A Long Night's Journey Into Day

**These were the words that were born out of my healing experience in South Africa. If you are just coming in, the story started back here.**

A Long Night’s Journey Into Day

It’s been a long night’s journey into day and my feet are growing weary from the travel. Just on the horizon a fire grows brighter, but I’ve traveled so long in darkness that my body recoils from the light. As much as the flesh draws back, though, the heart pushes on closer to the rays of sunshine coming up over the land. This journey began long ago, long before my feet ever touched the ground, but this very day was known in all its splendor and detail to the One who pieced me together. The sun is now coming up.

The night was so long as I ran from sun’s outstretched rays. Around the world I went just to outrun that fire in the sky that consumes all darkness, revealing what is hidden and dragging out into the open that which is well concealed. Through turning my back on God, through the rape, through the drugs and alcohol, through the hatred and rage, through the violence and lawlessness that became normal life, watch me run. “This is the verdict: light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil¹.”

But running without rest leaves the soul tired and dry, cracked on the heels, blistered on the toes, and parched at the lips. The heart resents the consistently fast pace and the body wearies of the pounding. It all begins to fall apart.

There is no depth too deep that God’s arms cannot reach you.

There is just no depth too deep.

“In Him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness but the darkness has not understood it².” What I could not understand was the mercy that was being offered to me. What I could not understand was the forgiveness being given to me. What I could not understand was how a King could take my punishment upon himself. What I could not understand was a love so unconditional that even the darkness within me was covered by the blood He shed. What I could not understand was that no matter how far or how fast I ran, the Light was still waiting to shine on the horizon of my heart.

“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there. If I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me, and the light become night around me,’ even the darkness will not be dark to you, the night will shine like day, for darkness is as light to you³.”

So the running stops, and in the wee hours of the morning, the light of the Almighty begins to pierce the bitter obscurity that had become my existence. One by one, my sin, my hurt, my brokenness, my rage, my violence, my irreverence, and my hatred began to take shape, their forms revealed slowly by the long-awaited day. Just as sunshine pours through the tiny window of an unlit prison cell, revealing the cobwebs and dust of a stagnant, stale life, so the Light began to illuminate my life, causing my eyes to squint and turn away, and my heart to break for all the atrocities it harbored for so long.

Africa surrounds me now,

where the rays of the mighty fire dance on the mountains just over the waters of the deep blue.

I am the acacia tree that sways as the Spirit blows.

I am the lion who stretches out in the warm air.

I am the hospitality that was so generously given to God’s servants.

I am the colors woven into the old woman’s dress.

I am the church bell chiming to the people.

I am the drum beating to the sound of a new life.

I am the rock crying out in the silence.

I am the child lifting her hands up to her daddy to be held.

I am the broken man sitting in the cold prison cell.

I am the babe living with the fatal disease.

I am the prostitute weeping at the feet of the great Teacher.

I am the dirty kid begging in the streets for a piece of bread.

I am the guitar that belts out melodies of thanksgiving and

I am the voice that cannot sing loud enough.

I am the mountain that can be moved by His mere voice.

I am the imperfect broken vessel that is being used by the Perfect Creator,

and I am the immovable cold prison walls that do not give way.

I am a small reflection of the immeasurable grace

that was so easily poured out to me.

I am the tear that rolls down the cheek of the hardened criminal.

I am the hardened criminal.

I am the forgiveness offered to the rapist behind bars,

and I am the victim turned survivor of that very rape.

I am a picture of all that is wrong, and I am picture of all that is right.

Africa surrounds me and has enveloped my heart.

The incredible sun now hangs just above the mountains that dump into the oceans where my sin is buried. The Light now touches all that was once hidden, the cobwebs are torn down, the dust is brushed off, and what was once stagnant and stale is being moved out, stirred up, and stretched beyond all comfort for the glory of God. “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made His light to shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ⁴.” So it has been a long night’s journey into day, and it will now be a long day’s journey Home.

