Category Archives: Emotions

Suzie’s Heart Castle

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God, Inner Healing, Prayer, Scripture

Journal 2017

This morning, when I asked God how best to pray for my friend Suzie, He gave me this visual.

Jesus scooped me up on His white horse, and we flew over to Suzie’s heart castle. I was dismayed to look down and see the devastation. The enemy had penetrated in spite of the thick stone walls around the property. The castle and the grounds had been burned and blackened, and only the charred remains of the beautiful oak trees dotted the landscape.

“So where is Suzie?” I cried.

“Listen,” He said.

And then I heard it. Cries of anguish came from the direction of the one standing turret. I knew then that Suzie was trapped inside, fighting for her life. She had barred and locked the door from the inside, fully armed, on high alert. The enemy troops surrounded the walls and were gleefully gloating, not paying much attention except to their own shenanigans. They knew they were helpless to penetrate the turret, but they didn’t care. They knew that eventually Suzie would run out of food and water, and their mission of destruction would be accomplished.

My inclination was to rush in with a flaming sword and rescue the damsel in distress, but I knew Jesus far too well than to make plans without him. Besides, He had told me I didn’t need to bring any weapons with me because I had Him; and as long as I stayed close to Him, I’d be okay. I looked at Jesus to see what He would do.

We glided over the walls and landed softly in front of the turret. I laughed in glee as the enemy hordes scattered like rats to the edges of the compound. What will He do next, I wondered. Will He knock, inform her that all is well, and that would be that?

Instead, we slid off the horse, and He sat by the door and pulled out a bag of marbles. “Care to play?” He asked.

What!? Really? Well, okay, I trust He knows what He’s doing.

I glanced up to see a shadow cross the window above us.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“She’s noticing the quiet,” He whispered.

I listened. The screeching of the devils around us had stopped, but no sound of birds could be heard or rustling in the trees. Just silence.

Okay, that’s good, I thought. What’s next?

“She needs to know that she’s safe before she will put down her weapons, stop fighting, and rest,” He said. (He had read my thoughts, of course.)

“So why don’t we just go on in and rescue her?” I asked. “You can go through walls.”

“I could . . . but it might scare her, and she’d pick the weapons back up if she hears noises on the stairs. I want her to learn to trust Me. I’m not like the destroyer who’s out to get her. But she doesn’t know that yet.”

“But she might starve to death while You wait for her!” I exclaimed.

He smiled. “Don’t worry, Little One. She’s been starving a long time already. That’s why she called for my help.”

“Then why don’t You help her?” I asked.

“I will . . . as soon as she opens the door and lets Me in.”

“But . . . ?”

“But what?”

The question died on my lips. I already knew the answer. I had learned firsthand the lesson of waiting—when I’m ready . . . when the Kairos time is right . . . at the appointed time, all shall be well.

“Thank You, Jesus, for letting me come with You today. I asked You to help her because I knew You would. But it’s always fun to watch You work. What’s next?”

“Wait and see the salvation of the Lord.”

And so we continued to play marbles on the soft dirt. Then Jesus began to whistle a tune—a lovely melody. (I love it when Jesus sings over me. I hoped it would reach Suzie’s ears so she could hear it too.)

And that’s when we heard the sobbing. Deep, wrenching sobs of pain coming from within the turret walls.

“Now, Jesus?” I looked to see what He would do. I wanted to rush in and scoop her in my arms and tell her all would be well.

He just shook His head, silent, and I knew I was expected to stay still and remain quiet. We both looked up at the same time. A shadow and then a tousled head appeared in the window. She glanced furtively about trying to determine where the sound was coming from. But all she could see was the desolation below in her garden. We were too close to the door for her to see us from that angle.

And so we waited. But it didn’t take long. We heard the sound of footsteps on the spiral stairs, closer and closer to the door. I held my breath. What would she do next? I glanced at Jesus. A little smile played about his lips. I could hear her breathing heavily on the other side of the door, waiting for something. Jesus paused for one beat, then two, and then very softly knocked on the door. “Suzie? It’s Me. Jesus. It’s okay. It’s safe to come out now. You are safe with Me.”

“How do I know it’s You?” she demanded. I’ve been tricked before.

“Tell you what,” He replied. “Why don’t you open the window in your front door and peek outside. Don’t open the door itself until you know it’s Me and not the enemy.”

“Yes, but the last time I did that, I saw what I thought was an angel of light. But when I opened the door, all hell broke loose.”

“Good point,” He countered. “Did you use the Demon Test first?”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I know how much you love My words. You can trust them. They are life and they are true. Remember where I instructed John to write, ‘By this you know the Spirit of God: Every spirit that confesses that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is of God, and every spirit that does not confess that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is not of God” (I John 4:2-3)?’ Ask Me to say these words. The demons are incapable of saying them you know.”

