Pearls and Presence, Chapter Seven- Bitter

Once upon a starry and lonely night, when the Accuser was whispering promises into my ear, I gave him the key to the door of this empire just as I had given him the pearl. And that very night he locked it and hid away the key from me. He is so close to me now, and I see it there hanging from a string around his neck as he leans over me. And there in the tallest room of the tallest tower of my empire I am finally overcome by the Enemy. I get what I deserve. All the things I built walls up against to keep out, they are all visited upon me in full force at that moment. All the things I feared, they all came true. My idols are gone, and my Accuser was right. And this is the dark night of the soul, and I cannot escape my mistakes or undo my choices.

Who can save me?

~*~

Maras’ eyes were closed, and the craving she felt was all-consuming as she bowed low before her idols. It had been so long since she had worshiped here. All the pent-up energy came exuding from her being. Her hope was electric with anticipation.

“This is the moment you have been dreaming of, Mara, when you will get what you have always wanted.” Achor knew exactly what she needed to hear. His knowledge came from the many years of walking with her, listening to her talk and studying her habits and behaviors and choices. He knew her better than she knew herself.

“You will finally have companions on the island. You have given them your complete trust now, it is finished!” The power of his influence over Mara in this moment came from the many years of her choosing his companionship, allowing herself to walk with him, listening to him talk, and looking frequently into his accusing eyes for answers.

She was so convinced of her happiness that she hardly notice when Achor moved close to her and crouched down right next to her prostrated figure. He pressed his hand lightly on her back and whispered, “Give the necklace to me and you will have what you deserve. I know what to do next.” 

She wanted so badly to believe that his words were good, because his was the only voice she ever heard on the lonely island. So Mara lifted up her right arm, hands clasped around the pearl necklace, extended it towards him, and it fell through her open fingers into his hands.

The moment it happened she felt all the power go out from within her. That very second she realized she had totally destroyed her illusions.

She finally saw that her idols were false, and that they were made of nothing more than masks and fears and lies.

She wanted to take it back.

But it was too late.

What was done could not be undone.

He stood up with a victorious laugh, and then stepped between Mara and her idols. She felt his cold shadow fall over her, and regret manifested in her body. Mara looked up and saw that he was clutching the pearl necklace tightly and mocking her with accusing eyes- his voice was no longer encouraging, but full of selfish delight.

“I have waited years for this moment. I have been searching for the pearl of great price among your roses day after day after day. And now you just hand it to me of your own free will!”

He laughed and looked closely at her. Then he spoke with great clarity- “Always remember what you have done. You chose this by your own doing, Mara. This is your fault and you should be so ashamed.” That word burned like fire in her soul. “You have given me authority over your greatest treasure. Me, your lifelong Adversary and Accuser. And so now you will get what you truly deserve, what you have worked for all these years without even realizing it”.

And with one fell swoop he turned and smashed all the beautiful idols, the ones that represented the things she desired to love. They shattered into a million broken pieces on the floor around her. And even though she knew they were false, made of insecurity, instability and deception, even still Mara cried out in despair, reaching forward helplessly to stop the destruction.

The remnants of her idols were scattered everywhere, impossible to repair.

She had loved them so deeply that she would now mourn them like a dead brother. The tears began instantly, threatening to choke her with sorrow.

Achor turned back to watch her reaction and towered over her prostrate figure with haughty laughter.

“You are mine now. There is nothing left for you. This is what you deserve. This is what you asked for. This is your fault. And now you are going to pay the price for what you have done.” There was an almost drunken malice emanating from Achor as he towered over Mara, who was cowering on the ground.

In an instant of broken repentance she thought of the sea, and she knew she needed to escape the Valley and seek refuge by the ocean. But the darkness was so vast and the valley walls were so high and the way was blocked.

Achor was holding hostage her pearl of great price, clutching it in his tight fist, laughing at her. She put her head in her hands and grieved- I surrendered my gift and now I cannot take it back, I gave it carelessly away without even the slightest regard for its true value.

And in a flash she remembered the wild and regal Man in white, the one from her dream. She knew instinctively that she must go to Him. Somehow she knew this to be a fact; it was a call from deep inside her soul.