¹ John 3:19; ² John 1:4-5; ³ Psalm 139:7-12; ⁴ 2 Corinthians 4:6

To Make a Long Story Short...

**This is a continuation of yesterday's post, which was a continuation of the previous day's post, which a continuation...you get the point. This story started here, if you want to take a look back.**

Over the course of the next several days, every one of the men sitting in that half circle around me asked for forgiveness for the wrong that they had done. God's math is interesting sometimes (read: all the time), as I had demanded, in my anger and hatred, the humble act of three men. I held on to this grudge in my heart, wanting three guilty men to beg for forgiveness from me. Instead, God sent 8 men, all carrying around a burden too great for them to bare, in the roughest of situations, who sought forgiveness from some who simply represented their sin. They didn't hurt me. They were not my offenders. But God showed me what it looked like to release someone from their pain.

The simple act of forgiveness.

But the strangest part of it was that it was more cathartic for me than I imagine it was for them. Each time I spoke the words, a chunk of black rot fell away from my heart, revealing the vibrant red lifeblood flowing beneath it. Each time I said, "You are forgiven," my burden got lighter as well. It's as if the weight of hatred and anger and bitterness had actually caused my back to hunch over, forcing me to face the ground, always looking down. The bitterness was so heavy that it forced me to walk hunched over, never able to lift my shoulders nor my eyes to even see what has in front of me. All I could see was the ground below me, and the hunched over shadow that was cast on it.

But as I gave out forgiveness, some of that burden fell away, and I could stand a little taller. As I spoke it again, my shoulders moved a little more. And as the weight became lighter, it became easier to shake it off, easier to forgive as I realized that it was blessing me just as much, if not more. By the time most of the black, rotten hatred had fallen away, I could lift my head up and actually look around, even look up toward the One who had forgiven me.

All that time, I had thought that forgiving meant letting someone off the hook. But it turns out that they're not on my hook to begin with. Forgiving doesn't release them, it releases me to stand tall again. It releases my heart to love again, to laugh again, to even trust again. It releases me to truly share in the sufferings of Christ, enduring that which was not deserved, but saying, "Forgive them Father. They know not what they do." All that time, I didn't know that forgiving them would release me back to freedom, and had nothing to do with them, other than blessing them.

Remember the violet? That precious flower released the sweetest perfume only after being crushed, after feeling the full weight of hatred. The sweetest part of the bloom was given up as a blessing for the one that crushed it. And that blessing is carried on to others. Because Christ forgave me, passing the blessing on to me allowed me to pass it on to others. And as that sweetness was released onto others, my heart experienced great freedom and unshakable joy.

What about you? Are you walking in the freedom that was intended for you? Or are you holding on to a grudge that is not yours to carry? Is it time to forgive? Blessings to you all.

What Do You See Now?

This rough man sat, nay, slouched in his chair across from me, his right arm dangling across his thigh, the other arm thrown back casually over the back of the seat. There was silence among the other men, as this tattooed, dark thug began to tell his story.

"I am serving a life sentence for the rape and murder of my girlfriend. A few years back, I spent some time with this prison ministry team and gave my life to Jesus. I have repented of my crimes, I have sought forgiveness from those whom I have hurt. But there is this thing that I can't seek forgiveness for. I killed my girlfriend. It was wrong, but she's gone and cannot forgive me. But then the pastors here tell me that it's done and God has forgiven me. So what I want to know is this: what do you see when you look at me?"

Oh my goodness. Lord. Have. Mercy. Did I mention the tattoos? Did I mention that I was terrified in his presence? Did I mention the big arms and RIP on his neck? What did I see when I looked at him?

Up to this point, I had been sitting on the edge of my seat, back erect, feet planted lightly under me, as if ready to bolt like an anxious cat. At hearing his question, the weight of conviction became so heavy in my heart, pushing me back in the chair with an exhaustive exhalation. What did I see when I looked at him? As my body hit the back of the chair, the voice of the Lord began rushing through my ears:

He was made in My image. He's been redeemed by My blood.

He was made in My image and has been redeemed by My blood.