“Okay . . . let me think about that . . . okay, yes, I do trust Your written words. So . . . whoever you are, say those words!”

“Jesus Christ is come in the flesh.”

Slowly and cautiously, the window swung open, and Suzie peered out. Jesus winked at her and smiled. “Good job!” He exclaimed.

And then He nodded over to the black spirits at the perimeter of the compound. Try making them say those words.

“Tell me ‘Jesus Christ is come in the flesh’!” she yelled in their direction.

Some of them smirked; others cringed; but they all looked away, silent.

Jesus waited.

“But what if I open this door and they come rushing back here?”

Silently, Jesus held up His flaming sword so she could see the words written on it:

And take . . . the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God (Eph. 6.17). For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart (Heb. 4:12).

“They really don’t like My sword.” He grinned.

And then I smiled because I knew what was coming. I’d seen it hundreds of times. I heard the bolts scraping open. Slowly the door swung inward, and Suzie stepped out into the bright sunshine. She blinked, trying to adjust her eyes. And I saw Jesus sheath the sword and stretch out His hand in invitation. She hesitated. She still wasn’t sure she could trust Him. Maybe He was mad at her. Maybe He was going to whip out that sword to cut her in two. The thought was still very scary.

He lowered His arm. “Care to sit down and play marbles with us?” He asked.

“Marbles!? Are you mad?’ she said. “This place is in shambles; my kingdom is decimated, and you want to play marbles?! Aren’t you going to fix this place? That’s why I prayed to You, you know. You let this happen. Where were You when I was being attacked by the enemy? Where were You when my grandma’s life was cut short? You didn’t care that my parents divorced and left me to fend for myself.”

“Who are you really mad at, Suzie?” He asked gently.

“I’m mad at myself! I’m mad that I trusted you; I’m mad that I trusted other people and they betrayed me. But I’m mad at You too.”

Suddenly she stopped. I could see the fear in her eyes. She had just told off the King of the Universe. Would He strike her down for such insolence and disrespect? He’d done it before. She’d read about it when he disciplined the Israelites. Would He react to her the same way? She shrank back into herself, still on high alert, ready to bolt back into the turret and slam the door if necessary.

Instead, He waited, saying nothing.

When He didn’t make a move, she whispered, “Don’t you care!?” I could hear the silent scream behind the question.

“Yes, I care very much,” He replied. “I cared so much that I died for you so that you could be set free . . . if you want it.”

“Of course I want it,” she retorted. “But You didn’t do anything to stop it. And You didn’t come when I called.”

He waited, silent and patient.

“Well!? Aren’t you going to do something?”

“I’d love to, Suzie. But first, would you be willing to hand your anger to Me? I’m big enough to take it, you know. You’ve been carrying this for so long. How has it helped you? What has your anger done for you?”

“It’s kept me quite safe, thank you.”

He glanced up at the turret. “Sure, sure . . . quite safe . . . and starving.”

“Tell you what,” He added.” How about we do an exchange? You give me your anger, and I’ll give you some bread.”

By this time, Suzie knew her blood sugar was crashing, and she couldn’t keep up the tirade for much longer. Meekly, she handed over the fireball she’d been clutching under her arm, and He produced a warm, fresh-out-of-the-oven slice of bread, thickly slathered with melted butter and raspberry jam. Quickly she wolfed it down and then drank deeply from the bottled water He handed her. It tasted like nothing she’d experienced before—cool and warm at the same time, fizzy, like little sparkles of light dancing on her tongue. And she remembered those ancient words, “I am the Bread of Life; I will give you springs of Living Water.”

Suddenly, she knew she wanted more. More where this came from.

“Jesus?”

“Yes, my child?”

“Thank You.”

There was more, much more, to this story to come I knew. The kingdom had yet to be rebuilt and restored. But I knew there was time, plenty of time, because I knew that God’s timing is always perfect. For now, it was good to know that Suzie was with Jesus, getting to know Him and learning His ways, and would be pouring out all of her pain in the days ahead. It had been a good day.

Taste and Smell

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God, Peace, Scripture

Journal 2021.

If I had to lose one of my five senses, I always said I’d rather not lose my eyesight. It never occurred to me that losing taste and smell could also be so debilitating. Since I had Covid, everything smells the same, and it’s not pleasant.

“An odor pleasing to the Lord” is stated five times in Numbers 15. Of course this phrase catches my eye. I may not be able to smell, but God can. And I want my attitude, thoughts, and deeds to be a pleasing odor in His nostrils.