It was the first absolute truth she had believed in many years.

With a new hope Mara tried to get up from the floor, but Achor knocked her back. He was powerful now, strong and aggressive and in full control. He knew her every weakness and turned upon each one of them.

“It is too late, your mistake is permanent.” Achor declared triumphantly.

And he was right, it was too late for her. Now, by her own doing, she was completely at the mercy of her enemy’s authority. Nothing was left of the audacious gentleman he had been- he now stood before her revealed as his truest self, the Prince of Darkness. The one she had foolishly trusted with her greatest gift.

 “What has been set in motion cannot be undone. You have destroyed your future here. This is all your fault. This is why your name will always be Mara- bitter. These idols could never love you, and now all false hope is destroyed. No more pretense- yours forever will be a cup of bitterness.”

And as she cowered beneath the cutting accusations, Achor descended upon her with all the force of knowledge and power. He forcefully stripped Mara of all the things she held dear. He took away her dignity, her identity, her ambitions, her pride, her desires, her hopes, her dreams, her self-worth. All were lost.

She was weeping with regret and grief, and he laughed at her tears and slapped them. Her repentance only fueled his violence. He unleased the full extent of the consequences upon her with delighted malice. He declared all the unspoken truths about her failures. He used the power of shame to ravage her entire being.

Mara helplessly wept at the painful revelations that came to her awareness. Salt and water fell and her heart and mind were invaded with unbearable grief. Her entire self was violated and broken.

When it was over, Achor turned away in disgust at her absolute helplessness. His fury was spent, all truth had been told, and now his breathing slowed. He looked once more at her with haughty disdain and spoke his final farewell. His voice had returned to normal.

“I am leaving you now, Mara.” It was said with unfeeling finality. “This destruction will last a lifetime; my presence is no longer necessary. The consequences of your choices will be enough to carry on my work here for many years to come. You carry bitterness within you now. That bitterness will grow and then in due time it will give birth to anger. And anger will grow into hate, which will become your next and final companion.”

Achor smiled coyly, giving one final declaration of truth- “In time you will come to trust hatred just as you have trusted me. As always, you carelessly give trust to those who do not earn it. Your honesty and transparency have always been your greatest weakness. This is why you will need anger to survive from now on.” His tone had returned to normal and his eyes gleamed with deep satisfaction.

And he turned on his heel, throwing the pearls into the wreckage as if they were worthless trash. And then he walked away from her without so much as a backward glance.

Mara lay there in abject humiliation, broken on the floor, vulnerable and exposed, covered with shame and tears.

She had given deep and intimate trust away and it had been used against her. This was to be her eternal shame.

And for days and days she cried, wandering aimlessly among the broken idols there in the Valley of Achor. She could not sleep, eat, be happy or feel joy. She did not know where to go or what to do. Her only emotions were doubt, fear, worry and regret. Anxiety had replaced accusation, and her mind replayed her mistakes over and over and over again, until she wanted to die.

This was the dark night of the soul.

Where hopes and dreams and love once rested in Mara’s heart, now there was only an empty hole that would slowly fill to overflowing with bitterness and anger as time passed.

Her mind endured ravenous, endless warfare. There was a permanent seed of hatred within her being. She could not live with herself now.

But as she lay herself down among the broken idols, determined for her suffering to be over and so deciding to lie down in her mistakes and never get up from them again, the wind changed course.

The same breeze that met Mara on the shore of the sea now made its way over the land towards where she lay in the depths below. For the first time, the sea breeze wafted down into the valley, bringing the smell of peppermint and lavender.

Mara opened her weary, tear filled eyes and looked up.

She could hear a small bright sound, like tiny wind-chimes. The gentle wind brought with it the most sea spray Mara had even seen. It came in over the high walls of the Valley in great drafts, gathering and billowing into a great mist of sparkling light. It gently floated downward towards her. She watched with wonder as it settled all over and around her. The mist was glowing and covering her entire being, and she could feel that it brought healing with it.

As she breathed it in, she felt something tight and hard beginning to uncoil inside of her.

