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The Fog and the Longest View

By: Abigail Dodds
body of Christ, gratitude, sorrow6 Comments on The Fog and the Longest View

On vacation this past week, our son Titus had a seizure.

Just writing that, I know that each person reading has a different understanding of what that means. Lots of us think of seizures as fairly benign, because they usually are. Some are freaked out by them. Titus has only had two seizures, both were this kind: status epilepticus. They’re not your typical seizure; they’re long, life threatening, and the mortality stats on them aren’t encouraging.

After the first one, which landed him in a coma in the PICU, we were on high alert for the possibility more would happen. But for over two years, things have been quiet. Until on vacation, when it was the farthest thing from my mind.

It’s hard to describe what Titus’s seizures are like without sounding like a real drama lover. It seems for those of us who really dislike drama, God has this way of inserting it into our lives, and forcing us to own that we don’t control how peaceful things are.

The simple fact is he looks like he’s dying, or even dead. His eyes are fixed, he’s not “with us,” he doesn’t move or have any faculties, and he stops breathing, which turns him the color of purple gray dusk. It’s not something I can put out of my mind by force. It just shows up there, in my waking sight. It’s there when I close my eyes at night, pressing on me.

Now is a good time to remember the all the positive stuff, like how he recovered from the seizure on his own this time, how it didn’t keep on, how he got checked out and was fine and got to come home, how it’s likely his meds have been working really well over the last couple years and an increased dose will help them to keep working well.

Those facts are a real comfort and they are worth giving thanks over. But they’re so superficial in the end. They don’t reach the deep places that need comfort.

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Two days after the seizure, we were hiking along the rocks on the shore of Lake Superior in a thorough fog. The mist and ashy cloud was everywhere, and who could believe in weather as brooding as that, that the sun was out there, above it all, gleaming and oblivious?

There are times when this belief seems as far-fetched as a fairy tale. How can the sun be giving warmth and causing life, when all around is shadow and veil? Shouldn’t I feel it? Isn’t feeling it what makes it real? And that’s when the hot, life-giving rebuke of God sears:

“Have you entered into the springs of the sea,
or walked in the recesses of the deep?
Have the gates of death been revealed to you,
or have you seen the gates of deep darkness?
Have you comprehended the expanse of the earth?
Declare, if you know all this.

“Where is the way to the dwelling of light,
and where is the place of darkness,
that you may take it to its territory
and that you may discern the paths to its home?
You know, for you were born then,
and the number of your days is great!” Job 38:16-21 (ESV)

I must believe, am commanded to believe, that in our darkest haze, the light is unchanged. Because it is in our darkest haze that we stop straining for the earthly light of better circumstances, as if we understand what that would look like, and start leaning hard on the unseen Light that has already overcome the darkness. This is our only comfort in life and death. It’s that we belong, body and soul, to the Light. I do not wish for foggy days–gifts that they may be to my vision of God. But I do not wish them away either.

Never do I feel more keenly how much an unearned gift faith is, than in the fog, where no long views are offered me. It’s when we’re granted no long view, that we must exercise the faith that depends on the unseen longest view. Oh for the grace to believe when we have not seen–we have not seen healing, we have not seen relief, we have not placed our fingers in the holes in his hands, we have not seen resolution or an unsullied idea of the next twenty or thirty or fifty years. We have not seen it here, in this world. Yet, give us the grace to believe Christ is all and in all and there is a better world to come–this is my daily prayer.

“Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.’” John 20:29 (ESV)

Staring at the Paper Towel Roll (and Other Ways to Stiff-Arm Uncommon Grace)

By: Abigail Dodds
body of Christ, everyday, gratitude5 Comments on Staring at the Paper Towel Roll (and Other Ways to Stiff-Arm Uncommon Grace)

We should buy stock in paper towels. They’re what keep us from sloshing around up to our ankles or elbows in spills, drips, and yes, throw-up.