But I need some help with this. I’m still trying to quit complaining about my loss. I have an appointment with food three times a day, and three times a day I have to face the loss of sensory pleasure. Does giving up hope jinx it? If I give up hope, am I doomed because my mind will no longer have positive energy? We teach clients they may need to give up, or let go of, the hope that their dad will ever love them. What does letting go look like for me?

VISUAL: I’m tied to one end of a rope, and the taste of food is on the other end. As long as I hold onto my end, I’m not free to explore other things. Letting go doesn’t mean I don’t ever eat again. It means I let go of the pleasure, the drug.

And so, I let the rope drop, and it retracts into the food. The flavors are still there, in the food; they’re just not tied to me anymore. They don’t belong to me and therefore have no power over me. Thank You, Lord. Now I can pick up the food and examine it—see it, feel its texture, and experience it as I am able to sense it. It is what it is.

Diversity in the Body

Posted on by under Emotions, God

Journal 2021.

When I Googled “sects within Gentile Christianity,” 24 showed up. Another search listed 6 branches: Catholic, Protestant, E. Orthodox, Anglican, Oriental Orthodox, and Assyrian.

We are certainly diverse on this planet, and we all think we are right. Most of us struggle to either maintain what we’ve been taught or struggle to break free and think for ourselves.

I am a far cry from the legalism of my parents’ day, but I have not rejected their God. Other adult children of missionaries have rejected everything associated with their upbringing.

Our girls may believe a little differently than we do, but they have not rejected the God of their parents. And our grandchildren will make their own decisions. I think God can handle that. He loves diversity and creativity. But most of all, He wants our hearts. In all our diversities of worship, we must learn to love and embrace those who are different. It’s the rare person who can do that while maintaining their integrity.

Covid Losses

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, Scripture

Journal 2021

The Israelites complained about having to eat manna every day (Numbers 11:1-9). They missed their fresh fish, along with the flavorful cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions, and garlic.

I used to fault these people for their ingratitude. Here they were in the wilderness being miraculously fed free food, and all they could think about was what they were missing . . . and I’m convicted of my lament over loss of taste and smell. I, too, remember what pungent flavors used to burst on my tongue and the rich smell of onions, garlic, and pepper sauteed in a frying pan. I miss the diversity of flavors. I’m with you, dear travelers, in your complaint. But I want to discover the sweetness of holy manna, the gratitude for what I do have instead of the grief over what I’ve lost. How do I learn to leave Egypt behind and embrace the promise of a new land?

I see no fire of God burning at the edge of the camp, but I feel the fire of conviction in my heart for looking back. The smells and tastes in heaven are far superior to anything dull here on earth, and I look forward to what will be restored.

Returning to Egypt meant rejecting God (v. 19). I have not committed this sin, but complaining about my circumstances is a slap in the face of my God who gives me daily, adequate nourishment for my body. I must begin a more rigorous regimen of gratitude for God’s provision.

They asked for meat, and God sent quail. Be careful what I ask for . . .

A Slap on the Cheek

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, Scripture

Journal 2021

But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. (Matthew 5:39 ESV)

Whenever I read this verse, I pictured a non-retaliatory response—a martyr passively submitting to bullies and taking abuse uncomplainingly. “Go the extra mile” or “give him your cloak as well” meant actively showing that you’re made of better stuff than the controlling person in your life. And so I’m intrigued with the following interpretation. See what you think.

A slap on a person’s right cheek meant the abuser was using the BACK of his right hand—an insult. “Turning the other cheek” called out the abuser: If you’re going to hurt me, do it like man-to-man, using the FRONT of your hand (which would land on my left cheek), not like a master hitting his slave.

If you take my cloak, I’ll give up my undergarment, too, and stand semi-naked. It will show up your cruelty.

The law stated a soldier could require a civilian to help carry his gear for one mile. If I offer to walk a second mile, the soldier will protest, or he’d get into trouble. My act shows up the injustice.

Either way you interpret these verses, it takes courage and grace not to retaliate.

A Clash of Agendas

Posted on by under Emotions, God, Scripture

Journal 2009.

Baruch (Jeremiah’s scribe) said,

Woe to me! The Lord has added sorrow to my pain; I am worn out with groaning and find no rest. (Jeremiah 45:3 NASB 1995)

God said,

“Are you seeking great things for yourself? Do not seek them; for behold, I am going to bring disaster on all flesh,” declares the Lord, “but I will give your life to you as booty in all the places where you may go.” (v. 4)

Sounds like Baruch was struggling to accept God’s plan for Israel because it messed with his personal goals and life. Sound familiar?