Mara closed her eyes and cried again, but the tears were different now, free and healing. As the mist settled over her, Mara lost track of time, drifted off and and slept a peaceful and dreamless sleep for the first time in many days. Instead of frightening dreams, tranquil visions of hope filled the empty spaces within her as she rested.

When she awoke, the mist was gone and she had been clothed in a billowing white dress, unlike anything she had ever seen. She was radiant and beautiful, fully restored and completely healed. She could feel that her power and divinity had returned to her.

And a Man was there kneeling close beside her, leaning over her prostrate figure, smiling lovingly into her face. His face was beautiful and kind and benevolent. He was also dressed in shining white, and He touched her forehead and He called her beloved.

He was wild and majestic and his dark hair was untamed.

“My Redeemer,” Mara whispered in shock and awe.

Mara forgot all sense of fear when she looked up into His eyes. When He touched her forehead she noticed her reflection in his eyes and saw that she was very beautiful.

His gaze reflected both the moonlight and the bright sun, dark brown orbs with endless radiant depths.

The perfect contour of his face, the dark, smooth skin, and unruly dark hair which haphazardly framed his regal face made for a striking appearance.  He was unkempt, and yet His looks were stunningly dignified.  For a brief moment she was transfixed by His overwhelming beauty, but she quickly remembered her shame when she caught sight of the broken idols all around His feet.

“Oh, my God!” Her regret was both physical and emotional.

This Man from her dream was standing right in the midst of her foolish brokenness.

Mara pushed herself up onto her knees and knelt before Him, her long brown hair spilling all around and covering His bare feet. She pressed her forehead to the ground before him and sobbed in repentance, pushing the broken pieces away from him. A new wave of grief crashed over her.

“Oh, I am so sorry, please forgive me, I was so foolish, I am so sorry. I was wrong, this is all my fault. I am so ashamed. God forgive me. I shall have no other gods before You. I will worship only You.” She was weeping again, hot tears of regret, frantically scratching away the mess from all around Him.

“Beloved. Be still. Stop striving.”

He reached down and touched the top of her head with his fingers ever so lightly.  Immediately her tears stopped and her hands ceased their movement. She looked up, her hair falling back behind her, and found herself once again staring into his eternal expression.

What she saw there eased her shame.  Somehow the world seemed to stand still when she was gazing at the moon and sun that shone in his face.  Her fear dissipated with a foreign feeling she couldn’t explain except to call it joy, which made no sense in light of the destruction all around her. 

She said nothing, but waited for His next command, trembling slightly.  Overtaken with conflicting emotions, Mara was transfixed by a solitary tear which traced silently down his cheek.

He was crying for her…

~*~

Join me next time for chapter eight! 

www.persuasiveabundance.com

To go back to the beginning of this story, click here.

To read my personal confession of redeeming love, click here.

With deepest gratitude for all my readers- 

Rebecca

Pearls and Presence, Chapter Three- Remnants

In the tallest room of the tallest tower are my precious idols. This is where I spend most of my time in worship. I fashioned these idols carefully so that they would be everything I ever wanted, and I wait for them to love me back. I pick them up and turn them over and over in my hands, trying to make them love me. I press them to my heart and kiss them and speak words of adoration. I serve them, I devote my time and energy to them, I sacrifice my life for them. But it is never enough, and I keep giving more and more and hoping for them to reply. But these idols are made of stone. They are perfect, beautiful, cold, and lifeless. They are also safe, because they cannot hurt me, they cannot walk away from me, they cannot reject or abandon me.  They are on a pedestal, and they are mine.

Who will love me?

~*~

Mara pushed the heavy cart away from the house, over several mounds of sandy, grassy earth to the well-worn stone path, rolling the squeaky, wooden wheels over the rocky path towards the beach.  She moved rather quickly, wanting to avoid the guilt which followed closely behind.  Mara turned back just once to see if Achor had left.

  He was still standing in the same spot looking after her, a satisfied look on his face. Several rejected flower petals were scattered on the ground at his feet, glowing bright white and abandoned against the dark soil. Achor stood there by her vineyard, watching her until she was out of sight. Then he turned and walked silently back to the shadows of the Valley.

