the one i struggled to write.

{from here}

I try to keep my home as clean and as neat as possible.

Sometimes, I fail.

On the days when the laundry has piled up and the vacuuming is left undone, Jordan takes one look around our home and elicits five little words, void of any sarcasm or irony:

“This mess is a place.”

And he is often right: empty refrigerator, dirty laundry, dusty books, and dishes in the sink.

Lately, I look around this world we are living in, and I see the same thing.

This mess is a place.

It is full of hurt and division and angry words and bad attitudes and disappointment and ruined expectations and brokenness.

And the church — intended as a refuge for the broken, the disappointed, and the hurting — doesn’t always look much different.

It, too, is a mess. But our Lord calls it to more.

A few months ago, a follower of Christ hurt my feelings.

This is not unusual, by the way. The idea that redeemed believers are a perfect people is simply a farce, a cover-up. We are flawed and broken just like everyone else. We say things we shouldn’t and do things we shouldn’t and generally behave in ways that undoubtedly disappoint the One we are trying to please.

And despite the fact that we are told as children that words can never hurt us, the words are what really hurt the most, and they cannot be taken back.

My feelings were hurt, and I have been broken, lost and without purpose, every since.

I generally pride myself on not caring too much what other people think about me. My parents raised me to be strong and independent, confident and purposeful, and I hope, in my heart, that I am those things.

But these words cut me like a knife, and I have let the wound fester and gurgle up until it has really become too painful to bear.

I do not think even my husband or my parents know just how much pain those words caused me. I said I was okay, that I wouldn’t listen, that those words wouldn’t deter me from the purpose Christ has called me to.

But I did listen. Those words permeated my soul, and I am broken.

I allowed another person to affect my worship and my purpose, and it must stop.

My God knows my heart’s desire. He created me for unique service to Him. The gifts I have been given are special and divinely mine.

I let someone else take that from me.

No more.

Because although those hurtful words were sinful, my harboring of those words is also sinful.

For months I have worshipped in tears and in hurt and in frustration. For months I have questioned my purpose and my value as a daughter of the King.

There is this phrase I came across weeks ago, and I repeat it to myself as I enter the walls of my church building each Sunday.

“Grateful people and ungrateful people. Those who whine and those who worship. You can hardly be both.”

I cannot be both.

I cannot whine and complain and grumble about the people who have hurt me, because I am not in the business of worshipping people.

I am in the business of worshipping the Creator of this universe.

In her book One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp writes that the fall in Eden was ultimately a “failure to give thanks.”

I am guilty.

Each Sunday I enter the holiest of holies, and I dwell on the hole that exists in my heart.

My Father must look at me with tears in His eyes.

“This is not what I called you to be,” He whispers, gently nudging me to forgive, to live up to my name, full of favor and grace.

And I cry and I protest and I remind Him that I Have Been Hurt.

He nods, for He has been too.

But worship is not about dwelling in the hurt, in the wounds that have festered in our soul.

Worship is about being grateful.

The writer Paul gives us this admonishment in Philippians 2.

“Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe.”

Somewhere along the line, Christians turned the definition of holy into a list of dos and do nots, perhaps because it is easier to follow a checklist than it is to live without complaint.

But that is who we are called to be.

To shine in this dark universe, Paul — in this particular passage — does not bestow us with a list to follow. His command is short, and it is simple: Don’t complain.

Be grateful.

Give thanks.

In everything.

And if the command is to do everything — every word, every action, every thought — without complaining, then I can only assume that includes worship, a time devoted to praising the One who made me well.

When I was in the fifth grade, I read this biography of Eleanor Roosevelt, and that day I visited the FDR memorial in Washington, all I could do was stare at the statue of Eleanor. I loved her, loved what she stood for. Mostly, I loved what she said:

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

For weeks, I have believed that a small group of people took away my God-given gift and passion.

But the truth is, I let them.

I stopped being grateful, and listened to the words of an imperfect people rather than a perfect Father.

That is my own fault, and no one else’s.

My God knows the desires of my heart. He knows every word spoken, every hurt harbored. He will take care of me. He will handle these burdens that are far too big for my small soul to carry.

But I must not stop worshipping.

I am sorry for the weeks I have wasted, but my God will redeem them.

He will carry my burdens and heal my broken heart and give me renewed purpose and passion.

And I will be grateful, because I was made for more.