Today I feel like I’m juggling too many Ping-Pong balls. As they fly helter-skelter out of my hands, I stop, herd them into a four-sided tray, and hand them to Jesus. When I ask Him which ball He wants me to pick first, He hands me a different one—large, crystal-clear and sparkling like a diamond. Though scared to touch it, I reach out and find it is weightless, made of pure light. And He? He places it deep into my heart so that my hands are free. I carry it safely tucked inside my body, but its light spills from my pores for all to see—His light.
“But what about all those Ping-Pong balls I gave You?” I ask.
“No problem,” He says. “I’m a Master Juggler.” And He begins to toss the stars and the planets in a spectacular, brilliant light show.
“How does He keep from dropping all of them?” I wonder. And then I see the strings attached. He’s bonded to each one—each star, each orb—and, yes, to each Ping-Pong ball. Chords of love and ownership and responsibility.
“Just carry the heart ball today,” He says, “and I’ll help you juggle the rest.”
Words cannot describe the love I feel for Jesus, the third member of the Trinity. He’s beside me, ever present, watching me, protecting me, surrounding me, providing companionship, leading me, following me to see where my own footsteps take me. A friend—but not casual. A perfect friend—one who loves me just the way I am, but who loves me too much to leave me just the way I am. My Friend is so enamored with me (I haven’t figured out why yet) that He saved my life. Perhaps it’s because He made me. (In a small way I understand because of the way I fiercely love my own children because they’re flesh of my flesh, and in a sense I “created” them, and they were born perfect in my eyes.)
I was falling over a cliff, and Jesus grabbed me and pulled me to safety. But in the process, He had to go over the edge Himself—willingly He did this. And when He hit the bottom, His life blood was splattered. And I remained safely at the top of the cliff, trembling for my near miss with death. And grieving for the loss of my Friend and wishing I could die instead because it was my own foolishness that put Christ in that position to have to rescue me. But in the end, I see it’s better Him than me who went over the edge, because that would have been the end of me—kerplatz, splat! And then Jesus would have been left at the top, friendless.
Okay, never mind that there are millions of others around Him—but hey—they did the same thing I did—they foolishly got too close to the edge as well, but somehow He became the safety net for all mankind, forever, all at once, and permanently too, so when they fall off, they land safely in the net, and Jesus’ shepherd’s crook gently fishes them out. And trust me, there’s not one person who ever lived who didn’t get too close to the edge and lose his step and tumble over—except of course for the babies who were too young to crawl to the edge. (They were safe in their playpens.) Oh, by the way, some who went over the edge didn’t really believe the safety net was there, and they fell right on through. Ouch.
But back to the kerplatz on the canyon floor. If that had been ME down there? Like I said, it would have been all over but the shoutin’. But not Jesus. He had the power to do what no one else could—gather up the broken pieces, mend HIMSELF, grab His spirit and put it back into His body—except that somehow, He morphed that broken, bruised flesh into something permanent and new with new powers. Now He could fly and leap over tall buildings in a single bound. And coming back up to the top of the ledge, He told me I’d never fall over the edge again.
“How come?” I asked.
“Watch,” He said. And then He flattened the terrain with a single word. No more cliff! So we began to walk arm in arm, sometimes hand in hand; and occasionally, like a gentleman, He carried me over the rough spots and the puddles. And sometimes I let go of His hand to explore something nearby that looked more interesting than what was on the path He was leading us down. But invariably, it was fools’ gold I discovered. Sigh. Better to stay on the path with my Friend, my Savior.
He’s got a big machete and can swipe away all the snakes we encounter along the way. He’s got good eyes. He always sees them first. Sometimes He points them out to me so I can sidestep and avoid them. Sometimes He warns me, but my mind is elsewhere, and I get bitten. Yikes! But He carries an antidote with Him. One drop of His precious blood from the vial neutralizes the poison.
Sometimes I see a huge mountain or obstacle in the way, blocking our path, and I get frustrated or scared or uncertain. But my Companion just laughs. “I’ve been here before,” He says. “Come, I’ll show you the path around the mountain.” Or sometimes He surprises me and says we need to climb over or through the mountain. And He shows me the hidden entrance.
And He never leaves my side. As long as I hold onto Him, His energy flows into me to keep climbing, keep trudging, feet steady. He keeps reminding me of the beautiful valley of Sonshine on the other side. Sometimes on these treks, especially through the mountain, the way gets pitch black, and I lose my orientation. But He says all I have to do is ask, and He starts to glow with His own internal light. And He lets me see the myriad points of light—angels guarding the footpath, some up ahead, and some behind. And I step forward in confidence.