I took in a long, slow, deep breath, as I prayed inwardly, "You said You would give me the words to speak. You said You would tell me what to say. I need You now, as all words fail me."

I sat deep in the chair for what felt like an eternity before I could move my mouth to even form a word. As the words began to approach my tongue, I slowly leaned forward, toward this brother of mine, till my arms were resting on my legs and my sole focus was on his face alone.

I opened my mouth by the grace of the Spirit alone and said, "You call yourself a Christian. I claim the same. You have surrendered your life to the power of Christ. I have done the same. There is no crime you have committed that is any worse than anything I have ever done. In the eyes of God, I am no better nor worse than you. So what do I see when I look at you? I see the blood of Christ covering over my brother, washing you of your sins, making you white as snow. And what I can tell you, with all confidence, is this: by the promise of the Word of God, the power of the Holy Spirit, and the authority of Jesus Christ, You. Are. Forgiven."

Breathe deep. Pause for another eternal moment.

Have you ever seen a soul released? Have you ever seen a burden lifted? Have you ever seen a heart restored? It looks a lot like a grown man, covered in scary tattooes, with sad eyes full of gory life stories, hanging his head low as a single tear rolls down his life-stained cheek, too ashamed to make eye contact, too humbled to say another word. It looks a lot like a brutal, hardened criminal softening at the simple words of a foreign girl sitting across him.

Ah sweet forgiveness. How quickly and simply you release your beauty to the most undeserving, unsuspecting souls. The very boot that crushes you receives the absolute best that you have to offer. Your essence clings to it, travels with it, becomes part of it, and rubs off on others.

Ah sweet forgiveness. There is no limit to your giving. And it didn't stop there...

A Work Has Just Begun

As I sat there in the dark that night, debating whether or not to go back the next day, a few things were revealed in my heart. Somehow, I thought that once I became a Christian, my heart would be free from the things of the past. I don't know where I got that notion. Maybe it was the "health and wealth" gospel: Come to Jesus and life will be grand! But as I sat there arguing with God about returning to prison the next day, I realized that my heart was so full of anger and hatred that I could barely see straight. Oh, how painful that conversation was, how enlightening and revealing that conversation was. And how far reaching my anger had become.

You see, I had been hurt, violated in the highest form. And the ramifications of it all nearly ruined my life entirely. And I had heard about forgiving those who persecute you, blah blah blah. But in the deep, dark recesses of my heart, I harbored such bitterness and hatred for the men who had so horribly violated me that forgiveness was not an option.

I wanted an apology. Nay, I wanted them to beg for forgiveness of me. I wanted to see those scumbags hit their knees before me and beg to be released from this evil that they had done. Somehow, in all of this, I thought I deserved that. To be able to have that sort of control over them, after the control that they had over my life for so long, seemed like a reasonable craving. I wanted them to know and experience the destruction they caused and the depth of the evil they did. My heart was black with anger.

And the pathetic truth of it all was that they probably never gave another thought to me again after that night. It rotted me from the inside out, and they went on gleefully with their lives. The crime took place in Ecuador, South America, so the odds of me ever running into these people again, ever in my life, were absolutely slim to none, at best. It was a lost cause of hatred leading to my own destruction. And I stewed in it.

And yet God remained: "Go back. A work has just begun."

And so the night passed, and my puffy, tear-stained eyes opened to welcome a new day. I prayed throughout the morning, questioning myself and questioning God. And in the end, I loaded up in the van with the rest of my team, and headed back to prison. As large group time dispersed and folks were congregating into their small groups, I found myself surrounded by the same group of men who had barraged me with questions the day before. I braced myself for the worst, just hoping to not cry and not vomit. I had high hopes indeed.

The men were sitting in a half circle in front of me, with my chair in the center facing them. The man sitting dead center, directly in front of me scared the hell out of me. He was of average height, his muscular arms showing through the dirty white t-shirt he wore. His distinguishing features were his tattoos. He had a small guillotine tattooed in the middle of his forehead and large capital letters RIP tattooed across the front of his neck. His very presence terrified me, leaving me uncomfortable of where to even land my eyes. It was this man who spoke first.

