When God Leads You Onward

At the very beginning of this year, God led us out of our home church.

There’s a very good chance, it’s one of the hardest things I’ve walked through. At least right now, it feels that way.  

I mean, it’s the church I went to right after I gave God all of my life. It’s where I learned how to follow Christ, how to do ministry. It’s where I met my husband, it’s where we dedicated our kids. It’s the place where I connected with so many of the people who have been pressed onto the pages of my life’s story.

About a year ago, my church had moved from the small town I was raised in to a larger city a half hour away and merged with another church. My husband and I felt like we were supposed to make the move. And while we could see God’s hand in it and how He blessed the church and the pastors, I struggled to see where I fit in it.

In looking back, I know God had us stay for a reason. In the aftermath of all the change in our lives, I found myself battling depression and insomnia. Our marriage was a struggle those first months adjusting to Mike becoming a cop. We needed the people who had been praying for us, supporting us, encouraging us for years and years to keep on doing that. I am so glad God had us stay through the move.

And then at the start of January, in the middle of praying and making the longings of my heart known, clear as crystal and quiet as a breeze, God said, “Okay, you can go now.”

I was stunned. I probably spewed a stream of questions at God, but He was quiet on all the details.

So when the next Sunday came, I visited a new church. And the next Sunday, and the next Sunday… and in setting out, I wanted to go back. I wanted normal and safe and to know which seats I could sit in and to have familiar faces saying hi. I didn’t want to let go of the relationships I considered most dear, the people who had been there on my worst days and my best days. How do you leave when you genuinely like and care about everyone? But I just knew, like knew knew, God was leading us on, and I was not to go back.

I had always imagined that when we left, there would be tearful goodbyes, meaningful thank-yous, and prayers for blessings in our new season—a send-off of sorts. But that's not how God works sometimes. And I find that hard.

Truth be told, right now, I dislike Sundays and getting two kids up for church and trying to navigate my way through kids check in, seat-finding, and small-talk with strangers. I have no idea where God wants us, but I get the distinct feeling He has us in transition, and we might be here for a while.

I don’t have the words to describe the way God is working on me, the way He is so near. I see how weak I am, the way I want to back out, Can I just go back to the way things were?!… but I also see a braveness rising up. Maybe I have to talk myself through anxiety and push back tears, but I go every Sunday, usually without my husband… and I go clinging to Jesus. I know my kids need to be there, they need to see that we value community, worship, and God. I know I need to learn how to trust, how to live in the in-between.

It seems like it isn’t really taught in church how to transition, how to leave. 

I was raised believing, though it was more implied than taught, that church-hopping was what people did who weren’t fully committed Christ-followers. People who left seemed shunned. There might have been reasons that were an “acceptable” reason to leave, but all I got was, just don’t leave. Somehow I missed that faith is always first an inward thing, a God-with-me, more than it was how I appeared or where I belonged. I thought spirituality could be measured by one’s level of plugged-in-ness, involved-ness, and how many times one showed up at the church each week. I didn’t realize spirituality could mean that God could call you out unto Himself in the still, quiet, unconnected, land of in-between.

I mean, think about all the stories in the Bible where people were in-between, waiting, connected only to God. Abraham’s journey to the land yet to be shown to him. The Israelites in the wilderness. David’s time of hiding from Saul. Elijah in seclusion being provided for by ravens. How about the passage in Hosea: “I will allure her, bring her out into the wilderness and speak kindly to her…” (2:14).

Sometimes God calls us out into the in-between.

But I do believe it’s always full of such purpose. Perhaps it’s so we can really know Him, know His character, know His voice. Perhaps it’s that the God who knows all and cares deeply longs to protect us from some unforeseen danger. Perhaps it’s that He longs to work some miracle, some kind of surprise. I am not sure what God is doing, but I do know it’s what God is asking of me. 

And really, that’s enough for me.  

So, right now, I am finding such value in this blogging community, my mom's group, and my good friends. Even in my "unconnectedness" I have found I am still connected to the body of Christ. Community comes in all forms. And it's so valuable.

I have found that because it is completely exhausting (and probably asking too much of me and the kids), it's okay to find a place to transition. We have been mostly going to a sweet little church until God directs us somewhere else, or tells us that's the place He wants to plant us.