Mara looked down at the broken, mangled roses. She felt conflicted. She realized she might not see him for several days now. When he retreated, that was always when her vigor for writing returned to her in full measure. But then, eventually, the absence of Achor would make her lonely and she would run out of things to write, and then like clockwork he would return to her side without a word, somehow already knowing that she was lonely and missed his influence.

Mara was loath to admit that when she sent him away it left a hole in her life. She had come to depend on his attentive presence. At times she was secretly glad for the way his criticism motivated her to attain perfection.

And now she couldn’t shake the haunting truth of the words Achor had said to her before Mara departed. “You mismanage the white roses and make so many mistakes with them.”

The shaming words followed her with every step she took. There was so much truth in his condemnation. Painful truth- the kind that goes unaddressed for many years through denial and avoidance.

That night when she got home, Mara was able to compose many powerful words in her journal, ones which told the story of past hurts and present hopes. Writing was the healing balm for the doubts that Achor had inflicted on her heart.

~*~

A few days later Mara was feeling especially motivated and got an early start towards the beach. It was then that she noticed that more seagulls were in the air than usual. 

She was going to her normal spot to search for breakfast, and brought along her cart in case she found any unusual treasures to carry home. She never knew what the ocean would leave behind on its shores- rare rocks, shells, or driftwood, pieces of lost treasures- delightful relics of ancient stories that she would never know...

…broken and fragmented remnants of the past that had been broken and refined by the intentional and consistent pressure of the rolling sea. 

Bits of worn-out stories that had been made new by a powerfully destructive love.

She pushed her cart across the stony road while avoiding precarious ruts and rocks on the path. On each side of the pathway stood tall seaside grasses which moved with even the slightest breeze.  The trail came close to the shores of the bay, and the familiar smell of seashells and driftwood reached her nose as she came closer to the beach.  A gap between the rolling hills allowed a wide view of the coastline. 

Mara looked out on the water, remembering again the floating object she had seen there several nights ago.  Had it been a whale, or was it indeed a boat?  She found herself slowing down to study the rolling motion of the water, searching for the unexpected.

          As the empty wooden cart bounced over the sandy road, she thought again of the wild and majestic man in white from her dream.  Though she knew it was an empty curiosity, she stared intently in all directions, walking slower to take everything in around her.  What she was looking for, she didn’t know for sure. 

          Forging ahead, she turned away from the tiny path and continued on her way down the hill through uncharted grasses.  As Mara approached the sand, she noticed a group of seagulls suddenly take flight into the air on the opposite side of the beach, squawking loudly in protest.  They flew up from their nesting area, which was blocked from her view by another grassy hill on her left.  The tall dry grass tickled her ankles as she strode down the hill. 

As she came closer to the water, a sudden gust of salty air blew her gold-spun brown hair off her shoulders. With brazen freedom her dress billowed out, molding to her legs in front and trying to take flight behind her.  She put her hand on her head to hold down her over-sized tan sunhat, which she always wore to keep the sun off her face, and pressed her other hand to her heart. Her eyes closed and she paused to honor the current of the air. 

She was a picture of regal repose.

          The ocean stretched out before her so far that she couldn't quite differentiate it from the sky where they kissed on the horizon.  A light mist hovered over the water, the ghost of clouds which had been there in the early morning, before being burned off by the heat of the morning sun.  Several feet below the bluff on which she stood lay the sandy beach, where the waves crashed freely against the shore, unrestrained and powerful.

She felt the familiar longing to dig her toes into the warm sand and just sit idly by, watching the endless ocean stretch out before her.  She wanted to lay there on the sand and simply enjoy her existence within the natural world. She wanted to stand with her hands lifted up to the sky and sing. She wanted to sit and meditate on the vastness of the sea. 

The shore had always been her inspiration for writing, and perhaps, thought Mara, that was just what she needed to find something new to compose.

Glancing up at the sun and shielding her eyes, she saw that she still had time before the day was too warm to forage the shore. So feeling suddenly ambitious, she took off her shoes and abandoned them and the empty cart at the top of the bluff so she could wander freely and unhindered along the beach.  