"I am serving a life sentence for the rape and murder of my girlfriend."

Wow. Seriously? That's what we're going to start with? Seriously...

And Then It Got Real...Scary

**Continued from yesterday's post**

Coasting on the wave of having seen a soul come to glory only lasted a short while, as God began to whisper gently to my heart. His whisper is so gentle, though the message itself is not always so soft.

"Tell your story."

I'm sorry, what? Maybe You have forgotten where we are, and what I've been through (because You are so forgetful, right?). I argued with God, because that's productive and effective. I was sure that He was wrong, or maybe I just heard Him wrong. But He continued to press.

"Tell your story."

After surrendering to the fact that God's perseverance is much stronger than my own, and with great fear and trembling, I consented to share my testimony with the large group of prisoners. Now, this wasn't just a sweet story about growing up in church and coming to a realization that I needed a Savior. Nope. My story is a bit different. It's laced with a rape when I was 18, which led to years of alcoholism and various drug addictions. If it was out there and could numb my pain, I gave it a go, and then some, until I was completely incapable of being sober and absolutely loathed who I had become. Addictions like that will lead a person to do things that she never thought she would ever even consider, let alone be capable of doing. And yet she did them. I did them. Yep, this was the story that I got to share with that large group of prisoners, locked up for every crime under the sun, including what I had done, and what had been done to me.

When the large group time finished and everyone dispersed into their small groups, my group of one became a group of 8 men, unknown to me up to that point. They had questions for me. They had questions about how I felt about being raped. WHAT? Seriously? And over the course of the conversation that ensued, I discovered that every single one of them had been incarcerated for rape. They had been the cause of such deep pain and humiliation to someone else. They had questions, and so they asked, and I did my best to not vomit on them, or melt down in a puddle of tears.

By the time I left that day, I was pretty sure that I couldn't return. I was pretty sure that God had made a mistake, or that I had misunderstood Him and I had made a tremendous mistake. How could I have been so transparent? How could I have been so naive as to tell my story? I was so angry, so disgusted by what I had just experienced. I felt like all that I had buried for years under alcohol, drugs, and then church life, had just been resurfaced and was laid bare for all the world to see. All my wounds, all my hurts, all my disappointments and failures had just been violently ripped open into a gaping wound for these people, these prisoners, these criminals to see.

As I sat weeping on the floor that night, I could hear that whisper yet again.

"Go back."

Hmmm, maybe You missed what happened today. Maybe you missed the questions they were asking me. Maybe You missed the pain I was in at this moment. Maybe you missed the uncontrollable tears that have been pouring down for the past several hours. I think that I will not be going back.

"Go back. My work has just begun."

Oh, mercy. Just begun, really? That means it could get a lot worse before it gets any better.

On some level, it did get worse. But on other levels, it got so much better. Forgiveness was about to happen....

God's on the move! Either go with, or get out of the way!

But the next day came. The sun rose over the Indian ocean in all its splendor announcing the new mercies of God. And off to prison we went.

We had our large group time in which one of my team members spoke a message to the whole, which I was more than happy to have nothing to do with. If you know me at all, I am quite the introvert. That is probably why I am much happier sitting on this side of the keyboard, knowing that anyone whose eyes may come across my words will actually be fairly removed from me in person. Somehow that's much more comfortable for me. I know, I'm a coward. But God is merciful and patient, and so I hung out at the back waiting for large group to disperse.

When the large group broke up, the young man who had demanded conversation the day before approached me once again. I sat down with him, with great fear and trembling. What would I say today? How would I pass the time until we could get out of there? How would it go?

He began: "You gave me a story to read yesterday."

Me: "Yes, I did." (Hear great trembling in the tiny voice that came out, maybe even some cracks in it.)

Man: "Well, I read it. Over and over again last night."

Me: "Oh, wow." (searching brain frantically. what do I say??? what do I say now??)