I would love to know if you have ever walked through this? How was it difficult? How did God show Himself faithful? I’d love to hear from you. (Also, if this is something you are going through, I’d love to hear about it, in the comments or by email at amandaconquers at gmail dot com. Pray for each other?)

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Sharing in this lovely community:

So I Married a Cop

I had once upon a time written down professions I did not want to marry into. I have to admit I was one of those girls who had a sheet of paper (okay, it was probably a good five pages long) of qualities I wanted in my future husband. I had a subsection for what I was not looking for. Amongst two other professions, I had scribbled the word COP.

It wasn’t that I didn’t value the profession. I just didn’t want all the struggles that I imagined went with the job. I knew it would be difficult. (Also, I was like 17, so give me a break).

Guess what?

I’m married to a cop.

I joke and say God tricked me because cop was nowhere on Mike’s radar when we got married.

Thing is, I had always thought I would marry a pastor.

When Mike and I first started seeing each other, I have journal pages full of my questions for God. God, he’s not a pastor. God, he doesn’t look anything like I thought he would. God, it’s Michael. Are you sure? Before the thought was even fully formed, I could hear the quiet voice of God, “Shhh. Trust me, Amanda.”

I did. And I fell in love. Madly. Deeply. Truly.

Truth be told, I thought God telling me to trust Him meant that He was going to change Mike, that Mike would have some kind of God-encounter and decide to go into full-time vocational ministry.

Through our times of lean finances, Mike did encounter God. And God faithfully led him into law enforcement.

I am not so sure God actually changed him though. Refined him, sure. Completely changed his gifts and talents, no.

But God did change me. He changed the way I see.

Because from where I stand, on the arm of cop, I see a broken world. A world of prostitutes, meth addicts, mentally unstable, repeat DUI offenders, dysfunctional families, broken marriages, abusers and the abused, teenagers making stupid decisions. My husband works in a world where he’s called horrible names, where threats are made against his life simply because of the badge he wears, where he has to be alert and ready at all times. I see men (and women) whose every day is everyone else’s worst day, bearers of bad news, the first to hear the wails of a momma who’s lost her son, who witness the crumbled heap of man who’s lost his wife.

Cops are on the front lines.

Photo Credit

I have discovered that I am, in fact, married to a full-time vocational minister. Because in the midst of unspeakable tragedy, I can’t imagine there being a better person to have to pick up and carry someone’s devastation. Someone who could be more gentle. Someone who could be strong enough to not crumble under the weight of it. In the midst of the hopelessness and bad decisions, I can’t imagine a better cop car to be in the back of than the one my husband is driving. Someone who bears both Truth and Hope. In the midst of a fallen world, I can’t imagine a better person to carry the ministry of justice. Humble. Respectful. Strong.

(I am just a little proud of my husband.)

So I am thinking perhaps next time you are in are in the Chipotle lunch line and the cops walk in, tell them thank you (because like seriously… is it just me or is the Chipotle burrito the new donut?! HAHA) Maybe think of what cops face and pray for their lives, their families and their souls?

(Anybody else now have the Cops theme song in your head??  “bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you…” If not, your welcome.)

I’m wondering how you view cops… in a positive or negative light?

I’d also love to know if anyone else that reads here has a LEO in your family? Let me know in the comments.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

I may be writing a little more on this subject. I don’t want to write for cop’s wives because like seriously, rookie here. That’s like getting parenting advice from the first-time pregnant girl whose read all the books; just stop. But I do want to write about the journey. Because truly, I am learning a lot here about things like prayer, spiritual warfare, and how to keep growing in love in your marriage when you are changing… and just simple things like what it’s like to be married to a cop.

What in the World Does It Mean to Be Blessed?

In about a week and a half, we will get the keys to our very first house.

I am so stinking excited, nervous for that very adult “m” word (mortgage), and just in awe of God’s blessings.

And it’s got me thinking of the journey that brought us here and wondering what exactly the word blessing means. Truthfully, it doesn’t feel quite right to say I am blessed because we are about to have our names printed on the deed of a house. I think sometimes we get this idea that “blessed” means easy, smooth, and abundant. Looking back, I can say that even in lack, I've been blessed.

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When Mike and I were first married, we found a sweet little duplex in one of the roughest neighborhoods in our town. I remember in the still of the mornings how I would walk through all 850 square feet of our first home thanking God for every inch of it. I declared that the faux wood-paneled wall made it a house with character. I saw the seeds other people sowed into our lives, that for some reason we seemed worth it. The hand-me-couch from our college group leaders, the garage sale table my father-in-law refinished for us surrounded by the dining chairs our pastors gave us, the kitchen cabinets full of wedding registry items. So. Much. Love.