It seems I have a roll everywhere: in the kitchen, upstairs in the hallway, in the car, and we always bring one to the basement when we’re all down there for movie night. The other must-have is the cleaning wipe. They do the follow-up clean to the paper towel. Of course, we also use actual towels with water and soap, but when everything has spectacularly splattered to the nether regions of furniture, floor, and surrounding people, the paper towel has a certain immediacy and convenience to it.

But every now and then, a big spill happens and I will simply stare in the direction of the paper towel roll. Utterly irrational and completely ridiculous, I can only be thinking one of two things: 1) someone else will take care of this problem if I just sit here, or 2) this problem will take care of itself if I just sit here. It usually only takes a few seconds for sanity to prevail and for the stalling engine to start, but it’s a real thing that happens.

And this sums up what is likely the biggest spiritual problem I face–and maybe you, too. It’s not that grace isn’t there. It’s not that the paper towel roll of life is empty. It’s that sometimes I just stare at it rather than see it as a gift and help and true grace and mercy.

Jesus is more than a paper towel roll–the analogy has major limits, people, but stick with me. He’s more than the clean-up to a problem, but he’s certainly not less than that. And how often do we talk about him, look at him, eye him from a distance, but fail to avail ourselves of the grace found in him?

Sometimes I say things to one of my children and I know they’re hearing me on some level–they’re giving some slight outward acknowledgement, but thirty seconds later, they don’t know what it is I said. They heard, but they weren’t listening. That’s us with looking at Jesus. We look. We may even gaze. But it’s the gaze of a bored boyfriend sitting on a bench at the mall mindlessly staring while she tries on another pair of shoes. He’s not really seeing anything. How often do we look at Jesus, but we’re not getting anything, not grasping a concrete reality, not truly receiving or knowing anything with our own minds and hands and hearts.

One thing that has sometimes slowed me down in laying hold of the grace in Jesus is that it often doesn’t feel how I think it’s going to. It doesn’t look or feel super spiritual or ultra meaningful or cosmically life-changing. It just looks like singing a song of praise when I want to call a friend and complain. It looks like ordering my thumb to open my Bible app instead of facebook. It looks like receiving the gift of a text from a friend who offers prayers and support, rather than letting my thoughts spiral to self-pity. It looks like thankfulness for every small thing that is going “right” today–especially the teenager helping with lunch, rather than griping inside about all the stuff that isn’t worth griping about (which is all of it, by the way, even the really hard stuff).

God’s grace through Jesus is everywhere– a flood of kindness that keeps us watered and growing even during a drought, but we’ve got to tune our ears to really listen for the grace, we’ve got to look with our eyes to really see it. And that, in NO WAY, means that we’re earning it, or getting it by our own means. It’s a gift. But even gifts have to be received.

It’s uncommon grace found in that paper towel roll. When I first learned about common grace, I was really helped to have that category, but after awhile I started misapplying it to mean that all the normal good stuff of life that I experienced was a mere impersonal common grace. What I failed to see was that Jesus’ sacrifice makes me God’s child. When we’re God’s children, every way we interact with and relate to God is done in that paradigm. Nothing he gives us is a mere “common” grace–it is a grace that comes only because Jesus secured it for us, just as he secured our status as God’s children. Even paper towels. If ALL THINGS work for the good of God’s children, then if we are God’s children, we must receive everything in life as a particular grace through and by Jesus.

The paper towel roll is never empty with Jesus. There is always, always, always grace. Not just barely enough, but more and more and more than our brains have categories for. He cares more for us than we do. He’s committed to our good, our obedience, our growth more than we are. He never forgets to restock the shelves of grace. In Christ, they are infinitely available. Stop staring at them and start receiving them through Christ.

P.S. Here’s a link to my latest DG post, The Only Constant in Life.

A Podcast Interview: Risen Motherhood

By: Abigail Dodds
body of Christ, family, gratitude, sorrow1 Comment on A Podcast Interview: Risen Motherhood

Last week I was interviewed by Laura Wiffler and Emily Jensen of the Risen Motherhood podcast about having a child with special needs. It was a neat experience and I really loved getting to share Gospel hope with moms.