Man: "The story was about Zacchaeus. He was a thief. And Jesus called him out and wanted to sit with him, break bread with him. Jesus forgave him all his sins."

Me: "Yes, that's true." (seriously grasping here for SOMETHING to say. nothing comes to mind or tongue)

Man: "I'm a thief. I'm serving time for robbery and assault."

Me: "Oohh. Ok..." (ahhh!! what do I say? what do I do? scanning courtyard for closest exit!)

Man: "So, what I was wondering is this: if Jesus was able to sit with Zacchaeus and forgive him all his sins, do you think He would do the same for me?"

Me: "Huh?" (did I miss something? because it sounds a whole lot like there's some salvation taking place here, and I might have missed it in my fear and unbelief!)

Man: "Do you think that Jesus would forgive me too?"

Me: "Well, yes. Yes, I do think that He would forgive you."

Man: "That's what I thought too, so last night I asked Jesus to save me from my sins."

Me: "Huh?" (what just happened here? did a man just get saved?!?! and I got to be there for his harvest???!?!?!)

As my body began to relax in my seat a bit, and the realization of what had just happened truly sunk in, I began to smile, which then turned to outright laughter. I did nothing. In fact, I just barely showed up. With much grumbling and disbelief, I displayed a tiny (teeny tiny!) amount of obedience to at least show up, and was able to witness an incredible harvest that had been planted and tended to for years. Imagine!

Over the next few days, I kind of sat back, breathing deeply, thinking that I had done what God had taken me there to do. I was coasting until our time was up there.

Silly girl, God had just begun. He was moving and that was my warning shot. Get moving with Him, or get out of the way. He was about to blow my socks off. At least I got a warning shot.

Hang with me...I'm coming to a point...

Going to Prison

**This is a continuation from yesterday's post. I left off beginning to share the story of my time in Cape Town, South Africa working with a prison ministry team. **

I spent a couple of months in Cape Town, South Africa in the summer of 2003 with some of the most amazing people I have ever met. We had the unique opportunity to work alongside of a prison ministry team there, and much to my surprise, God used that time more to heal my own heart than anything else at all. He's funny like that.

My first day in the prison was so much harder than I imagined it would be. We walked through the corridors where men spent their days and nights, witnessed the overcrowding and deplorable circumstances. We met with the ministry staff who worked there full-time and heard copious stories of the inmates, their backgrounds, and the crimes that landed them in their cells. We heard of everything from petty theft, to grand larceny, drug trafficking, to rape and murder, with everything in between. At the end of the day, we were given some free time to meditate on all that we had seen and cry out to God about what we would have us do there.

I can recall vividly hitting my knees at the end of that day, weeping before my God, asking over and over again, "Why am I here? Why did you bring me here?" I was no better than any of the people I had met that day, and somehow, I managed to escape the punishment of my crimes. I could think of all the times that I broke the law, I could picture the depravity of my life before Christ saved me, and I knew that I deserved the sentence that some of them were living out. So now, what could I possibly say? What could I possibly bring to this place, all the while knowing that at the end of the day, these men would was back into their tiny prison cells to pass the night, and I would leave the walls that confined them behind me and return to a soft bed and warm meal. I wept for the mercy that God had so freely offered, the forgiveness outweighing the heinous crime itself.

God is so faithful, though, and His plan is so perfectly divine.

As we began to spend our days at the prison, we as a team fell into a rhythm of sorts. We would spend the first part of our morning with the prisoners in a large group, and then from there we would break up into smaller groups, each of us on the team meeting with only a few prisoners at a time. My first day there, after the large group time, a young muslim man made a b-line for me and abruptly and curtly said, "Do you want to talk to me?"

My terrified response was, "Of course I do." So he pulled up two chairs facing each other and invited me to sit, which I promptly did. He then revealed a postcard that he carried around with him in his back pocket. That postcard had signatures on it from people all over the world. It was tattered and worn on the edges. Every signature was in a different color ink with a location, city and country, written below it. If I had to guess, there were well over 20 signatures littered across the card.