Mike and I had our first arguments, our first adult discussions, we loved and we were newlyweds trying out our newly wedded bliss. Love grew in that house. The neighborhood, however, was probably not ideal. We saw gang fights, one night there was a shooting directly across the street, we lived down the street from a dealer. But Mike and I saw such purpose there. Kids began visiting our house, and we shared the kid's ministry candy we stashed in our garage along with the love of Jesus. We even took one of the gang members to church with us.  

After two and a half years of marriage and life in that duplex, our lives got shaken. At five months pregnant, my husband’s business went under. He couldn’t find steady work, so we made the decision to move in with my parents.

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The years at my parents were hard. There were weeks when I wasn’t sure we’d be able to buy diapers, weeks when people would slip money in our hands at church saying God told them to give it to us, weeks when Mike couldn’t find any work, weeks when random checks would appear in the mail. It was this strange mixture of hard knocks and supernatural provision.

I remember once when Addy was all fresh and new, and we set out to the baby store. I stood in the baby girls’ section fingering the clothes.  I had ten spare dollars, and I wanted just one outfit amid everyone else’s generosity that would claim her as my kid. I knew she was a baby and wouldn’t remember, but buying her something with my own money just seemed to matter so much. It was like an outfit had the ability to wrap her up in the security I longed to give her. I couldn’t give her big, ridiculous bows to match every outfit or push her around in a fancy jogging stroller, but maybe one romper could say to my daughter, “I love you so very much, and I promise to take care of you.”

During that season, the hardest thing I learned was the humbling that comes when you just can’t. But friends, God still did. There were a few periods there where I am convinced without the generosity of family (church included), we would have been living in our car, sleeping in a shelter on the cold nights. There in my parents’ house, we had a warm room with a walk-in closet that we turned into a nursery stocked with so much love from our friends and family. Mike had all the space in the world to find exactly what it is he is supposed to be doing with his life. We even got a few mini-vacations thanks to God-promptings on willing hearts. When I sit back and think of all God gave us when we couldn’t ourselves…. Just big, beautiful, grateful… tears.

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After two years at my parents, my husband began working in pest control. It wasn’t enough for us to afford rent and groceries in a normal situation, but somehow God still provided. Our church offered us the small studio apartment located right above the church. It had once housed the stinky intern boys (one of whom I married) and was more recently an office. It had a tiny kitchen and a tiny bathroom and only 400 square feet total, but it was ours. I called that place my New York City apartment adventure in my own small town.

I remember once walking down the stairs and being greeted by one of the staff pastors. I had told him I wasn’t feeling well, to which he asked, “Oh, are you pregnant?”

I looked at that man like he was crazy, “What? Do you seriously think I would bring a second baby into that small space?!”

God immediately checked my heart with a quiet whisper, “Amanda, you don’t trust me?”

Mike and I both wanted another baby so badly, but we were afraid to even talk about it. Standing there, at the base of my stairs, I knew I was caught. I didn’t trust God. Not really. Not even after all God had led us through. I had pride and somehow in all of God’s provisions, I wanted the control back, I wanted to not feel the judgment from people when all I had to show from my 5 years of marriage was a life lived on the generosity of others. (Ouch—that’s a tough one to admit)

Mike and I began praying, and we knew God was wanting to grow our family and asking us to trust Him. It seemed ludicrous to bring another baby into our small studio with our tiny finances, to knowingly bring a baby in on government aid. We chose to trust God anyways.

Two months later, I became pregnant. One month after that positive pregnancy test, Mike got a much higher paid job in pest control. One month after that, one of my former student’s parents put their condo up for rent. They let us move right in, deposit to be paid when we were able. It was technically a one bedroom condo, but it came with a bonus room for Addy and a huge walk-in closet that doubled as a nursery. By the time Jed was born, we were no longer on straight government aid, but a program we had to pay into to receive medical benefits.

Both of our babies had their nurseries in our walk-in closet.

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I quote AnnVoskamp’s line often: “Sometimes we only see God in rearview mirrors.”

Some of what Mike and I walked through seemed difficult at the time. But this isn’t a sob story. This is a story of God’s faithfulness. This is a story of learning to trust.