Emily and Laura both have little kiddos and are applying the Gospel to motherhood as they walk through it. Their podcast hits about every topic you could hope for as a mom–from food choices to fear to guilt to comparison. You can subscribe to Risen Motherhood podcast on iTunes or listen on their website, which includes many helpful resources and links.

Listen to my interview here or here.

 

On Loving a (MN Nice) People Group

By: Abigail Dodds
body of Christ, everyday, gratitude3 Comments on On Loving a (MN Nice) People Group

Sometimes I long for God to send us somewhere–somewhere other than here. I have this idea that ministering to the nations is ministering far away. How often do I consider that I am part of the nations that Jesus spoke of. That my children are the nations. That if Jesus or Paul or the apostles saw us (as yet unconverted), we’d be some of the most foreign, needy, weird people they’d ever encountered.

I find I can sentimentalize just about anything, from special needs to far away places to the actual people who live in those far away places. It’s easy for me to love the people I barely know and the places I’ve barely been. In my high school years, I traveled to Mexico City, Mexico four times to come alongside some missionaries who’d been there for over 20 years. We helped put on camps and Vacation Bible school and built relationships. What’s interesting is how much more sentimental and glowing it was after going once than after going four times. After four times, I was more invested and less enthusiastic. I was less “in love” with the people and more just learning to like them, having discovered they were just like all people everywhere: containing strengths and weaknesses, warts and beauty.

I suppose that’s true in all our relationships. The beginning of love is always a whirlwind of emotions and ignorance, not without some foundations, but still, it’s irrational and causes us to say and do things a clear head might forgo.

I turned 36 this month, which means I’ve now lived in Minnesota almost as long as I’ve lived anywhere. I moved here when I was 18 for college and, minus two summers in Iowa, I’ve been here ever since.

When I first got here, I loved so much about it: access to the arts, museums, people who cared about education, people who worked hard, better roads, a theologically rich church. But eventually this wore thin as I discovered what seemed like giant barriers to developing relationships with people. For a state known for its Minnesota Nice, I felt like I searched in vain to find it.

To me it seemed more like Minnesota Passive Aggressive, or, Minnesota: Cold Weather and Cold Shoulders, or, Minnesota: Good Luck Trying to Figure Out What We Really Think, or, Minnesota: Refuge for Introverts and Others Opposed to Making Eye Contact. I know this isn’t everyone’s experience and probably says as much about me as anything. I can think of a few less-than-lovely tag lines for myself as well: AntiMinnesota: Ready, Fire, Aim Conversation Starters, or, AntiMinnesota: Adventures in Awkward Oversharing.

The thing is people are people. They’re unique in their strengths and weaknesses and it’s always by the grace of God that we grow in real love (not hype or ignorance) for people who are different than us. After eighteen years here, I can say that God has grown in me a deep love and loyalty for this people group. The nice people group. The can’t-make-eye-contact people group. The group with the strong opinions that they’re afraid to let out. I’m pretty sure I’ve started adopting quite a few of their ways. And I can say that I’ve been well-loved by this people. They endure those of us who say too much, too fast. They hang in there with people like me, who seem to have never met a thought that they didn’t feel the need to express.

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I’m SO thankful for those who’ve left home and country to go to the faraway nations. Those who are laboring in places where Christian churches are rare or absent, who are upending everything to take the Gospel and plant it in soil where it hasn’t taken root. Those who are staying long enough to actually know that the people they are there to love are no easier to love than any other people. It is a high calling and I want to do everything I can to support them and affirm that what they’re doing is massively important and essential and set apart.

And for as long as God has me here, I want to look around at this people: the MN Nice people, the melting pot of the Twin Cities, and love the heck out of them, dontcha know.

 

 

Soul Keeping in the Dark

By: Abigail Dodds
body of Christ, family, sorrow10 Comments on Soul Keeping in the Dark

It’s no secret that our special needs son has sleep problems. It’s been true since the first days of his life. I still remember his never-more-than-twenty-minute naps. And his rarely-more-than-2-hour stretches of sleep during his first year (and often only 30 minutes or an hour). Then his first year ended, but the sleep problems sallied forth.

