Coming Home.

There's something happening between me and God. No, it's not something happening, something is being removed. I feel like I'm being lifted out of a darkness, out of a blackened cloud that I've been in for a long time now.

I think the darkness started at the end of Spring semester last year. I can't tell you when, and I can't define how, but there was a slow and seductive darkness that crept subtly over my spirit. Some how, I believe it found roots during my early days in Africa at the beginning of the summer. Those were days of questioning God, doctrine, theology, and the church. The missionaries I lived with, who I care for a great deal, convinced me that I we can't really know God, can't really define Him. You know what that means? We can't really commune with Him. So, believing that, I pushed away the Church.

Back at Moody, I felt conflicted in my spirit and completely unsure of how to pray or live or grow. Naturally so; when you can't know God you certainly can't talk to Him. I began going to counseling, a process I really am thankful for, but in the process my councilor pointed to my family and my parents' failure. She blamed them for my struggles. Are my parents perfect? No, they'd be the first to tell you. But something profoundly destructive happens when you open your life up to be filled by a councilor who is not united with Christ. That is dangerous ground. But, I was convinced, completely persuaded; so I pushed my family away.

In counseling, I learned that men have treated me badly in life; I learned I have a right to be bitter. It's amazing what the devil will prescribe for you through Doctors orders. My councilor taught me that men take advantage of girls, but it's mostly my fault for over reacting; men will manipulate and use, but mostly I'm just being a drama queen. No, I don't need to forgive, just forget. So, believing the lie, I pushed away from men.

I'm now seeing the life I've chosen. I have chosen to push away the church, my family and men. I have systematically walked away from my three authorities in life: the church, my family and men. There's a feminist lie that says, "Be free, walk on your own, be independent!" It's ironic, really. Free? From what? "From authority", she'll protest. "You never needed them anyway. You take care of yourself!" No, darling. No. Freedom from the church means freedom from nourishment and community and discipline. Freedom from my family means freedom from identity, from a sense of belonging. Freedom from men means freedom from leadership and protection and provision.

"But you could be free, independent, self-actualize, reach the apex of your destiny, heal yourself, love yourself, defend yourself. You could be just like God!"

Oh, the slippery serpent of old. The lie has roots in the garden, roots in a tree that was forbidden but looked so good. Being God has always seemed so much better than being with God. Oh, and how I've taken and ate. How I believed that I was in a prison, bound and chained; how I demanded free will, the freedom to choose.

But I don't want free choice! I'm always choosing what hurts me, hurts those around me. I'm always eating the fruit! Left to myself, I always choose the seductive death in the form of a sweet bite of freedom! No, I don't want independence; not from the Church, not from my family, not from men. I don't want to be my own defender any more. I don't want to provide for myself anymore. I don't want to choose anymore.

Yes, there seems to be light in the darkness.

If this is a black cloud I'm in, it's becoming a fog. I'm not out yet. There's still a lot of darkness around me ... but it is turning to a grey. Thank You, Abba. Thank You for not giving up on me. Thank You for holding my hand even when I told You I wanted to run and play. Thank You for watching over me closely when I jerked my hand free, for stopping traffic when I ran across the street, for sitting nearby even when I refused to look at You and insisted on playing house. Thank You for leaving the light on and waiting up for me when I ran away, insisting I could do better elsewhere. The journey home is long, but I'm on my way.