God was with us in the ghetto. He was with us when we lived with my parents. He was with us in the tiny studio. Perhaps by some standard, we experienced lack. But I know the secret, if God is with you, you are never without. I think of what I have learned, experienced, seen… surely there is so much value in the maturing, so much value in the knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am dearly loved by my God.

Really, it isn’t the house that makes me blessed, or dreams coming true, or picking out paint colors.  It’s getting to walk with God, it’s seeing His faithfulness played out in my own life. I am not just now blessed, I’ve been blessed from the moment I gave God my life.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


Linking up with this lovely community:

Let's Be Audacious?

Last week I got to visit my nephew for the first time in all his squishy-cheeked, sweet-smelling, 6-week newness. It made my heart so happy to get to see my six-foot-three brother (who may have farted on my head a time or two in our youth, I’m just saying) be a dad.

Isn't he just perfection? :)

I didn’t just drive down south to see my nephew; although I do admit this auntie would not have needed another reason to make that long drive.  About eight months ago, I was contacted to speak at a mom’s group. After praying about it, I said yes.

I was so excited for the opportunity. I had once upon a time dreamed of speaking and encouraging women. Over the years, as I have been fully embracing this role as a mom, wife, and daughter of God and realizing that really is enough, I had let that dream go. And here was this opportunity plopped in my lap and a green light from God and my husband to do it. I was so excited.

And then the date got closer.

And I got so (SO!) nervous.

As my car made its way to Los Angeles, my stomach made its way to my throat. I thought of how the last time I spoke in front of my church’s women’s group I completely blanked out (and I do mean completely). I thought of how this was my very first time as a guest speaker and just how clueless I felt. I thought all the ways I could misspeak, offend, or embarrass myself.

With my stomach in knots and panic just beneath this skin, I sought out a phrase that had been stuck in my head for the last two weeks. Perhaps it would be in my Bible? I googled the phrase and found it in my Bible. Have you ever felt Scripture hit you like the dawn over the horizon? Like all of a sudden you could clearly see the truth that had somehow been hiding in the dark? Yeah. This was one of those moments.

“I, even I, am He who comforts you. Who are you that you fear mere mortals, human beings who are but grass, that you forget the Lord your Maker… that you live in constant terror every day… I have put My words in your mouth and covered you with the shadow of My hand-- I who set the heavens in place, who laid the foundations of the earth, and who say to Zion, 'You are My people'” (Isaiah 51:12-13, 16).

Deep down, I was afraid God would abandon me, that I would stand up there trembling and the words wouldn’t form. I was afraid of failure and rejection and a room full of blank stares. There in Isaiah is this promise God makes to be with me and this blunt reminder to not give into the fear of man.

I am pretty sure those are the two big fears we all face when we are contemplating stepping out in faith. Abandonment and failure. That if we make that big move, open our mouths to share Jesus, make some life-altering decision… God will suddenly vanish, it will all go terribly wrong and we will become the subject of gossip. I think sometimes we care way too much what people will think.

When I look back over my life, the best moments were the ones when I walked bravely into the unknown having to just trust that God would be there. Can you think back to your moments like that? I’m thinking of my summer as an intern in inner-city LA, walking down the aisle to promise the whole of my life to one man, the moment I became a momma, the conversation with a stranger that somehow led to salvation... So much uncertainty, but moments lit up by the surety of God’s presence.

Sometimes we can do really brave things.

I think sometimes we forget just how present and awesome God is and how little it matters who we are. Fear makes us forget.

I once heard faith compared to jumping off a cliff. You don’t have to know God’s going to catch you. Faith isn’t in the knowing what’s on the other side, faith is in the action and the sheer amount of audacity it takes to jump.

Those crazy brave things boil down to an invitation, followed an action, and both are laced together with a whole lot of trust.

I want to be an audacious woman. I don’t want to forget what God has done. I want to be a woman who jumps when God invites her to. I want to know just how big God is. You too?

I’m wondering, maybe we could encourage each other right here and now with our stories of those crazy brave times and how God showed up? Would you share one of your moments with us in the comments? I'd love to hear from you.