His feeding tube and anti-seizure meds gave some reprieve, but not enough to make anything close to normal. Three and a half years in and he’s still up every night, usually multiple times or for sessions of writhing/crying. I don’t share this as a pity play, but a fact.

Lately I was reading The Life We Never Expected by Andrew and Rachel Wilson. It’s a book about hard realities and Gospel hope raising two autistic children. I haven’t ventured into much reading of this sort on disability because when you’re living a hard reality, the last thing I feel like doing is reading about how hard it is. The real thing is enough. But I read it so that I could see if it was a good book to recommend to others. And it is. It’s really good. These excerpts from the chapter Quest For Rest wrecked me:

…”it’s no coincidence that the Scriptures talk about fasting from various physical joys at times–food, drink, sex–but never from sleep.”

“In our case, this has meant reconfiguring our entire lives to get more rest.”

“…we’re learning how to pray and process our disappointment with God. It might sound ridiculous to say this, in light of all that has happened over the past few years, but I think the greatest single challenge to my prayer life has been the fact that so many prayers for sleep have gone unanswered. For night after night, I have put Zeke in bed, knelt down next to him, and said, ‘Father, we pray that you would give Zeke a good night’s sleep. Please give him peace and rest, and may he wake up after 5 o’clock, or even after six. It would be so much better for him and so much better for us, and it would cost you nothing. Please, Father. Amen.”

“Then the next morning, as the familiar patter of feet comes down the corridor toward our bedroom, I have rolled over to look at the alarm clock and seen in despair that it says 4:27, or 3:52, or 4:41. And immediately the thought comes: No, God hasn’t answered my prayer. Again.”

The words are painful. They resonate. Tom and I have prayed every night since Titus was born for good rest for him and us. We have changed the rhythms of our lives to keep sane. We’ve let things go. Even so, sometimes I find myself pushed under water.

Titus has learned to pray. It’s one of the first constructive behaviors he picked up on and regularly started imitating. We’d fold our hands and bow our heads to pray and he would too. He still does. At night, I’ve never been able to get him to stop the cycle of writhing/crying once it starts up. It just has to play out. But probably 6 or more months ago, I started saying to him, in the dead middle of the night, very loudly and forcefully, “Titus, let’s pray!” And amazingly, the writhing and crying stopped and he grabbed my hand, closed his eyes and waited for me to pray. Which I did. It felt a bit like a miracle.

Now he asks me to pray anywhere from 2 to 10 times per night, depending on how much he’s up. He wakes up and says, “Mommy! Pray! Pray! Mommy!” There have been nights when I’ve wanted not to pray. The seeming futility of it overwhelms me, and I think, What good is it to pray, when I ask night after night for rest and the answer is no, and Titus will be asking me to pray again in 10 minutes or an hour or 2 hours. 

Titus still writhes and cries at night, he’s still up just as much as he ever was before he started asking me to pray through the night. But, in my despair over the sleep, I could easily miss something huge. My son asks to pray. My son asks to pray. 

Think of all the kindness of God and answered prayer in him asking to pray. It’s worth pausing over and giving thanks for.

Even as I give thanks for that amazing thing, it doesn’t erase the difficulty of sleep problems. It is grueling and lonely. Yet, prayer keeps me from being isolated from the One person I can’t live without. In the darkness, we turn to God and pray, because he’s there with us. The rest of the house may be asleep, but God isn’t. In bleariness and bone-weariness, I talk to the One who keeps our souls through the night.

If you find yourself in the dark and seemingly alone, my hope for you is that you would know God’s nearness. Sometimes the darkness remains, sometimes the circumstances won’t change, but always, always, always, he’s there. He’s keeping you and that’s what counts.

Psalm 121

[1] I lift up my eyes to the hills.
From where does my help come?
[2] My help comes from the LORD,
who made heaven and earth.