She jumped down the short, rocky embankment to the sand below, and the sand crunched delightfully under her bare feet where she landed. The pressure of her steps made cracks in the soft dried sand and left a trail of imprints behind her.  She walked across the beach until her toes met the foamy edges of the tide.  

She paused and stood there, breathing in the fresh, salty air and listening to the sounds of the waves breaking on the shore.  She tilted her head back so that her profile was kissed by the bright sunlight.

She closed her eyes, brought her hands together at heart center and raised her soul up to the surface of her awareness, drawing it out into the light. And for a moment she was at peace and all was well. She smiled with deep joy. 

But then, pulled by the weary habit of worn repetition, her mind drifted back to Achor, and her soul receded and her countenance fell.

And then without warning something cold and clinging touched her feet, enveloping them with a groping heaviness.

          Gasping and stepping back, she saw that there, swishing back and forth in the tide, was a large, broken stalk of seaweed. Tangled in its mass of cold tentacles was a discarded string of pearls, bright and shining, peeking out from within.

          “When did this thing get here?” she asked out loud. Curious, Mara reached to pick up a stick of driftwood that lay a few feet away on the sand and used it to drag the massive stalk away from the tide.  It was heavy, a great clump of water-logged kelp leaves, so that she had to drag it very slowly and with much effort. 

When it was on higher ground away from the water, she caught her breath and paused to stare down at the string of white which peeked out from within. It stood in stark contrast to the dark oily green of the plant. Mara slowly got on her knees and bent cautiously over the tangled mess, using the stick to lift some leaves up in order to reveal more of the strange treasure. 

It was radiantly bright, and it was crafted so expertly that Mara couldn’t imagine how human hands could have done it.  Nothing on the island could explain this. She sat back on her heels and stared in wonderment. Her mind raced to understand. She blinked several times in confusion and then continued to poke and prod the entangled necklace this way and that.

She discovered small letters on one of the pearls- Tirzah.

“Tirzah” she read it aloud. She had meant to whisper, but it came out abruptly as a loud and powerful declaration which echoed and bounced back at her off the rocky cliffs. 

And as she spoke the word it was startling and invasive, like a foreign voice that breaks and shatters the total silence.  

The entire flock of gulls on the other side of the beach took off suddenly from their nesting ground, abandoning their young and calling shrilly to one another in excitement. They flew up to land on the cliffs above and settled in to observe Mara from a safe distance, watching her with curious animal eyes to see what she would do next with this mysterious and tangled remnant from the past...

~*~

Join me here next time for chapter four! 

www.persuasiveabundance.com

To go back to the beginning of this story, click here.

To read my public confession of redeeming love, click here.

With deepest gratitude for all my readers- 

Rebecca

Forgiveness and White Roses

I forgive myself daily. I extend grace to my entire being over and over again, for big things and for small things. 

To run away from suffering is to miss many great blessings, for when we suffer for our bold faith, this is when the Spirit comes more fully upon us. 


And so I remain in the tension and I fight for my spiritual gifts. And in the battle, I often make mistakes- but none of them are fatal, because I have learned to have compassion on myself. This is because I love who I am, and this is how you treat one that you love. 

How, then, am I unable to so freely and repeatedly give that same grace and forgiveness out to others, the ones I am called by God to love?? 

The only word I know for this type of behavior is hypocrite. And I don’t want that label. So I immediately grant myself forgiveness- and lots of grace. Which begs the question I already asked. And the discussion with myself about this is cyclical. Which is why I turn to guidance to break the cycle. Before I write, I read.

“I was extremely hurt but denied it, even to myself. I would spend hours trying to figure out how all this could happen to me. I was in shock, numb, and amazed. But I suppressed these thoughts and put on a strong front when in reality I was weak and deeply injured.”

I sit in my backyard on a patio chair, book in one hand and a pen in the other. I am reading a work by John Bevere which was a gift from a mentor and friend of mine. Every time I come to a line like this one, I underline and hastily scribble notes in the margin before I forget my first impression.

This part of the book is getting good. Really good. And very hard to read.

