When we last saw our hero...

she was sobbing her eyes out on a dark, windy road.

The pictures that God brought rushing to my mind, in one piercing moment after another, follow. They are interwoven with the truth that He gave me in the moment also, overwhelming me with the wretchedness of myself and the unbelievable restoration HE IS.

• Me, with that same swollen belly of false food and false loves, things that don't stay and don't fill me. Times when I have tried to achieve what I saw in others, what I thought I must take in via all things I saw missionaries doing, all the things I believed I needed to live up to in my own power and strength, that I must get "right for God", anything other than His Spirit and His Word. All the times I filled myself with any "water" that makes me thirsty again and again, instead of His living water and never thirsting again. So many things I have thought I needed to be and do to be like Him, to be loved by Him, or even things just for me to fill the emptiness.

• Sometimes my belly is just swollen with the emptiness, the blackness, the void, of not allowing Him in, of letting nothing of Him fill me.

• That mother's battered, wretched appearance was me, who I really am in my soul. The shambles I am without Christ. In that moment in the camp, I felt no shame for this mother, no embarrassment for her that she could not dress better, smell better, eat better, provide better. I felt pity, I felt compassion, I saw her humanity longing to come out in its fullness, in all the beauty and health and life she was truly designed for. Why, then, do I act shocked and embarrassed and ashamed to find I am filthier in my soul than this woman could ever be on the outside of her skin? Why am I stunned to find in my heart dark places, lonely places, stubborn places, arrogant places, angry places, selfish places, resentful places...dung? And I act as though my Glorious Father in Heaven is SHOCKED to find such filth in me and will accordingly cast me down, make me pay, reel at the sight of me, touch me with only the longest stretch of His arm to barely brush me enough to make me just barely improved enough to enter His presence? And this entry I picture him allowing grudgingly, because he must because he made a promise to those he truly loves, and because of the technicality of me accepting His Son, he must let me in also? WHY AM I SURPRISED when this reality of my soul leaks out and I hurt people or spend my time in less than worthy pursuits? This is the TRUTH of my being and my Father knows it! And the tremendous, amazing, beyond-words glory of the universe is that He LOVES me anyway, has NO desire for me to hide it, just as this woman could never hide her poverty. He asks me to bring it all to Him, all this soul horror, and let Him embrace me, drawing these things like poison from my heart every time I am willing to come near. Every moment I flee and try to hide it, clean it, shape it, scour it, remedy it, I make myself filthier in soul. I must come to Him in a full embrace, accepting what ONLY He can do, and let Him love me, hold me, envelope all of me. Not because He must, but because He created me, planned me, bought me, owns me, adores me, is far from disappointed in me, and longs for me.

• Why do I pretend I do not smell? Why do I pretend I am clean and healthy? For my Father's benefit? For other filthy, broken humans, my entire species? I will no longer waste my time being shocked and embarrassed by what does NOT shock and embarrass my Father. He has stunningly made provision for me to be cleansed and I will run to Him! I will yell at the top of my lungs, "It's me, me here who needs you desperately! I NEED YOU!"

• And the land...the disastrous camp, just safe enough to keep rebels from hacking the limbs off the adults, stealing the sons for drug-induced soldiers, and gang-raping the daughters. The camp that cannot be farmed, cannot be grazed, has nothing to offer its children, forces the men to ride, dozens to a truck, miles away to work, breeds disease. This is home. This is also my home. I live in a fallen world. The good that exists, the food that grows, the pockets of safety and calm are by the grace of God bestowed on believer and unbeliever unlike. Every moment that I spend expecting this to be Eden, every moment I spend attempting to make this broken side of Heaven into Eden is a squander of truth. I was not born into an idyllic garden; I was born into a battleground. I was born into a world where spirits battle, where an Enemy and his legions are in pursuit of my kind, and I am called into this war with weapons of prayer and words and faith. In the camp, the government was supposed to come to the rescue and make things right so people could go home. Instead, an entire generation has been born, is growing, and is likely to die in internment. In my camp, in my world, MY KING IS COMING! There is rescue, there is a New Earth, and there is intervention even now with outpourings of His love and provision. I rely on no government to restore my world and my part in it; I rely on my King.

I will no longer pretend that I have it within my power to choose for myself good food and water; I will no longer pretend that I am pure; I will no longer attempt to create for myself an Eden. When this is my life's goal, I am miserable, I am wretched, I am impotent for Christ and the God I profess to love and live for. I AM IMPERFECT. I WILL NOT BE ASHAMED. The only true humiliation ever suffered was at the cross, where the only Perfect One to ever breathe air was punished for what He did not commit. HE SUFFERED SHAME THAT I MIGHT NOT! And He did it with joy, taking his place next to the Father.

Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Hebrews 12:2

I kept the car on the road. I was too stunned, my arms too frozen to pull over; my hands were too busy covering my wide-open, wailing mouth. Tears literally streamed, my nose ran, I mourned aloud. I apologized for my lostness, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'M SORRY!" It was not anger; it was abject horror, the tiniest God-glimpse into the reality of my sinful heart. It was immediately followed by unspeakable comfort, an exceptional presence. In my mind, I saw His Hand reach for my soaked cheek; it rested there, and in my car I put my hand over His, on my own cheek. He moved his Hand and mine to my shoulder and upper arm, across my chest, where I could kiss His hand and rest my head on our hands together while my tears and sobs settled sweetly to sniffles and hiccups. I remembered babysitting Born-Dancin' one of the only times I had to put her to bed, and she fought, cried, screamed, yelled for help, and finally settled into tiny, snuffly, chokey whispers of, "It's okay, it's okay." Indeed, I whispered the same. "It's okay. You are here. Thank you, thank you. You are here."