You deliver me from self-sufficiency

There is something so utterly freeing about being wretched, miserable, poor, naked-and not blind. When we’ve fought and struggled to clean the mud off our hands and to purify our hearts so we might ascend the hill of the Lord; when He applies the eye salve so we can see our poverty and the futility of our attempts at self-cleansing, then at last we see we’re not cleaning anything so much as we’re smearing the mud around in perfect little circles like children playing with finger paint. How can I wipe the hardened brown chunks off my face with my equally filthy hands? So I stop my frantic scraping and sit still, exchanging my hard labor for a simple cry and a bottle of tears: “Come and free me. Have mercy on me. Come and free me, I can’t take it anymore.” There is nothing left to do but…need. But what does one do when in need? I don’t know. I’ve never been here before. I just know I need You.

You’ll do it for me, won’t You? You’ll come and wipe my hands clean with Your blood and purify my heart in the oven of Your love. Because I need You and I can’t go up Your hill without You and I need You and I have no goodness apart from You and I need You and that’s why You died on the cross and I need You and I need You and I need You and I need You and I need You I need You I need You I need You.

I need You.

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Vision

Sometimes I forget why I’m living. Warm, tangible realities begin to freeze into ice-cold, intangible facts, losing their substance in the transition while appearing to keep their form. And I trudge through the snow as blizzards rage overhead, hugging the shadows of what I used to know.

Whenever this happens, I find my passion for Love dying as my zeal for principles grows exponentially. Principles are the first cousins of rules and old-nature-Nicole loves rules. Instead of asking, “How do you feel about this, Jesus,?” and, “Am I loving You in this?” I start to ask, “Is this right [according to my standard of His standard]?” and, “Am I doing this the right way?” Everything that I did or wanted to do because I loved Him begins to become a chore. The mere thought of patience becomes a burden; love, a weary task. And the whole darn thing called life becomes a production, a performance. Essentially…a lie.

But when I see Him for Who He is-when I see how utterly good He is-my heart melts, the fog lifts, and the facts flesh out, growing into true knowledge.

He is the one I was made for. I wasn’t made for ministry, I wasn’t made to teach, I wasn’t made to sing, I wasn’t made to lead, I wasn’t made to accumulate spiritual principles, I wasn’t made for anything or anyone else (though some or all of those activities might eventually-or never-be a part of my life).

“…there is little that we need other than God Himself. The evil habit of seeking God-and effectively prevents us from finding God in full revelation. In the and lies our great woe. If we omit the and we shall soon find God, and in Him we shall find that for which we have all our lives been secretly longing.”
(A. W. Tozer, The Pursuit of God)

Oh, and isn’t He worth it? Isn’t He beautiful? Isn’t He the only thing that lasts forever? Isn’t He the Source of all delight? Give me a vision of the One I love, and I’m homebound.

“Scarcely had I passed them when I found him whom my soul loves. I held him, and would not let him go…” (Song of Solomon 3:4)

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Freedom

You say I’m spotless and pure in Your eyes.
I see a Girl With Issues.
Suffocated, crushed beneath the weight of a spirit of performance, self-condemnation, fear…and accusations blaring like sirens, submerging the faint whispers of hope. Oh, how I need an encounter with Your love, Abba. Holy Spirit, come and free me. Root me and ground me in Your love. Give me my inheritance in You.

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100 Percent

I used to hold everyone (including myself) up this very peculiar, very unattainable standard: perfection. And I was always disappointed because everyone (including me) always fell short.

Then one day, He told me He wanted love-not my definition of perfection. Because love is perfection, and every other definition is a distortion. And since everyone’s journey looks a little different, the love each offers at any given moment in time will also look different. Love that looks different doesn’t mean it’s not whole-hearted.

That’s comforting to know.

BUT I can’t even love! Which is fine, because He teaches me how to when I ask, and He just wants Nicole. Not Nicole-Who-Finally-Got-Her-Act-Together-And-Loves, not Nicole-Who-Needs-To-Stop-Failing, not Nicole-Who-Needs-To-Be-More-_____________(fill in the blank) or Nicole-Who-Needs-To-Be-Less ____________ (fill in the blank). Those will come in time when I receive and experience His love. It’s just Nicole He’s after and just Nicole He loves.

I think I like that.

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I am my Father’s daughter.

A Father stretches out his hand to–to what? My eyes squint in the direction his hand is pointing to. Then I see her-a little girl in a raspberry pink dress, hiding (rather unsuccessfully) behind the leafy mass of a tree! First one eye, and then a second, peeks out from behind the thick trunk.

“I don’t know if I can hold your hand,” she whispers. Then she ducks behind the tree again.

Ten very silent seconds pass.

She pokes her entire head out this time, her timid eyes unmistakably drawn to his still outstretched hand. “I said, ‘I don’t know if I can hold your hand!'” she whispers a little louder.

The Father just blinks and smiles, unmoved and unconvinced by her confession.

Unsettled yet encouraged by her Father’s assurance, the little girl hastily grabs the hem of her dress with one hand and leaps out from behind the tree, tip-toeing the rest of the way to him. Her free hand slowly, delicately descends on his outstretched one-but only for a moment as she hastily retracts the brave limb and brings it home to her side.

Her chocolate eyes dart left, right, then back down, uncertainty overwhelming her little frame. Is she really allowed to take his hand? Suddenly, her eyes narrow in resolve to meet her Father’s own. She thrusts her head up and, for the briefest, most wonderful second, is lost in a pool of sweet joy. Emboldened by his inviting gaze, she extends her hand again, but this time, hers barely meets the palm of his before his large hand closes over her tiny one. Having obtained his prize, her Father begins almost skipping down the street, the light spring in his step calling out to the birds, “Could there be a better way to spend a warm, sunny afternoon?” The girl begins to skip with him as it dawns on her that her Father is enjoying her company! Soon, beaming from ear-to-ear, she stares rapturously into his glowing face, hardly believing she could be the reason for his happiness-but unaware of her surroundings, she trips on a broken branch lying in the middle of the sidewalk, and tumbles head first to the ground. She immediately loosens her grip on his hand and shuts her eyes, bracing herself for the yelling to begin. How she could be so careless? She should’ve watched where she was going. Can she not perform even the simplest task correctly?

But he doesn’t let go. And no one is screaming. She finally opens her eyes when she feels his strong hand (still holding hers) sweep her up off the ground; he dusts off her knees and elbows with his free hand.

Still smiling confidently, the Father resumes his jaunt with her hand firmly tucked in his, swinging it high, high above her head towards the brilliant sun.

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