My Friend is very patient with me. He doesn’t ridicule me for my doubt or my ignorance or my stupidity. I wish I could be just as good a friend to Him. “But then, you’re not God, are you?” He smiles. “So quit looking at you, and keep your eyes on Me. I know what’s best for both of us. I’ve been to the other side, and I know the journey is worth it. Come on; let’s keep walking. One step at a time.”
There are no words to describe this Friend of mine. I love Him, and He loves me. And that is enough.
Someone challenged me to “look Jesus in the eyes.” I don’t know how to do this. I don’t see pictures in my head like an artist does. So when I “see” Jesus, it’s an indistinct outline of the form of a man. How then can I possibly look into His eyes?
AI-generated
When I ask Jesus to reveal Himself to me, all I see in my visual is a distorted, grotesquely shaped mask that covers His face. Am I afraid to see Him in all his glowing, white-hot, pure light, like when Moses had to wear a veil? I don’t think my human eyes could tolerate seeing Him in His glorified form. And yet He wasn’t glowing when He appeared to the disciples in His resurrected body. Why can’t I experience that as well?
“Do you want the mask off?” Jesus asks.
Well, why wouldn’t I? Who put it there in the first place?
My Heart Guardian steps up. “I’ll do it,” he says. And when he rips the mask off, I see the misshapen, disfigured face like the Phantom of the Opera. And Isaiah’s words leap at me: “There is no comeliness . . .” (referring to the cross). He was bruised . . .”
I once saw an artist’s rendition of Jesus. It wasn’t ugly . . . just plain and uncomely. And I didn’t want to continue looking. I want my Jesus to look handsome, majestic, chiseled and rugged and buff with gorgeous features that would make me fall in love with Him and His form. I felt disappointed . . . like this can’t truly be Jesus. I want Him to look perfect. But then I see Akiane’s drawing of Jesus and I like it. Or Jechoon Choi’s Joyful Jesus.
We all have distortions of reality. We have no photograph of Jesus hidden in the archives. No one living today has seen Him in the flesh or walked with Him. And even a drawing doesn’t produce the same result as being in someone’s presence. I can’t wait to see Him face to face.
In the beginning stages of a human love relationship, there’s an emotional high, an excitement, a drive to spend as much time together as possible. Then life happens, and you struggle to work through disappointments that the fairytale doesn’t exist. The same can happen when you begin a love relationship with God. The initial joy of finding a perfect partner in life gets buried under disillusionment and painful circumstances. You find He’s not what you first expected.
Yes, I know Jesus loved me enough to die for me, and that knowledge is all good, but it doesn’t impact me emotionally. I’ve heard it for 65 years in thousands of sermons, and somehow now I’m obligated to serve Him whether I like it or not. I’m in this marriage now because I said “I do” when I was five years old, but it’s not an equal partnership. He is everything, and I am nothing. And maybe I hold back or cringe if I sense Him coming on too strong—like He wants something from me, and I may as well give in, whether I like it or not because He’s going to get His own way in the end anyway. “Thy will be done” might mean there’s suffering to follow, and what if I prefer to stay in my comfort zone, guarding my heart and trying to shield myself from pain?
And somewhere, somehow, a part of my heart holds out, self-sufficient, anticipating harsh judgment from the God of the Old Testament, surprised at His betrayal, and believing He expects absolute perfection, surrender, and obedience to His will.
Through time, as I work through my painful childhood memories, my relationship with my husband begins to heal and grow and deepen, and I find my intimacy with my creator begins to change as well. I learn more of His compassionate heart, never condemning me or forcing my will. He is the embodiment of I Corinthians 13 love. In the end, when I allow my guard to stand down, and I embrace what is to follow, there’s sweet fellowship and excitement at renewed intimacy and a deepening passion that feels safe. I’m returning to my first love.
Why is it okay for me to feel something negative while I judge you for losing it? What about my own ungodly reactions? How hypocritical can I be? You have to endure me, too, when I get angry and say things I shouldn’t. Don’t I want you to love me anyway and give me grace? Of course! But I get weary of your ungodly choices. I expect you to be farther along in your healing, so why don’t I expect the same of me? Why do I hold you to a different standard? It’s such a battle for the mind.