As he was proudly displaying his card, he began to tell me that the signatures were from missionaries whom had come from all over the world while he was there in prison. Each had met with him, shared the gospel with him, and then asked him for a decision for Christ. He goes on to tell me that he has grown up as a muslim, and islam is his very life. A decision for Christ would lead to death for him. So he wanted to know from me why He should make a decision that would land him dead.

Oh mercy, I assure you I am not smart enough for such questions as that. I was a babe in Christ myself, and certainly had never had to weigh out death with my decision to follow Christ. I was praising God that his question had come at the very end of our time together, as I had nothing to offer such a serious challenge. Just a few weeks prior to leaving for South Africa, I had taken a brief storytelling course that taught about letting the words of Scripture itself do the teaching to people, and I had taken away a list of possible application stories to share with people as particular needs arose. I'm sure that I completely missed the point of the training and was not using the list of stories in the manner that it had been intended, but I whipped out that list, scanned it quickly, and picked one in a seemingly random manner.

I offered to this young Muslim the story of Zacchaeus, the thief who waited in a tree for Jesus to pass. If you are not familiar that short story, you can find it here. I don't know why I chose that story, other than it was the only one I really recognized as I scanned the list in desperation. I asked him to read the story overnight and then we could talk about it the next day when we returned. Oh, did I ever want to scoot out of there quickly. I felt silly, useless, ill-equipped. I had been put on the spot and felt like a total failure. If I had a tail to tuck, it most definitely would have been between my legs as we walked out of there that day. I was dreading having to return the next day...

Stay tuned. I'm on a roll...

The Divinity of Forgiveness

I read a quote today: “Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet shed on the heel that crushed it.” Mark Twain said it. Very wise words. Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet shed on the heel that crushed it. I can see that violet being crushed, fragile and sensitive, soft purple, under the weight of an unyielding, cold boot. And as the delicate petals flatten out with gentle cruches, that small puff of fragrance mixed with pollen and pigment and dust splatters the edges of the heel, like water being thrown on a wall or paint on a canvas. The sweetness that comes from such a violent death is remarkable, more than my mind can really fathom right now. The violet, in all its innocence and beauty, left behind what could only be offered in death of self, the remnant itself sweeter than that which embodied it. There is power, though also pain, in death of self, blessing the crushing oppressor with that which he did not deserve. He did not deserve it. And yet received it anyway. And when the blow was dealt, forgiveness was not requested, but still given freely without hesitation, and in the same instant that the insult was received. The instant backlash resulting from the step of death. There is power, though painful it will be, in the death of self.

It is an obvious picture of what Christ did for all of us. Before the request for forgiveness was ever offered up, Christ received the crushing blow that splattered his fragrant blood on the hands that nailed him to the cross. On my hands. Before I ever cried out, while I was still stewing in my own dreadful brokenness, his blood splattered me, violently painting the sweetest essence my soul has ever known all over my disaster. The very moment my hands swung the hammer down, his forgiveness sprayed me from head to toe. I didn't ask for it. I certainly didn't deserve it. And yet his death was so sweetly offered for the power that it held.

Forgiveness is such a difficult topic. This intangible, often evasive, thing that contains such power. We often cling to unforgiveness because the other party has not repented or because they just don't deserve it. But the thing is, forgiveness has nothing to do with the other party, and everything to do with protecting one's own heart. You see, unforgiveness leads to bitterness. It leads to a hard and calloused heart. It leads to poisoned thinking and uncontrolled, unrighteous anger. Unforgiveness has so much less to do with the offending party than it does with one's own heart and relationship with Christ.

In 2003, I traveled to Cape Town, South Africa with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship and was blessed to work with a prison ministry team. This was the most cathartic time of my life, when God revealed Himself to me as Healer, Forgiver, and Redeemer. My own heart had grown bitter and cold after years of unforgiveness. But God had plans for me there in South Africa. And in the midst of large group of men who were locked up in solitary confinement for every crime under the sun, I saw the power of forgiving....

I'll unpack that tomorrow. I promise.