By the way, that guest speaking thing? It went so good, one of those "only God" moments. I doubt I could find the words to describe the peace of God that was upon me. I can’t tell you how it was received, but I left knowing I had said everything God had wanted me to say. Also, that mom’s group was full of beautiful, warm women. I felt like I was amongst friends. :)

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Sharing in this lovely community:

How an Anomaly Can Be a Thing of Beauty: A Letter to My Daughter

Dear Addy,

Yesterday, we went to a vascular anomalies clinic for the birthmark on your shoulder.

In the hallway, while we were checking in, you began singing and twirling. “My name is Addy, and I am so beautiful. My name is Addy, and I am so beautiful.”

I was struck by the perfection of that moment. There we were in a clinic that is keeping an eye on this “anomaly,” and there you are singing about who you are.

My name is Addy.

Addy—Adelaide—which means noble princess. Daughter of the King.

And I am so beautiful.

And you. are. beautiful.

Addy, taking you into that clinic, watching the doctors and surgeons poke at you, measure your hemangioma, talk about all the options you could have one day, hurt my heart for you. I wanted to shoo the doctors away, remind you of how wonderful you are, that there is nothing wrong with you. You see, I worry one day you will take all the words that might be spoken to you and tuck them away in your sensitive heart. I worry those words will speak to you, define you, make you think you are less-than, or that you will think you need to cover up who you are and who you were made to be.

I worry because I think of the words that I tucked into my young heart, I think of how I felt unnoticed and ugly. I allowed it all to speak to me, to define me. In high school, the popular boys called me “rat girl.” And then, almost overnight, I filled out a C-cup and those same boys wanted to date me. I translated the new found attention to mean that my figure was the only thing that made me worth something. I thought that if I could just keep a schedule full of dates, the emptiness I felt would be filled. I thought it would make me worth something. I only felt dirty and used. And believe me, that does not make you feel valuable.

Even after Jesus came in and began to heal my heart, I still struggled to see my worth. Instead of looking for my worth in men, I tried proving it. I worked so hard in college to get straight A’s, I filled my calendar with meetings and events for good causes, and I led a thriving children’s ministry. And still, I looked and found there were people who were better than me, prettier than me, more together, more blessed. I discovered I was an insecure woman full of jealousy who constantly compared herself to other women.

Comparison, jealousy and insecurity are just symptoms of a sickness. The sickness: fear. Fear that you aren’t enough, that you aren’t really loved.

And while we seek to heal this fear in the approval of others, the only antidote to this fear-sickness is the perfect love of God. (1 John 4:18) Why? Because you were made for His delight. And if my momma-heart is any indication of God’s heart, daughter, you bring Him so much delight.

I think of this scripture:
“But we have this treasure [light] in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us” (2 Corinthians 4:7). 

Whoever heard of a clay pot shining from within? Only by God’s power. Daughter, we might want to think it’s the shiny, dressed-up glass vases that shine the brightest, but it’s the miracle of a clay pot shining that is marvelous to behold. It’s the girl that makes this crazy faith leap to believe that all she is, is all God wants. It’s the girl that chooses to give all glory to God… who allows Him to fill the empty places and bridge the short-comings. It’s the girl who knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is nothing that she can do to make God love her more, and there is nothing she can do to make God love her less. It is the girl that knows she is preapproved.

And when you were singing in the hallway of the doctor’s office, yes, I do believe you knew you were pre-approved. “My name is Addy, and I am so beautiful.”

I pray you keep singing. I pray this knowing is stamped on you that no matter where you go, you have God's approval. I pray you know that you are His child. I pray that you would rise in fearlessness and be exactly the woman God imagined you would be when He formed you in my womb.

I wish I could somehow show you exactly what I see in you, Addy. The sensitivity, the beauty, the sense of wonder and delight, the way you live in timelessness, the way you dance and sing. The way you encourage and prod onward, the way you are a noticer. You live slowly and drink deeply. You know how to block out everything around you for whatever or whoever is right in front of you.

Addy, I want you to hear this: Do you know why I think that mark is beautiful? Because at some point, Addy, you are going to have to trust that you are beautiful in spite… that God loves you no matter what. You are going to have to let God fill that space in you… and what could possibly be more beautiful than you, Addy, full of the light of God?

Your name is Addy, and you are so beautiful.

I love to the moon and back, with all my heart, no matter what.

Momma

I was inspired to write this letter by Jennifer Dukes Lee (one of my absolute favorite bloggers to read) and the new book she has coming out April 1^st. I am really looking forward to this book all about approval-seeking and love idols. It’s certainly a struggle I know well.  