So why does your trigger affect me? Maybe it has to do with expectations. I expect to live in a perfect world. I expect to have a perfect day. I expect a birthday to be all about me. I expect Christmas to be full of joy and peace. I expect to not have my boundaries trampled. I expect you to have the emotional maturity of your physical age. I expect to have good health till the day I die, and my clothes to always fit, and the roof to never leak. I expect my mango to be sweet and my new car to never get dented. I want to live in a state of perfect harmony and peace, and your reactions allow a foul wind to blow. And when my expectations aren’t met, I’m sad, angry, and disappointed.
When that happens, do I pout? Clam up? Put on a happy face? Steel myself mentally or physically for your responses and reactions? Give up all expectations or just expect the worst?
When I erect a steel-plate armor to protect myself, I’m encased in a jail cell. My heart grows cold, and I distance myself from my Heavenly Father (the source of love) and from a compassionate heart.
I repent of my self-protection and preservation. I give permission to Jesus to drill and unscrew and remove my steel plate so I can step out, free of bondage. Without my armor, however, I am weak, pale, starved, and thirsty for connection. Jesus gently ministers to my shrunken frame, murmuring, “I’ll be your protection. I love you. I will never leave you or forsake you. You are Mine.”
In my visual, Jesus leads me up to the roof of the Castle of My Heart, where we sit in rocking chairs, enjoying the sunshine together. He doesn’t say much, but I’m suddenly aware that even this perfect state could be disrupted at any time. Off to our left, a messenger arrives bearing a white envelope on a silver platter. A letter for me? It’s so pretty and pure. A love letter, I hope. But I’m expecting the worst. I’m reluctant to open it. Will I find gray ashes inside?
Now I can see the metaphor clearly. I want the missive to be a love letter, a perfect day, my desired Christmas gift, a friend who never criticizes my choices, a carefree marriage, and always-obedient children. My expectations are founded on gray ashes.
“Open it,” Jesus commands, and when I do, I’m startled when a pure white dove flutters out and flies away. I peek inside to find a ruby red heart. I’m puzzled.
“Your heart is what determines your destiny,” He says. “Your perfect day cannot be spoiled by someone else’s choices if your heart is pure.” And with that, He places the heart inside my chest. “Your heart is protected and surrounded by my love and care, and nothing can touch it there except your own willful choices to use your own self-protection or to refuse to release your pain.”
Father, I invite you and implore You to protect my heart where I’m vulnerable and weak, so that I don’t fall prey to the enemy’s lies and deception.
The story of Jesus in the temple at age 12 (Luke 2:41-52) has always left me feeling uneasy with more questions than answers. Where did Jesus sleep each night for five nights? Did someone invite Him home with them after dark? How did He get food? Did He even eat? Did He have enough money in His pocket? Where did the crowds go without any port-a-potties?
How did Mary and Joseph feel? One day to travel toward home, one day back, search for three days. Not only had they missed out on five days’ worth of work back home, but they’d misplaced the Son of God! This mother’s heart would have vacillated between fear and anger, between trusting God that He would take care of His Son, and relief that He was safe. And if Jesus weren’t considered a man, she’d be tempted to give Him His first whipping for being so uncaring, irresponsible, and self-centered. “How could you do this to us?” she cried.
I wonder if Mary’s faith grew ten times that day, or if she became triggered every time Jesus wandered too far from the back door after they returned home.
And then I look at it from Jesus’ viewpoint. Did He even realize His parents had left? Was He so engrossed in being “in the zone,” where He felt closest to Home that He was unaware of what day it was? He wasn’t being disobedient, for His parents never said, “Come, Son, it’s time to go,” and He didn’t respond with a whine, “Do I have to?” Was He just being a boy, acting like a boy/almost man, not to think about how this would affect His family? Or was He unconcerned, for He knew He was safe, and He knew they would be okay. He’s not responsible for their emotional well-being. No codependency there!
How did Jesus respond to His mom’s accusation? He was actually surprised they’d been searching for Him. He knew where He was; why didn’t they? He didn’t apologize or self-defend. He put it back on her. “Didn’t you know . . .?” Was Jesus being inconsiderate? Unkind? (I don’t think so, for as the Son of God, I believe He could do no wrong.)
How was Jesus at age 12 a reflection of the Father’s heart? Here was an opportunity to spend time with His real dad. Here was a chance to listen to and receive instruction from the seat of power and authority and instruction in His dad’s holy Scriptures. THE WORD was hearing about the Word as a growing, learning, almost-teen-age human.
Relationship and truth with God are more important than even human relationships. “I MUST be about my Father’s business; I MUST be in My Father’s house; the Son of Man must suffer; the Gospel MUST first be proclaimed to the Jews; I MUST preach the Kingdom of God to other cities; The Son of Man MUST be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified, and the third day rise again; all things MUST be fulfilled; you MUST be born again; so MUST the Son of Man be lifted up; we MUST worship Him in spirit and in truth; I MUST work the works of Him that sent Me; other sheep I MUST bring in.”