“Each man’s eternal rewards are proportional according to his faithfulness and not to his earthly recognition or the lack of it.” (Commentary on Jeremiah)

Is God Unfair?

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God, Scripture

Why do I struggle with the concept that God has the right to do as He pleases with His creation? I want fairness, and it doesn’t FEEL fair for God to choose one person for special purposes and another for common use.

Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for special purposes and some for common use? (Romans 9:21 NIV)

With my great power and outstretched arm I made the earth and its people and the animals that are on it, and I give it to anyone I please. (Jeremiah 27:5 NIV Emphasis added)

I can view my story from an egocentric viewpoint or a theocentric one. I can read the story of Pinocchio through his eyes or through the Woodcarver’s who created Pinocchio in love for a relationship. The only safe place for Pinocchio was in his father’s house and under his creator’s care. He could have had greater adventures, in safety, had he stayed with Geppetto, but he ran away. His rebellion resulted in grief, but then he found redemption when he returned to his maker.

When I think “birth” instead of “creation,” I have a paradigm shift in my response to “unfair.” I am a baby, then a child, adolescent, and adult in God’s kingdom. But even as an adult, I never outgrow the need to be loved and cared for. The danger as an adult is to think I’m self-sufficient.

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Fervent Prayer

Posted on by under Emotions, God, Prayer

Journal 2009.

I can name five people right now who are in crisis emotionally. I am not indifferent to their pain; I am concerned and praying for them. But I wonder at my emotional detachment from these good friends. I realize that with the healing in my own heart, I’m not jerked around so much by other people’s issues. I’m sure a doctor goes through this process having to take care of sick bodies without getting too emotionally distracted.

The prophet Jeremiah said God’s burden on his heart to prophecy was like a fire in his soul if he didn’t speak. David also had a fire in his soul—but it was driven by guilt. The key, I think, is recognizing the difference between the Holy Spirit’s burden on my soul to pray for someone and my own triggers that reveal insecurities and fears.

James said, “The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much” (5:16 KJV). Can prayer be effective if emotions aren’t involved? “Fervent prayer” implies strong emotion. When I’m in crisis, I have strong emotions, and my prayers are deep. But what if I’m not feeling anything? Are my prayers just as effective? I say yes—if my motives are pure and my heart is right before God.

When I pray with someone who is demonized, I don’t have to raise my voice, wrestle, be stern, or give in to fear. The power is not in my desire to see someone delivered and getting all excited emotionally. The power is in Jesus’ Name.

So if I’m praying for someone, interceding on their behalf, I don’t have to drum up some emotion to get God’s attention. Remember the prophets of Baal who had strong emotion, pleading, crying out, jumping around, and cutting themselves? But Elijah? He just appealed to the God who made the fire and the rocks and rain. The power is in the Person. Using God’s Name means I’m accessing the power of the universe. Therefore, be careful what I ask for!

Relationship with Adult Children

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, Motherhood

From my 2009 Journal

I’m still learning what is appropriate and what isn’t in relationship with an adult child under our roof. Is it reasonable to expect our daughter to pick up after herself in family living areas? To help with the dishes? With cooking? With cleaning the house? And if she chooses not to, how do I approach the subject with her? I realize communication at this point can be tricky. My expectations and desires for a neat and tidy house must be subservient to maintaining relationship. Therefore, I am far more tolerant of mess than I would be if I were still trying to train her.

Child-training was like using all my strength to pull three girls in a wagon who are pushing and shoving and fighting each other. If I insisted they get out of the wagon occasionally to walk on their own or help push a little, they whined, “We’re too tired!” (Well, so are the parents!)

The trouble is when children get comfortable in the wagon, they expect you to bring their food to them and clean their play area even though they’re old enough to clean it themselves, and you trip over the toys, and have to clean around them. Where did I go wrong in my parenting that my training didn’t stick?

Now that they’re grown and living with us, it’s time to drop the wagon handle. The challenge is not to become resentful or nagging when they don’t join me in household chores.

While living in a college dorm, our one daughter discovered firsthand what it felt like to have a roommate who never cleaned up after herself in the kitchen. So when she came home, I was delighted to hear of her intentions to help out more with the dishes. So if she’s too tired to help out for a couple days, do I hold her to her good intentions? Do I feel resentful when I return home to find breakfast dishes still in the sink? So she slept late that day, worked the entire day, and ran out of energy before the work was done after supper . . . (welcome to the grownup world, kiddo!) I do not fault her, but I do have to figure out what is an appropriate response.

Jesus says, “Whistle while you work.” Praise Him that I have two arms and two hands. Praise Him that I’m not in a wheelchair and unable to stand at the sink. Change my attitude and enjoy the brief time I have with my daughter. She’ll soon be gone, and I’ll miss her.