“Months went by. Everything seemed dry, my ministry was stale, my prayer closet was lonely, and I was in torment. I fought devils daily.”

Yep. I feel you, bro.

I sit back, lower the book into my lap, and contemplate the atmosphere around me. The chair squeaks in protest as I recline back just a bit in order to get a better view of the rising slope behind my yard. There are those stupid pine trees, the ones I am worried about being a fire hazard, but which make the most delicious sound when the wind blows through them. When a breeze moves through their branches, I close my eyes and imagine I have been transported to a mountain hillside. I breathe deeply, open my eyes and return to the book at hand.

“I thought all the resistance was because of the call of ministry on my life, but in actuality it was the torment from my unforgiveness. Every time I was around this man I came away feeling spiritually beat up.”

The torment of unforgiveness. Oh. Something resonates inside my soul.

I lower the book again and observe a bed of white roses that stand tall and proud, just beyond my reach as I sit in my patio chair. They remind me of a time when I used to bring gifts to anyone who needed encouragement. Sometimes my gifts were money, gift cards, medicine, notes, vitamins, care packages, written prayers, meals, snacks, tiny plants or white roses…

Today I refrain from giving, because I am now in need of receiving. It is a disciplined season of fasting from service so that I can make room for the consumption of grace.

“Then came the morning I will never forget. I was sitting on the deck on my backyard praying. ‘Lord, am I hurt?’ I asked. No sooner had these words left my lips when I heard a shout deep in my spirit: ‘Yes!’ God wanted to make sure I knew I was hurt.”

I underline, scribble some words in the margin, then stop to look around. The sunshine is warm on my feet, which are propped up on another patio chair. I look out over the tall hill which rises up from the edge of our property, observing all the green plants and the massive weeping willow which stands halfway down from the wooden fence at the top. I watch a late morning hiker and his dog make their way rapidly across the trail above me, and shush my German shepherd when she sounds off the alarm.

“It’s just a man, it’s just a person. It’s OK, he’s only passing through on his walk.”

My shepherd looks at me doubtfully, gives a few snorts in protest, then goes to lie down beneath the bed of white roses. She watches me from there with her dark contemplative eyes while I continue to read.

“’God, please help me get out of this hurt and offense,’ I pleaded. ‘It’s too much for me to handle.’ This was exactly where the Lord wanted me—at the end of myself. Too often we try to do things in the strength of our souls. This does not cause us to grow spiritually. Instead, we become more susceptible to falling. The first step to healing and freedom is to recognize you are hurt.”

More underlining, some highlighting, more words scratched in haste. I hear the breeze in the pine trees but I don’t savor it now because I am so captivated by the words on the page.

“Often pride does not want us to admit we are hurt and offended. Once I admitted my true condition, I sought the Lord and became open to His correction. I was ready for the bonds of bitterness to be broken and to be free from oppression.”

I pause here, because I need to contemplate the words I have read. Why does it speak to a deep place in my soul, where it resonates with the same transporting power as the wind in the pines?

“A few days later I was attending a church service. The man who had offended me was there also. I watched him from the back of the church and began to weep. ‘Lord, I forgive him. I release him from everything he has done.’ Immediately I felt the burden lift. I had forgiven him. What relief flooded me!”

I put the book down on the patio table and stand up.  I shake my head and wonder, “But what about relapses, setbacks? There are so many! No. Forgiveness is not that easy. Forgiveness is not so simple.”

I go inside and look for a distraction from my thoughts- dirty dishes will do nicely.

Too often we try to do things in the strength of our souls.

While I am cleaning them, the view from my window is the white rose bed. My dog has gone, but the roses remain exactly the same. I glare at them and they glare back at me in protest. They demand a reckoning. My thoughts go scattered in many directions while I scrub with soap and warm water. And I compose a prayer to God in my heart…

Jesus, I tried.

Forgiveness is hard and feels unfair.

And now I feel that sense of urgency, when fear becomes a currency.

I am here in my kitchen dreaming about victory.

Why is this taking so long?

I would stand here and wash dishes all day if I thought it would help.

Does it help?