[3] He will not let your foot be moved;
he who keeps you will not slumber.
[4] Behold, he who keeps Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.

[5] The LORD is your keeper;
the LORD is your shade on your right hand.
[6] The sun shall not strike you by day,
nor the moon by night.

[7] The LORD will keep you from all evil;
he will keep your life.
[8] The LORD will keep
your going out and your coming in
from this time forth and forevermore. (ESV)

Why Sunday Matters, Union With Christ in the Wilderness, and Baking The World Better

By: Abigail Dodds
body of Christ, everyday, food, gratitude5 Comments on Why Sunday Matters, Union With Christ in the Wilderness, and Baking The World Better

I’m home again this Sunday. More sickness. Which means I’m writing down everything on my mind. Forgive the disparate nature of it all.

I’ve been trying to get to the nub of why missing church hurts so badly. Is it because I don’t get to hear the sermon? Or the Sunday school teaching? Well, yes. But no, because I can listen to those later in the week when the recordings become available. Is it because I feel cooped up and want to see people and have some social time? Well, yes. But no, because I get to see people and get out other days of the week.

What I miss most is hearing, receiving, and singing together. When we hear the Word preached together, it’s different than me downloading some killer sermon to listen to by myself. When we sing songs together, it’s different than when I find the latest or best hymn album to listen to in my kitchen. It’s valuable to do those things at home, but it’s not the same as being with God’s people on Sunday.

When we gather as God’s people and sing a song to the Lord and about the Lord from our heart, with other Christians singing the same song, and the same words, from their hearts, we are being united. Every Sunday morning God is answering Jesus’ prayer that we would be one as he and the Father are one. When we submit ourselves fully to the faithfully preached Word of God we are being made one as shoulder to shoulder our brothers and sisters put themselves under that same Word. That’s what I miss so much.

I’m never quite as aware of my frailty as on a Sunday when I’m engulfed in the singing of his people. My faith won’t survive without the faithful saints singing next to me. It’s true that “you can have all this world, give me Jesus..” as long as when we say “Jesus” we mean his body, too. I can’t live without his people. Sundays at home with sick kids are God’s good plan to remind me of this even more.

I’ve spent the better part of the past year thinking about our union with Christ. It has become to me the sweetest of all truth in the universe. I was reading through the sermon text for today, while at home, wanting to keep on the same page as everyone. I couldn’t get past the first two verses.

“The Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. And he was in the wilderness forty days, being tempted by Satan. And he was with the wild animals, and the angels were ministering to him.” Mark 1:12-13 (ESV)

So much to take it. But I was strengthened by remembering that it’s God’s Spirit that puts Jesus (and us) in the wilderness, and that we can be in the wilderness and not fear, because Jesus already did it for us. He did it perfectly. He made a path through. The Israelites couldn’t do it, I can’t do it on my own. But because of him, we can walk through the wilderness and resist temptation. He did it for me and he leads me in paths of goodness and faithfulness right through the desert and dry land.

Sometimes it’s hard to know what goodness looks like. Is it a good attitude? Is it doing good things? Can the world engage in goodness? What is Christian goodness? If I get the laundry done, how is it distinctly Christian goodness–doesn’t everybody have to do that? This is another area where thinking about my union with Christ has made life all the sweeter.

There is a Christian way to do the laundry, and make supper, and tend the garden, and go to work, and clean the house. And that is to do them all in Christ and for Christ, with his garments of holiness round about us. It’s so easy to think that our Christian selves are the selves that do “ministry.” The Christian part of us is the part that goes to church, or does Bible study, or disciples a younger person, or helps in Sunday school, or has a quiet time. But because of Christ everything we do is a Christian thing. And I’ve been reveling in baking bread while united to Christ and seated in the heavenly places.

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There’s this cute hashtag: #baketheworldabetterplace. I love it. I love it because, in Christ, it can be true. In Christ, we can bake the world better. In Christ, baking really can be a way to befriend faithfulness. I can love my children with the love of Christ by baking. I can put my hands to do good works in and for Christ by baking. I can teach about him through baking; I can love Christ with baking; I can enjoy Christ in baking.