A 2023 Update. Now that my girls have homes of their own, it’s fun to watch them struggle through the challenges of training rambunctious boys to put away their clothes or help in the kitchen. And when they come to Grandma’s house for a visit, chaos reigns for a few hours or days and I love them all. But when they go, tidy returns. I guess you can’t have it both ways!

Returning to One’s Roots

Posted on by under Emotions

Returning to One’s Roots

Journal 2009

Returning to one’s roots can be emotionally charged, therapeutic, exhilarating, liberating, or terrifying, depending on your memories. When my sister suggested we revisit our old haunts in Elkhart, Indiana, where we spent our 1965-66 furlough year, I readily agreed. It was the last time we ever lived together. I was in Grade 6, and my sister in Grade 11. My parents and I returned there in 1970, and I stayed an extra year when they left me for my senior year of high school to return to the mission field. Both my siblings were on their own by then. Here’s an excerpt from my journal:

It’s the middle of the night and my thoughts are ricocheting so fast I can’t sleep. How does one record thoughts, emotions, impressions, and for whose benefit? Where to begin? These are MY memories. With whom do I share them? When I take a photo of our old house, my immediate thought is I want to send it to my mom [who is deceased]. Thankfully, I’m experiencing this trip with my sister, which is hugely satisfying. But I record them for myself so that in my old age I have somewhere to refresh and keep the memories alive. I don’t share these with my children because they weren’t there. But maybe someday they’ll visit some spot on earth and stand there and say, “My mother’s spirit was here.”

I stand outside our parsonage home on Second Street and “watch” my sixth-grade-self playing Jingle Jump on the sidewalk. I see me climbing the tree in the front yard and climbing out my bedroom window onto the roof. Playing with our dog Duke and ironing in front of the TV in the basement. Marimba lessons and finding marbles in the heat register in my brother’s bedroom and slip-sliding in the oversized bathtub and buying toothpaste because I saw it advertised on TV. My huge empty bedroom upstairs with my sister on the other side. I learned to use the telephone. Snapshots in my mind of packing for our summer trip across the USA. My mom was sick with Hodgkin’s that year, and we complained of Dad’s cooking. This is my story, my history. I’ve relived it in my mind many times.

The neighborhood is seedy now and multi-racial. The neighbor across the street came over to chat and told us the house is in foreclosure. I want so much to see inside, but it’s unsafe, he said.

My best friend Kathy lived at the end of Pottawatomi Street, and we walked the six blocks to school each day together, past a Mom-and-Pop grocery store where we bought wax pop bottles or wax lips filled with sweet liquid and candy cigarettes. We formed the TGTG club (The Glued Together Girls). She loved to stay overnight at our house because her daddy was raping her at hers, and I was too ignorant to know. She taught me to make snow angels and play king of the mountain. We played hundreds of games of Yahtzee, biked down to McDonald’s in the winter for a warm bite of hamburger and French fries.

More memories flooded in when we visited the old Grace Bible Church Tabernacle who had showered us furloughing missionaries with love and Tupperware. We met the current pastor who has a ministry to inner city dwellers. Then on to Central High School where I graduated with 900 other seniors—a huge culture shock to this African girl. I wonder what memories surfaced for my sister as we visited her high school and the home where she stayed for her senior year.

My former Samuel Strong School building now houses a business. So many memories. Open-stall bathrooms in the basement, being teased for being the teacher’s pet, volleyball in the low-ceilinged gym. Declining to be a crossing guard because I didn’t know what that was. Skating on ice on the pavement for the first time. Being teased for gifting dandelions to the teacher (Who knew they were weeds!) Kathy destroying a page from Playboy magazine she found on the sidewalk, and I had no clue what it was. Kathy wondering how babies got fed, and she was surprised that I knew (well, duh—I watched mothers nursing all the time in Africa, including in church) and me surprised that she didn’t know this basic fact of life.

We drove to the house where we lived in 1970, but though I saw the curtains moving, no one answered the door when I knocked. More memories sling their way across my brain. When we visited the house where I lived with an older couple in my senior year, the current owners invited me in. Too many painful memories to record from that year. But revisit them I must if I want to heal from them. Perhaps another day. . .

A 2023 Update. Physically revisiting a site may trigger emotions, but it’s worth it. I understand the power of letting go of the past, and over the years, I have revisited each of those memories and found healing and release. This summer our family is planning a trip back to Michigan where we raised our girls. New memories will soon overlay old ones as they share with their husbands and children what it was like where they grew up. Let the fun begin!