I have rebuked the devil, I have pleaded the blood, I have claimed the promises.

Where do I go from here?

I need a task to do.

So I am washing dishes in the sink.

Leaning over, scrubbing with soap and water, cleaning.

I can see my reflection in the window in front of me, white roses in the backdrop. A faded version of myself, projected against the bright white petals on the other side.

I am thinking, not really present in the kitchen but somewhere else instead. In my mind am sitting with You and confessing my broken heart.

But there is such a stubborn hard place between us, a million miles.

I am the one who put it there, and I am the one who keeps it.

When I pray in Your healing power, I feel like a warrior princess.

When I try to heal all by myself, I just feel small and helpless.

I must have prayed for freedom a thousand times. 
Jesus, I'm trying.

Dishes and soap and water.

I have a cup in my hand, I am turning it over and over under the faucet.

Cleaning this dirty cup from the inside out.

From the inside out, healing will come.

From the inside out, offense will be defeated.
From the inside out, forgiveness will spill forth.

Stop striving, beloved.

Be still.

As I am looking at my reflection, I am filled with self-righteous anger.

And anger is a sign of pain, and offense is a defense mechanism.

My hands stop scrubbing, I pause in mid-action.

I look at the white roses straight on thought the glass, and see them watching me.

Hope is fragile but it always leaves a remnant.
But if we run from the fight, we will miss it.

And anger is a sign of pain, and offense is a defense mechanism.

Stop running from your unforgiveness. 
Turn and face it.
Look for the remnant.

My spirit calls to Jesus, and I invite Him in, and so He rushes across a million miles of cussed stubbornness to be close to me.

Helping me to remember how it felt when I first fell at His feet.

You bowed down at My feet, you called Me beloved.

Meet with Me there again. Call on MY power.
I am your Teacher.

My prayer rises up out of my soul, going up and up into the sky, rising to the Son.

…Dishes done, I dry my hands and return to my book outside. Now it’s just me and the white roses and the hard words on the page, with nothing in between. The fresh air rushes into my lungs as I breathe deep.

I open up the page which is already marked up in so many ways. I continue to read where I left off.

“But this was only the beginning of my road to recovery. In my heart I had forgiven, but I wasn’t aware of the extent of the wound. I was still vulnerable and could be hurt again. It was just like recovering from a physical injury. I needed to exercise, to strengthen my heart, mind and emotions to prevent any future injuries.”

My dog barks again at another hiker, but this time I don’t even bother to correct her because I am so engrossed in the words that come next.

“Occasionally I still had to fight off some of the same thoughts I’d had before I forgave. I rejected these thoughts as soon as I noticed them and cast them down- this was my exercising or striving to stay free. A few months went by. It was a training period in which my heart was exercised and strengthened. During those months I seemed at times to be getting nowhere. In fact, I wondered if I had grown worse. Finally I asked the Lord how to keep these thoughts from drawing me back into unforgiveness. I knew He desired a higher level of freedom for me, and I did not want to live the rest of my life holding offense at arm’s length. The Lord instructed me to pray for the man who had hurt me.”

I laugh out loud- of course. How Christian, how clichéd. I had also prayed in this way, and yet here I was still seeing the whole world through the same old filter of pain, listening to the same tape of offenses playing over and over in my head.

 This book was not offering me anything I had not tried yet. I refuse to look at the white roses, because I do not want to remember all the acts of service I did in ministry. I do not want to remember how I loved, how I served. I want to harbor resentment, to cherish my offense, and I cannot do that if I remember how good it felt to give of myself so freely.

“My soul was definitely in sorrow. But God began showing me how to pray for this man: ‘Pray the very things for him that you want Me to do for you!’ And so my prayers totally changed. It was no longer a dry, monotone voice without a hint of passion, out of obligation asking God to ‘Bless him, give him a good day, help him in all he does, amen.’ My words became infused with life, crying with passion and saying things like ‘Lord, reveal Yourself to him in a greater way. Bless him with your presence. Let him know You more intimately. May he be pleasing to You and bring honor to Your name.’ I prayed for him what I wanted God to do in my own life." 

Oh.