Baking in and of itself is a common good–it provides food, it is enjoyable. But baking while belonging to Christ is something else entirely. The metaphor (bread is food that sustains) and reality (Christ is the bread of life that sustains) meet spectacularly when baking as a Christian. Doing good works in Jesus’ name is transformative, both to the “good work” and to the person doing them and the person receiving them.

I mention all this baking hubbub, not to get you to start baking, which is completely unnecessary to your life as a Christian. But to ask you, what are you doing everyday that you can see in a new light because of your union with Christ. The laundry (making dirty things clean)? Making supper? Reading books? Accounting? Science experiments? You are doing those things in Christ. They belong to him and are for him. What metaphors are brought to fullness in your doing them?

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When we’re in Christ, nothing happens apart from him. Not our relationships with other Christians, or our relationships with non-Christians, or our interactions with the stuff in the world (like flour, clothing, tools, tv). We don’t invite Christ into those things. If we’re in him and he’s in us, it’s a reality that he’s there. But our awareness of him is what needs heightened. Which is part of why we need each other, Christ’s body. To keep each other remembering and reminded.

If you were at church today, I hope you know the gift you were given. And if you were at home or the hospital or somewhere else, I hope you know Christ as the one who blazed a trail through the wilderness for us.

Doing the Spiritual Splits

By: Abigail Dodds
body of Christ, everyday, Uncategorized3 Comments on Doing the Spiritual Splits

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I was looking at my calendar and realized my church attendance on Sunday morning is less than 50% for 2017. I’m sure I’m not alone. This has been a brutal winter for illness in MN and I’ve found myself rocking an ever-growing and under-the-weather boy on many a Sunday morning.

Rocking this morning is as calm as you’d hope, but my mind has been anything but. I’ve been pinned, all the while the laundry goes unfolded, the dishes unloaded, the supper un-prepped, the Bible study undone, the garden unplanned, the knitting un-knit, the lovely sunshine un-basked in. And on and on.

I was chatting with a fellow mom of five last week, brainstorming ways to bring structure and discipline to our mornings with so many variables in the form of small people and exponential relationships and possibilities for things to go awry. Change, thou art steadfast. It seems we never do live the same day twice.

I’ve always been a go-with-the-flow type. Probably a fourth child thing. Going with the flow ensures that I am GOING! And WITH others! Nothing worse than being left behind for a fourth child. This go-with-the-flow personality has served me well in many ways. I’m not opinionated about many decisions, as long as the people I love are around, which means I’m usually easy to get along with. But, it’s not a personality forged from virtue, it’s forged from my desire to have maximum enjoyment in life–and I tend to think that going with the flow will make me and those around me happiest.

But I’ve learned over the years that it’s easy to mistake this go-with-the-flow style for true flexibility–the kind of flexibility that’s learned to be content in any circumstance. All it takes to learn the truth is take away the ability to go with the flow. What happens when I’m forced to stop the movement, forced to be still, forced to make my own decisions without the comfort and enjoyment of the company I long for? And then what if even my best laid plans are thwarted? Like today with the laundry and the dishes and supper and actual work that I’m supposed to do?

There are probably many of you reading who aren’t go-with-the flow types. Maybe your type A or you like to run the show and make the decisions. Maybe the idea of being a passenger in the ride of life is a thousand slow deaths by pin prick. It’s probably more obvious for you that growth in Godly flexibility is necessary. You know your rigidity, your fight for control. And hopefully you know that it needs to be crucified in favor of trusting God.

But, if you’re more like me, your lack of flexibility might come as a surprise. So I’m hoping this reflection is helpful for you. Spiritual flexibility is just my way of saying that we trust God in every circumstance, without bitterness or bucking, that is to say, with real contentment. How flexible are we when we aren’t even allowed to be flexible? When we’re just stuck in the same place over and over, learning the discipline we want to run from?

So my hope today is not in getting up from the rocking chair where I currently type away with my little boy’s head resting on my arm. My hope is not in what I will accomplish or how easy I am to get along with on lunch choices. My hope is in God. I can trust that while I sit in this chair, he is accomplishing everything he wants to in and through me. And when the time sitting here is up, by faith I will flex to do what he’s put before me next. I’ll mess up, but I can trust him. He’s teaching me the spiritual splits, so that I can bend and flex and never break as I stretch out to love others in Jesus. Oh that our arms would reach out with Jesus’ as his were nailed to the cross. And they do, because we are united to him in life and death and life.

Reflections On A Year Of Writing

By: Abigail Dodds
blogging, body of Christ, gratitude3 Comments on Reflections On A Year Of Writing

2016 has been a year of increased writing for me. Especially it’s been a year of increased writing away from this blog, mainly for Desiring God. I usually link up and excerpt the writing I do elsewhere, so most of it has shown up here even so.

Aside from online writing, I’ve also written two bible studies for the women of our church, written talks, and long (ish) off-the-cuff Facebook and Instagram posts. In many ways, I’ve given all I could to writing, reading, and learning. That is to say, I’ve given what time I could in light of my life and responsibilities, sometimes more than I should have, sometimes less. Learning to give appropriate time to these things, learning when to dive headlong in and when to hold back is more of an art than a science for a mom with varying jobs and unpredictable days and often seems a bit out of my control. One piece of writing advice I’ve taken to heart is: if you write it cold, don’t expect readers to feel the fire to keep reading.. or something like that–that’s my adaptation of the gist of the advice. This has led me to write when the zeal is there, which isn’t always on schedule.

The other thing I’ve learned, not through advice but through failure, is that zeal in our writing makes us hasty. And haste is often foolish. Write with zeal, but then give yourself time to read it cool, with clear eyes, before you put it out there. I’ve benefitted from many eyes on my writing and a good amount of time between writing and publishing.

One thing I’ve learned about myself over the last couple years is that reaching people through writing is exhilarating. As someone whose life has been changed through books– through other people’s writing–the idea that God could use my writing to encourage, point, and disciple others is thrilling and deeply satisfying. That thrill can lead to praising God and it can lead to sinful sickness in the soul.

But perhaps the more important thing I’ve learned is that the face-to-face interactions, the flesh and blood lives that I have the privilege of being apart of through discipling, teaching, writing for, and learning from, give my soul a much deeper, lasting joy. Writing for people in general is hollow compared to writing for my people. And so whenever I write, that’s what I aim for. I aim to love the real people around me, to encourage them, to help them. Then I pray that if God would be pleased to use it elsewhere, then he would, and if not, that my satisfaction in it would not lessen, but quite the opposite, that it would increase. There’s something very wonderful in leaving the results to God, in knowing that judging success by earthly standards isn’t just dangerous, it’s often flat out wrong.

The banner I want over my life and writing is: entrusted. So, I commit this coming year to him. I entrust it to him. And in doing so, I am asking him for the long view: that I will faithfully deposit any and all good works into his hands and into this world, entrusting their value and influence to him, that they would be shown for what they are on the final day. May he keep me from judging my own self and works, as I undoubtedly am too soft and too hard on myself in all the wrong ways, but rather entrust it all to him, the only righteous judge. If you have the inclination, would you pray that I would be a faithful steward, entrusting all to God?

“If you are insulted for the name of Christ, you are blessed, because the Spirit of glory and of God rests upon you. But let none of you suffer as a murderer or a thief or an evildoer or as a meddler. Yet if anyone suffers as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but let him glorify God in that name. For it is time for judgment to begin at the household of God; and if it begins with us, what will be the outcome for those who do not obey the gospel of God? And “If the righteous is scarcely saved, what will become of the ungodly and the sinner?” Therefore let those who suffer according to God’s will entrust their souls to a faithful Creator while doing good.” (1 Peter 4:14-19 ESV)