“Must” feels like a divine appointment that Jesus kept, but I still feel the story through His mother’s eyes.
I was having a glorious time—perfect spring day with everything in blossom, enjoying a walk, sitting on the deck, delighting in sunshine and a soft breeze on my skin. Feeling genuine joy, contentment, and happiness . . . when spoken words, negative in content and tinged with anger, dashed my sunshine with cold water. I lost my joy, and my inner anger flared.
Why do some people carry around buckets of cold water, ready to douse the first bit of joy they sense in others? I know it’s their protection to cover their pain, but please pour the water over your own head and cool yourself off before you enter my space!
I use my own anger to try to bring some warmth back to my cold body, but it’s a warmth that is self-induced and unproductive. I willingly hand my anger to Jesus, and in my visual I step into a warm shower. Now I feel the sadness and disappointment of a ruined moment, a stolen joy.
“I am your source of joy,” Jesus says. “My presence is what brings you pleasure, and nothing can separate us . . . not man, not beast, not any evil spirit or Satan himself. I am the Light, your warmth, your provider, shield, and protector.”
I feel panic rising this morning as my mind spins out of control with a long to-do list.
I see a large panel of spinning cogwheels. Little intruding gremlins toss sand and pebbles into the mix, and the whole mechanism grinds to a halt. What a greasy mess! When I invite Jesus into this space, we sit in front of the panel and stare. I know He could just power wash it with some sort of solution and get this thing up and running again quickly, but He just leans back, contemplating.
Not much I can do to make Him hurry, so I wait. He hands me a miniature cogwheel set to fiddle with while He observes the mess in front of us.
“You know,” He observes, “some of those wheels aren’t in a very efficient place, and others aren’t touching at all. May I help you fix it?”
“Of course!” I reply. He’s in charge, apparently, of the big panel in front of us. I’m just in charge of playing with the toy model. I give Him permission to disassemble whatever He needs, clean the cogwheels, and let Him put things back together however He wants. He’s a master at this.
Then I thank Him for allowing the sand and pebbles to interfere. Otherwise, I would have continued to inefficiently spin my wheels. Besides, my mind needed a rest, and this pause gives me an opportunity to sit still for a while. And I’m okay with that.
The Lesson
God is in charge of the big stuff—like my life and circumstances and people that enter and exit my calendar. I’m in charge of the small stuff—like dusting and answering emails and cooking for my family. If I get interrupted doing the small stuff, it’s because He has a job for me to do—something that impacts eternity. It’s not that cooking is unnecessary or unimportant (my attitude can turn it into a holy activity), but it doesn’t have eternal consequences if I choose to make a three-course meal vs. a simple crockpot dish.
The panic subsides, and I tick off the first item on my list.
When strangers ask me what I do, I often say, “I’m a counselor,” because it’s hard to explain, “I’m an inner healing prayer minister.” Though I have the degree, I’m not a counselor. I’m not a therapist. I’m simply a facilitator who helps people connect to THE Counselor—the only One who can heal their pain.
My training provided me with some tools for the trade, but John Wembe said, “You come to each session with an empty toolbox! It doesn’t matter if you’ve used it 400 times in the past. Don’t assume that what worked yesterday will work today.” Over the past 25 years, I’ve been astonished at how God gives us the exact tools we need for each client.
One day we discovered the teachings of a fellow MK (Missionary’s Kid), Arthur Burke, who founded the Sapphire Leadership Group. Reading through his prolific material is like drinking from a firehose. And though no one person has perfect knowledge or truth, we can learn much from one person’s journey of discovery. Here are some quotes and information I gleaned from his writings that have helped me in my ministry.
Being a Healer Is Contrary to Our Nature—it’s not natural.
We have a deep preference for power and control (we don’t like powerlessness). Inner healing costs us something.
Safety: we’re always at risk (those who are traps and deceivers—witchcraft, lawsuits, blamers). The demonic knows your schedule and uses manipulation.
Craving for closure (You can’t get closure if someone is suicidal.) Boundaries don’t cut it. It’s hard to switch off when you leave the office. There’s no finish line—an open-ended journey—especially if clients leave before you think they should.