And, yep, sharing this in the #TellHisStory community at Jennifer's place.

Where His Grace Begins (And Where I Get Crazy Brave and Share a Song With You)

It was eleven o’clock at night. My husband was at work. My son was still awake, and since my daughter and son shared a room, my daughter was also awake.

It was one of those tough momma nights. You know how when the gas meter in your car gets right to that empty line and then starts to dip just below the line, and you start getting super spiritual about your gas level and praying you have enough to get the station??  Yeah, that’s exactly where my energy level was on that night. I was physically, emotionally, and spiritually tired, and worried that at any given moment, I might just completely give out.

My son wouldn’t go to sleep. I mean, he downright refused. He wasn't subtly refusing to sleep by reading stories in his bed or talking to his stuffed animals. No, he was outrightly and demonstratively refusing to sleep. With the will of a warrior, he had battled me for a good two hours. I had tried everything. Calm words, loud words, bribery, coercion… I reached for any and all parenting wisdom I had ever read or been offered.  Jed just refused to bend.

Finally, after sputtering words that were jagged at the edges from a heart that seemed to be breaking, I did the only thing I had left to do. I cried.

I felt desperate, like a complete failure. I was sure I was a terrible mom. For a half-minute I sat slumped in the hallway, defeated, hoping against hope that somehow if I just sat there and did nothing, my two year old would put himself in his bed, calm himself down, and go to sleep […and all the mommas laugh at how realistic that is]. I glanced up and saw my guitar tucked between the end of my cabinet and the wall. My thumb felt the ends of my fingers, remembering where my callouses once were—the way my fingertips used to feel tough and almost numb. I hadn’t played in months—no, it had been years.

Somehow, I had let myself forget how much I loved to play, how that in the space between my two hands turning out rhythm and sound on the guitar, my soul could breathe. I had forgotten how to worship, and I am not just talking about music.

At that moment, my son was crying. The edges of my frail momma-sanity were frayed. It was almost midnight. But I picked up that guitar and began to play.

Salve to my soul and sand on my children’s eyelids.

I was a desperate mom, a desperate woman, and the picking up of that guitar was my white flag. As I played, I began to let go, let the words form, made the cry of this momma heart known.
And God met me there.  

Because even though it is so damaging to our pride to be desperate, when we reach out, God always reaches back. It's that place where you feel clueless and like a complete failure that you find just how sufficient God's Grace is. And it.is.sufficient.  

I was worshiping in the hallway, pressing my fingertips into the fretboard. It took pressing in and pressing through, but worship created a sacred space--a healing place--a callous between life's struggles and my heart's deepest longing to know God.

For the first time in a long time, I felt something like restoration. Also, I slept good that night. :)

I wanted to share the song that came out of that moment…

But before I share it with you, can I just tell you that I have no desire to perform for you (not to mention the fact that I am not a professional youtuber, singer, song-writer or guitar player)? Could we just say that this is me inviting you, friend, into my living room to worship with me? I remember being in college, the zeal for the Lord, and how me and my friends would grab our guitars, shakers, and just worship--talent optional. We had no audience other than the God we sought to bring delight to. Could this be something like that? 

(Lyrics are below the video.)
(If you are reading from your email box, you can click here to see the video.)

Where Your Grace Begins

Verse 1

I think I know what it’s like to be the woman pushing through the crowd

Deep issues have haunted for years, and I just want to be found

I think I know what it’s like to be Zacchaeus climbing a tree

Drowning in vices but nothing seems to satisfy me

Chorus

It’s called desperate, it’s called empty

It’s called I’ve reached the end of me

It’s called broken, it’s called messy

It’s called I need You to find me (It’s called You are all that I need)

It’s called desperate (I’m desperate for You)

Verse 2

I think I know what it’s like to be Mary sitting at Your feet

One million things to do, but only thing I need

Bridge

When I reach out, You reach back

And I find myself undone

I’d do anything, make a fool out of me

Just for a touch from Your Son

I’m finding that where my sufficiency ends

That’s where Your Grace begins

Let Your Grace begin

Whew. We can do brave things together. (Because, like seriously, putting that out there... pretty scary stuff.)


I don't want to miss the opportunity to ask (and I'd love to know), have you ever felt that desperate? How do you worship in those really tough moments?


