her, and allowed HER to minister to HIM.

Mary Magdalene - Outcast. Friend of Jesus.

Holli Stevenson - Outcast - desperate daughter of the King.

I've decided I really don't care anymore. Like me, love me,  hate me, kick me to the curb. Worse things have been done to better people and if that's the best you have to offer humanity as a Christian or a "minister" then you got lots bigger problems than I do by being an outcast. It's the worth the sacrifice of popularity or fitting into a certain group to know that I'm not doing something I don't beleive in.

Consider the outcast - I think there are three groups of people. Those who are outcast, those who judge the outcast, and those who love the outcast.

Which category do you fit into?

On Being Called

Oct, 29, 2009

Sometime back, I answered a call on my life. It was a difficult choice, let me be the first to assure you. One that required many hours on my knees, face pressed to the carpet, and ultimately claimed more tears than I could count. The choice to be obedient in the face of adversity was one of the most difficult I've made in this life. And yet, somewhere in the middle of the frustration and the anger and the disappointment, I heard that still small voice yet again. I nearly responded with, "What do You want now?" but checked myself. (Quit grinning Don.) I mean, who takes on G-O-D? So, I sat and began to listen. Less talking, less analyzing, much more listening. And God began to speak to me. . .through the people who love me, through common strangers on the street, and through beautiful signs painted across the sky that we mere humans call a sunrise.

The calling this time wasn't about something He wanted me to do, but something He wanted from me. He was requiring that next step that Peter found himself unable to take standing upon the water that night. He wanted me to close my eyes, take a chance, and take a plunge. The calling was that instead of doing FOR Him, I would simply be WITH Him.

Do you know how hard it is to be alone with yourself in the presence of God? You notice every blemish, every spot, every wrinkle. Everything that doesn't quite fit well, or is the wrong color. Those things stand up and scream, "See!!! You aren't good enough to be here! You don't belong here! Run now before you're seen!!" Your realize that you are woefully ill prepared, and yes, un-presentable. You can't begin to measure up. . .ever. You have presumed yourself something you are not. A fool in the very presence of Royalty.

How could I possibly answer this call? Give me a task, something to build, something to write, something to DO. But don't ask me to just sit and be!! And yet, that is exactly what He wanted.

And so. . .I obeyed. I sat. I listened. I uncrossed my arms and let the spots and blemishes be seen. Every wrinkle, each torrid place and broken part of me He saw and He didn't look away. My spots and blemishes, the wrinkles and the brokenness. . .He loved them too.

I've learned something in this process about being called. God doesn't call perfect people. Ever. I see Him rising up a people who have experienced life, who have been hurt and broken, and even some who have done a little breaking of their own. He draws us to this place where we wonder whether we are still within His will, all the while He is demonstrating His grace that is capable of sustaining us, and in fact restoring our faith. Grace is found in the dirty places. . .all those ugly spots and the things we'd rather not have seen. That's where Grace is found. . .b/c it's only grace that makes those places worthy of a calling. It's only grace that makes the one who possesses such sin worthy of His calling. It's grace that covers it and grace that makes it part of the journey.

The calling comes when we least expect it and rarely comes when we're ready for it. It comes in the middle of what seems like the good life, and it comes in the middle of the night bringing sleeplessness and the inability to do anything except cry out to Him for explanation. It comes with a measure of grace however, and it's the grace that sustains us through the difficult part of the process. My grandfather told me once, "The will of God will never draw you where the Grace of God cannot keep you." Granddaddy was a smart man.


In the quiet, in this place
Where I hide from You
You find me
You meet me at the breaking
And You call my name

You call to me, You cry my name
And I hear Your voice
reaching through the pain, reaching through the dark, reaching through to me
Seeing what my eyes can't, hearing the words I can't say
You call me

Out of the dark and into the dawn
You've set me
And I am free - free from everything that ties me to this sin of mine
And you find me here. .. waiting to see what You see
Waiting to hear me sing Your song
And then You call my name

On Being the Church

October 5, 2009

This morning, I listened to an amazing message about destiny. Or maybe, it was about the density of destiny - either way, it was a very provocative sermon and one that got me to thinking about some things.

In recent months, I've heard a variety of sermons about serving others. These have come by way of my own church and pastors and pod casts I subscribe to. It seems as though the church in general has begun to dive head first into the "share with me" movement. I think this is a beautiful thing in general, but looking at it closer to home brings grievance to my soul.

No speaking specifically of my own church, but of churches I know and have known I have to say that I find the "be vulnerable with me, share your soul with me" movement somewhat of a flawed double standard. We as the church are reaching out - into our colleges, our communities, to the poor, the orphaned, the widows. We have programs for addicts, for alkies, for the homeless, for single mothers. We feed them, change their oil, distribute school supply and Christmas charity. We meet in coffeehouses and hold a hand when they speak to us, when they share their wounded hearts. We give them rides to church and carry a supply of tissue for those moments when God touches us both. We give - our eyes, our hearts, our ears. We share the intimacy of touch and the gift of our listening. We are changing lives.

And yet, within the doors of the church, there are members who are contriving silent suicides because their souls are so empty. While we ask God to give us His eyes for the community, for the hurting. . .we are so busy seeking the wounded we miss the ones right in front of us. When did we decide that we must build a living house OUTSIDE of the church? At what point did the lost become our most compelling mission? We are so busily seeking these sheep who've never had a shepherd that we are one by one losing the lambs in our own flocks.

The Vineyard church has an amazing outreach to the community where they demonstrate God in practical ways. A cold coke or bottle of water, cleaning a toilet, a pack of gum. These are amazing ways to show the love of God to people. I'll NEVER argue that point, and I think more churches need to take a clue. But I think that we are sacrificing our own people for the hope of winning souls, and I can't imagine that's what Christ had in mind when He sent the disciples out to win the world.

Why are we so afraid of the wounds of those we worship with? What is it about our own hurts that frighten us? I heard from a friend who is a pastor that people do not seek out healing in their own church - they go to another body. I have to wonder why this is. I don't think it's b/c of trust honestly, but I believe that we are so "lost focused" we don't have time for our own, or we don't feel as though there is time for our problems. Why is it so hard for us to seek out the listening ear. . .especially when we've been the ear. Why is it so hard to reach out and touch. . .especially when we've offered our own hands. Why do we look right past the hurt in the eyes of the woman behind us when we "meet and greet" during worship? What is it we are so afraid of?

Walking the walk is the fundamental principle of this faith of ours. But, we must walk within the church as well. What we give so freely to those who are "lost" must given as freely to those we stand next to, worship with, and break bread with.

I heard my pastor speak several weeks ago about a man who took the time to sit and listen to him when he was going through some rough times in his own life. I don't know the whole story, but I didn't hear that the friend had all the answers, or even life changing advice. What I did hear in my pastors words and resonating in his voice was life giving the time was to him. The fact that the friend sat, listened, and heard his brokenness had a powerful effect on him. So much so that years later he still speaks of it.

People aren't looking for the right answers - they're looking for someone who has the time to hear their questions, their fears, their thoughts. And some of those people, they're right here in our own church. They aren't always lost, they aren't always single parents, or addicts or drunks. Sometimes, they're students, businessmen, housewives. Sometimes they're just like me and you.

Mothers and Sons

Feb 3, 2009

A while back my Uncle Dave sent me this beautiful little vase that is about 50 years old. By visual standards, it isn’t much to look at really. Cheap, candied glass shaped into a fluted vase with a ruffled mouth. He won it as a child at a county fair for his mother, my grandmother. He sent it to me b/c I’ve joined a sorority of the most marvelous sort - mothers of sons.

I’m married to a son who has a mother. It’s crazy in some ways, b/c I’m so fiercely protective of this man of mine. I’ve been known to give the evil eye to women who give him more than a cursory once over. I’ve defended him to his sister, and other female relatives in both our families. But his mother - well, she’s a different story altogether. This is the woman who loves the man I love as much as I do. And that puts the two of us in a sisterhood different from any other.

When Paul and I were dating, Mary and I would size one another up on a regular basis. I would think of how things were going to be once we were married, without either of our parents meddling in our lives. I imagine she was thinking the same thing, but on a different level. I would watch her with Paul’s younger siblings and swear to myself I’d be nothing like here. . .and years later I find myself speaking the very words to my own children that I heard her say to hers. As a young woman I worried about the lack of a father in Paul’s life, and how he’d learn to be a dad to our own children. I see Mary’s touch all over him as a Daddy. Even without a man in their life, she coaxed manhood from him.

As a young bride, I felt like there was a competetion b/t Mary and I. There are but two great love affairs in a man’s life. The first is that with his mother, and the second is with his wife. In my youth I imagined I would liberate Paul from being “Mama’s boy” and it took many, many years before I realized I was the one being liberated from my own foolishness. The day I held our son in my arms, I immediately understood the power of a mothers love for her son. The competition ended that day, and I took on a newfound respect for this woman who loved the boy I was perpetually in love with. I saw this amazing, cosmic and primal connection b/t Mary and Paul and he put his son in her arms.

This year we are struggling to find our way as a young couple dealing with a parents terminal illness. I have watched this man I love go from stalewart Marine who can handle anything, to a six foot tall little boy who just found out his mother is sick and he can do nothing to protect her from the enemy that is devouring her. I saw again that powerful connection b/t Mother and Son, except this time it was in a reversal of sorts.

There is a beautiful relationship b/t mothers and their sons. As the mother of an 11 year old boy, I am now fully convinced of this. As the wife of a 38 year old boy, I am even more fully convinced.