We are made for community. Pain and pleasure are done best in community (e.g. birth, death, weddings). Because of confidentiality, the therapist must process his pain and pleasure in private. We experience landmines and tripwires. We can’t avoid them. We don’t like doing this to a client. It’s unintentional, emotionally devastating, and you can’t discuss it with anyone. You also can’t share victories.
Validation: We are designed by God to receive it, and we delight in giving it. But very few clients give you validation (e.g. “You’re doing a good job.”)
Therapists are driven over the years to a personality change: we become more sour or less sparkly. “It’s a toxic trade.” There is a cost to us and our personalities to be a healer, and we risk addiction to medicate pain in the body or in the soul.
The brain’s hardware, explains Burke, is the physical, the gray matter. The brain’s software is the mind/soul. All of the above is about the software. But we need to find the energy in our spirits. We need to welcome God’s initiative, like a new mom initiating connection with her newborn.
Toxic Beliefs
That my job is to bring pleasure to God by my obedience. (Psalm 33:5) We try to train God to love us, but it doesn’t work! God will reveal Himself to me in ways that are uniquely for me. God trains my spirit to build my joy. In a therapy session, my soul moves forward, but my spirit can anticipate how God is going to work, not just problem-solve. The bigger the problem, the more the opportunity to watch God work.
We’ve been fed a lie. We have a guilt trip if we don’t “hear” from God. But by design, we might “see” (e.g. visuals, visions) rather than “hear” from God. God asked the prophet Jeremiah, “What do you see?” God engages with us in a myriad of ways. Ask, “What do I see?” and then ask for dialogue from God.
On Being Stuck
Authenticity comes when we face our powerlessness and admit it but are willing to sit with an individual no matter what. When you can bring others to healing but not experience it for yourself (e.g. Paul’s thorn in the flesh), you are not alone! Don’t go to the place of guilt. Trust God. He chose to leave you in that place till His purposes are fulfilled. How long can you stand in your powerlessness without allowing it to define your God? How long can you wrestle with God selectively answering prayers without it becoming about you?
When to Call It Quits
You may need to disengage from these four types of clients if they are not willing to move forward, if they make no progress at all, or if they make some progress but regress.
A person who doesn’t want help but wants legitimacy—they will tell their friends they’re working on their stuff, but they aren’t. Phase them out!
Denial. You can’t help them till they crash and burn.
Beware of someone who comes to you self-diagnosed. They want you to work on their choice. “I can’t get other therapists to listen to me,” they might say. They’re allergic to responsibility. Ask: Are you open to another possibility?
They have a religious spirit that reduces God to a formula (like Job’s friends). “I’ve done what I’m supposed to,” they might say. Beware this person. He believes he can control God. Can you walk with God with no guarantee that He’ll change your circumstances? (e.g. Shadrach)
A 2025 Update. I have been asked multiple times how I can listen for hours to horrific stories of pain and abuse without being weighed down myself. The answer is always to process what feelings get stirred up inside my own heart. When I am at peace, I can relax and watch God work. It’s His job, not mine, to fix broken hearts.
My heart is heavy this morning with the news that a friend is nearing the end of her life, and another is struggling to function with a disease. Perhaps God put the heaviness there so that I will pray for my friends. Perhaps I’m believing a lie. Or maybe it’s tapping into something unresolved in my own heart. I see worry lines across my forehead.
In my mind, I lift my dying friend’s wasted skeleton and lay her gently in the lap of Jesus. He smiles. She is in good hands.
I see my other friend limping and leaning heavily on my left shoulder as I try to keep her upright. I’m sad and I don’t know why. My knees buckle under her weight, while Jesus waits for us to reach Him. Why isn’t He stepping forward to help? We sit for a while and rest, and still He tarries. I believe I have the responsibility to get her there, but I can’t. All I can do is sit with her till help comes. And as I relax and encourage her, Jesus sends angels to minister to her. They gently soothe her, but her earthly pain remains. Then I see the angels lift her, chair and all, to His feet. I follow and I watch.
“Are you ready, my child?” He whispers in her ear.
“Not yet,” she replies. And so he instructs the angels to carry her to Sick Bay.
It seems I’m next. “Come here, my child,” He says. “What’s troubling you?”
“It’s that word responsibility again,” I say. I know that whatever “it” is doesn’t belong to me.
“No, But love does. Staying with her and not walking away is what I ask of you.”
“That’s the easy part; I can do that.”
“Then visit her in Sick Bay and let her know she’s not alone in her pain.”
It’s often easier to try to fix another’s pain in order to relieve my own, but prayer is not about telling God what to do. It’s about letting go of my expectations and listening to His instructions.
In the Pursuit of Peace 