By Grace,
Amanda Conquers

This Thing Called Desperate

Almost a year ago I was battling depression and insomnia that had seemed to have suddenly overtaken my life. I have never weathered change well; this time in my life was no different.

I was sitting in my pew. Alone. My husband was at home sleeping off a graveyard shift. The altar call was made, it was a call for those struggling with addiction. Then, amongst the call for addiction, the pastor said something simple, “If you need a touch from God, come forward.”

Maybe he was still in the middle of talking about addiction, but I knew I wanted—no, desperately needed—a touch from God.

For maybe a minute, I wrestled with the idea of going forward. It’s not really for me. What will every one think? I’ve been on staff, led ministries, and here I am completely broken walking to the front during the addiction call. My pride battled me.

Ultimately, I didn’t care. I mean, I did care. I just didn’t care enough. I needed God. I needed His touch. I felt desperate, alone, weighted down with all the ways I was failing my kids and my husband… and I just knew I could not do one more sleepless night.

I made my way up to the front. It seemed like I was walking through the ending of Chariots of Fire, at a crawling-pace, slow-motion, a thirty-second eternity. I felt heads turn and watch me. I wanted to turn back, change my mind, but something like desperation had risen up in me. I would not be denied. I was headed to that altar. I was getting a touch from the Lord no matter what anyone thought of me.

I was desperate.

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I think of the woman with the issue of blood. The broken woman that she was. Unclean… unclean for years. She walked into a throng… no, she crawled through a throng of people. She reached out and touched Jesus’ hem. She didn’t know it would work. She was just desperate.

And without even knowing who had touched Him, Jesus healed her.

I think of Zacchaeus, little man, who wanted to just look upon Jesus so badly, he would climb a tree in a mass of people. He was willing to be the guy who everybody already hated publicly disgracing himself… just to see. He was a guy with everything… and nothing. He was empty, wondering what it was all for.

And in that crowd, Jesus called one man from where he was… the desperate guy perched in a tree.

I think of Mary who chose to ignore hospitality rules, who forgot about food and serving. She even forgot to think about what Jesus--guest--might need. She might have been a terrible hostess, but she wanted Jesus. To hear his words, sit at his feet, be his friend. She acted like hearing His words had the power to change her life. 

And Jesus told busy and proper Martha, Mary had chosen correctly.

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I think there is a direct correlation between desperation and God in our lives. 

I think desperation increases our faith in some kind of strange way…that complete and utter reliance on God.

I think God wants us to care about Him most of all… more than we care what is proper and what people might think.

I think sometimes we get so wrapped up in acting like a Christian, that we forget the first thing we are is a people who run after God.

I think sometimes we think that the more mature in Christ we get, the less we need of God. Isn’t the opposite is true though? The mature, the more-like-Christ-ones, are the ones who refuse to leave God’s side, the one’s who know transformation isn’t just the initial act of receiving Christ, but the daily act of becoming more and more like Christ.

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Seven months ago, I refinished a forty year old school desk for my daughter. It was battered from years of small children jabbing pencils into its surface. There were natural imperfections, knots and gaps in the wood. I sanded it down, took a putty knife and shoved wood spackling into the cracks, gaps, and pencil holes. I pushed, shoved, scraped, waited, and sanded. That desk is now single-sheet-of-binder-paper worthy. Smooth like butter.

I think Christ is like that putty. He fills our gaps. Sometimes it’s more than just giving Him an invitation into our lives though. It’s this slightly selfish, completely desperate act of pressing into Christ that He might fill those broken, empty places.

We become smooth, full of this Christ-putty, and yet, somehow, aren’t we more fully ourselves?

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Hi. My name is Amanda. I am a broken, gap-filled girl. I desperately need God. And somehow, in all this messy, I am becoming more like Christ. And that conquering thing?? Slowly but surely, one step at time, as this housewife leans into Christ, I am walking forward in this grace rhythm, with Christ.

I shall be called an overcomer.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Ummm… I almost hesitate to write this, because just the thought of it makes me want to, well, barf.  God sorta gave me a song about this topic a few months ago. If I can find a quiet moment and a quiet corner to record it (and my brave, big-girl panties), maybe I will share it with you… if you promise, like spit in your hand and super pinky promise, that you will just love me no matter how it sounds and appreciate what I hope will be Jesus glorified in me, more than you critique the singing and guitar playing.  

So very happy to be sharing in this community: