You ever know one of ‘those’ kids before?

The ones who are (relatively) easy to parent because they thrive on people-pleasing and rule-following? The ones who, if you raise your voice at them just a bit, become instantly brokenhearted, tears bubbling quickly to the surface? The kids who would be devastated if their GPA ever dropped below a 4.0 or if they ever failed at…anything? Who are harder on themselves than you could ever be on them? The ones who are constantly monitoring everyone else to make sure they are doing what they’re ‘supposed’ to be doing and who let you know when they’re not? The brown-nose, goodie-two-shoes, over-achiever types?

Yeah, that was me.

I mean, I wasn’t perfect. There was the time when I was five, my folks were both at work, and a babysitter was over at the house, watching my little brother and me. My next-door-neighbor-friend and I thought it would be funny to hide in her house, so we scampered out of my backyard, ran in through her back door, turned off the lights, and locked the doors. When we heard the babysitter knocking, her voice frantically calling my name, we just hunkered down and giggled harder. It wasn’t until later, after the babysitter had called her husband, who’d had to leave work to come help look for me and comfort his terrified wife, that I realized I’d done wrong. When he finally found me – Fred, was his name – he spanked me, hard. And my parents were glad for it. The only real spanking I ever remember getting, actually.

And then there was that one time my parents grounded me when I was in high school. It was because, when I had finished eating nachos in front of the TV, my mom asked me to bring my dirty plate into the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher. Instead of doing it right away, I told my mom I would do it when ‘my show’ was over. She said ‘No, now’ and I didn’t get up off the couch, pretended not to hear. When I went to school the next morning and told my friends why I couldn’t see them for the entire weekend, why I would be missing our Friday night ‘hang out time’ up in the loft above Russ’s parents’ garage, they were incredulous. I mean, most teenagers got grounded for missing curfew or falling behind in their studies or getting caught drinking, not for failing to bring a plate into the kitchen quickly enough.

And I did skip school off and on my senior year in high school, but only in classes where my ‘A’ was high enough that my iconic and all-important GPA wouldn’t suffer, and only so I could go to church and sit in the dark sanctuary alone, to think, to write, to pray. Besides, the college acceptance letters and scholarships for that next fall had already come in.

So overall, I was a pretty good kid. Obeyed my parents (except for the previously noted nacho plate/dishwasher incident). Didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs, go to parties, have sex before marriage. Spent a whole bunch of time at church, with Christian friends, reading my Bible, listening to Christian music. Was a good student. Worked hard and always tried my best. Wanted to please – my parents, my teachers, my friends, my God.

So it isn’t any wonder then that I spent the first three decades of my life identifying with these types of people in the Word – the type that worked hard, followed the rules, tried to do ‘the right thing.’

Identified with the older brother in Luke 15 who grew angry and refused to go in with his father to celebrate, when his younger brother who had squandered everything in reckless living, came home and was met with a feast, with forgiveness. Thought, ‘wouldn’t it have been better if the younger brother had just stayed home and worked hard like he was supposed to, like the older brother did? I mean, why reward bad behavior?’

Understood, all too well, the Pharisee in Luke 18 who thanked God he was ‘not like other men,’ not like the tax collector, the adulterer, the unjust. Subtly justified my own sin, told myself that it was ‘small,’ not ‘as bad’ as others’. Easily reasoned that the consequences of my sin were ‘practically none,’ that it only affected me, a little bit; didn’t cause harm to anyone else, really. Defended a bit of pride and arrogance in myself; a touch of selfishness here and there, being just a tad discontent at times, maybe a little gluttony thrown into the mix. Nothing ‘major.’

There was a time when the parable of the lost sheep secretly made me angry. What do you mean there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance? Those 99 people were doing everything ‘right!’ Didn’t that count for something?

And what about the Israelites, what was wrong with them anyway? Throughout the entire Old Testament, always grumbling and falling away, even when they’d seen the hand of the Lord at work, so faithfully, delivering them over and over again, through all those years, all those generations? Wished they would just get it together already! And King David with Bathsheba? A man after God’s own heart, taking another man’s wife into his bed, and then having the woman’s husband murdered? Unacceptable.

So I knew to be ‘on guard’ for this kind of thinking in myself. Knew myself to be too much like the Pharisees, too hard. Knew that His Word was true which meant that my thinking, my heart on this, must somehow be wrong, in need of changing. Found myself ever identifying with those Christ rebuked. Never knew how to truly identify with the ones He drew near, the ones He called His own. Never understood why the ones who ‘messed up’ were the ones who were celebrated and sought after and rejoiced over.

Until God, in His mercy, brought me low.

Because when you live your whole life as the ‘good girl’ and then, in one day, with one conversation, it’s all gone. And you’re no longer the person you thought you were. That will rattle you, might even shatter you, for a time.

For the first time in my life, on that Sunday after Easter, I felt utter shame, complete humiliation. And after a time, I knew my own sin, saw it rooted so deep down that I physically ached. And I only wanted to run away. I still do, at times.

I try to remember to run to the Word – toward Him, not away – to flee there, straight into Him, when the pain and the condemnation threaten to overwhelm. I’ve spent a good bit of time this last year reading and re-reading the book of Hosea, nearly always in tears.

I’ve begun to know myself, for the first time, as the prostitute who resists her Lover’s tender pursuit, even as He leads her out into the wilderness to gently woo her.

Have begun to see myself as the younger son who planned to kneel in absolute mortification before his father, with the words, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants.’

Have begun to recognize myself in the tax collector who, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’

Begun to identify with the Israelites, His chosen nation, who had been given everything and yet, turned from His faithfulness toward idols of their own making and, in doing so, brought about destruction for His people.

Found myself understanding Paul all too well in Romans 7 when he wrote, “So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?”

Have read and re-read Psalm 51, begging for His grace: “Have mercy on me, O God, according to Your steadfast love; according to Your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin! For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight…”

Have the song ‘Under the Blood of the Lamb’ on repeat as I cook supper, wash dishes, fold clothes, the words washing over me as I press on in the mundane: “O, the blood of the Passover Lamb, is applied to the door of my life; No power of darkness could ever withstand, the force of the blood sacrifice; Though Satan will bring accusations, I let him know right where I stand; For now there is no condemnation, I’m under the blood of the Lamb.”

And so, I’ve found some measure of Beauty in this valley.

I am grateful that He knew I needed Light shined in on the very darkest places of myself and pray for His continued help as I battle still.

Feel joy at having kindred spirits in the wayward wanderers of Scripture now – the utterly forsaken, who God Himself drew near.

Glad to feel less camaraderie with the Pharisees.

Ache with David and Bathsheba over their sin.

Give grace upon grace to Gomer, the rebellious bride.

Want to be the most eager, enthusiastic, over-the-top party-goer at the youngest son’s ‘welcome home’ feast.

Because somehow, some way, when you begin to know the depths of the darkness in your own heart, soul, and mind, Christ Himself, Love Himself, Grace Himself becomes so much sweeter.  And there is Joy to be found as He picks up the shattered pieces and tenderly recreates His masterpiece.

 

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