This was something I had not done yet. This was different. This was new. This was hard.

Ask God to give to someone else the very things I coveted for myself? Open up the possibility that another could be blessed in the way that I wanted for myself, through the power of my own prayers? Could this be why my idea of forgiveness was so hard to achieve, because it came from a selfish place? 

Something resonated deeply in my soul- there was a cry from way down in my spirit. I looked at the white roses and they nodded their budded heads gently in the breeze.

I lean forward to pick up some of the petals that had fallen onto the brick. I rub them between my fingers and feel their soft, cool smoothness. I continue to hold them while I read more.

“I had gone from praying for him for my sake to praying for him for his sake. I no longer had to fight the pain, nor was I critical of him.”

To pray for another for the sake the other and not myself- this was a nourishing concept to my hungry mind. To ask God to bless the other in the way that I myself wanted to be blessed- this was a spiritual practice that would take discipline over the course of many days. To give away, in prayer, my blessings instead of just my forgiveness- this could only happen with the help of divine Spirit.

A short ways further down the page and I found the exact words I needed to persuade me that this author knew what he was talking about.

Because I want all these words to be my own:

“When I first met that man he could do no wrong in my eyes. I saw no faults in him I loved him because I thought he was perfect. But when I was hurt, it was hard to love him. It took every bit of faith I had. Now that I have gone through this restoration process and have been healed, I love him with the same intensity as when I first met him, in spite of any faults. It’s a mature love. It is easy to love those who can do no wrong in our eyes. That’s simple love. It is another thing to love someone when we can see their faults, especially when we’ve been the victim of them. The love of God was maturing me and strengthening my heart thought this process. My heart was exercised to stay free from offense. I was on the sure road to recovery. I would not trade that experience and am thankful for the growth it brought to my life.”

I grab my pen and my highlighter and go to work. When I am done, I write ‘AMEN, YES I WANT THIS! Help me Jesus!’ in all the margins. I grab a sticky note and mark the page. I rise to my feet and look around me again.

The greens look greener, and the whites look whiter.

I stand there with a book of offense in one hand and white rose petals in the other. A symbolic picture of our Christian tension in this world.

We all stand and wait for deliverance from unforgiveness with fear clenched in one hand and a remnant of hope held tightly in the other. 

Jesus teach me how to love like You.

I smile at the white roses now because I have a divine power- I can pray my coveted blessings over someone else. This is the persuasive abundance I needed today.

When I come across 1 Peter 4:12-13 I know I have found a precious treasure, and so I write it in my personal journal because I will need it for later, when I am learning how to pray:

“Beloved, do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened to you; but rejoice to the extent that you partake of Christ’s sufferings, that when His glory is revealed, you may also be glad with exceeding joy.”

A handful of white rose petals. A remnant of hope. Forgiveness is calling.

When I drop to my knees at the foot of Your cross to pray, I come empty except for a small, soft, glowing hope.

I meditate, I fall to my knees, I lay prostrate before the cross, I practice centered prayer, I dwell on Your Presence, I worship in solitude.

I want to win this victory with You Jesus. The words of John Bevere bolster my courage.

 “Hard places will always come in our journey with the Lord. We cannot escape them but need to face them, for they are part of the process of becoming perfect in Him. If you choose to run from them, you will seriously hinder your growth. Recovery is your choice. Some people get hurt and never recover. That is their choice. Yes, it’s true that there are some offenses that will not go away easily or quickly. You will have to work through them, striving to get free. But in that process you will grow and mature. This glorifying is to the degree that you allow Him to perfect His character within you. So don’t look at the offense. Look at the coming glory.”

Someday I will give gifts of white roses again, when this long season of maturing is at its completion. Until then, I can practice by giving gifts of prayer. And I will continue to sit beside the rose bed and read the words of others who have been here too and can help me along the path to freedom.

And while I am reading, underlining and jotting notes in the margin, the white roses will be peeking over my shoulder and nodding their heads in silent agreement, dropping remnants of white petals all around my feet.

And forgiveness will heal.

Thank you Jesus.

Amen.

Rebecca

To learn more about my personal story, click here.