“This is how one should regard us, as servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God. Moreover, it is required of stewards that they be found faithful. But with me it is a very small thing that I should be judged by you or by any human court. In fact, I do not even judge myself. For I am not aware of anything against myself, but I am not thereby acquitted. It is the Lord who judges me. Therefore do not pronounce judgment before the time, before the Lord comes, who will bring to light the things now hidden in darkness and will disclose the purposes of the heart. Then each one will receive his commendation from God.” (1 Corinthians 4:1-5 ESV)

When Submission Is Sin

By: Abigail Dodds
body of Christ, culture6 Comments on When Submission Is Sin

New post up at Desiring God on women and submission to the world. If you’re weighed down by all the rules the world throws at you or if you’re a little proud because you manage to keep so many of them, then this is for you. Be free in Christ, friends!

I am convinced that many of us women have a submission problem. A giant submission problem. But it isn’t mainly that we won’t submit to our husbands — it’s that we won’t stop submitting to the world. The biggest problem with women and submission is too much of it in the wrong places. We willingly submit to the world’s rules.

In Colossians 3:18, Paul tells Christian wives to “submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.” Along with passages like Ephesians 5:22–24 and 1 Peter 3:1–6, this verse tends toward the infamous. But there is another perhaps less-known passage on “submission,” also from Colossians.

If with Christ you died to the elemental spirits of the world, why, as if you were still alive in the world, do you submit to regulations — “Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch” . . . — according to human precepts and teachings? These have indeed an appearance of wisdom . . . but they are of no value in stopping the indulgence of the flesh. (Colossians 2:20–23)

Women are awash in the teaching and dogma of the world. And the great tragedy is that they are voluntarily placing themselves under its authority. Some don’t even know they’re doing it.

Drowning in a Flood of Rules

Does any of this sound familiar? We compel ourselves to wear certain styles, even painful shoes, to keep up with what the stores have told us is fashionable. We clean our homes in a particular way with only particular products. We follow every rule and suggestion given to us by the ubiquitous “they” on how to parent our children and keep them safe from every wisp of risk. We stress and strain our muscles, three times a week minimum, because we believe it’s the “right” thing to do and maybe, just maybe, we’ll keep death at bay (or at least have a flat stomach until it comes for us). We’re religious about the kind of candle that can burn in our houses, and the smell of essential oils floats through the air whenever we’re around because we’re convinced they’re the “right” remedy to use.

Rules, rules, rules. Eat this; don’t eat that. “Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch.” These are not God’s rules, but they are rules nevertheless. Who could ever keep up with the always-changing and ever-increasing rules the world (and our own self-made religion) throws at us?

Am I saying it’s wrong to follow a certain diet? Or work out? Or clean a particular way? Or use certain health remedies? No. Absolutely not. But it iswrong to believe that doing any of those things is “right.” It’s wrong to do them because you trust the world (or yourself) more than Christ.

Christ has given us plenty of work to do until he comes again. The last thing we need is to start working on the to-do list the world has assigned to us. We’re to “seek the things that are above” (Colossians 3:1). That means we’re to “put on . . . compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience” (Colossians 3:12); to bear with one another, forgive each other, and above all, to love (Colossians 3:13–14).

Read the rest.

Warding Off Darkness By Laughing At What’s To Come

By: Abigail Dodds
body of Christ, culture, everyday, family, gratitude3 Comments on Warding Off Darkness By Laughing At What’s To Come

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As I vote today, I’m remembering that the act of voting was secured for me by sacrifices I didn’t make. I’m giving thanks for those sacrifices as I vote. I’m also remembering that every single act of my life as a Christian was secured for me at an infinitely higher cost by my Savior Jesus. Every act of our life in Christ is of significance beyond our telling or voting. From eating and drinking to giving my kids a hug in the morning to making dinner. Every thing we do by faith as his children, we do in Christ and for Christ. It’s all blood bought and costly, because *we ourselves* are blood bought. We are redeemed, new people. 

So I vote and give thanks that this act of voting is an act I do belonging to Christ and for him. I vote by faith—faith in Jesus, not a party or a candidate. Then I hug my husband and teach my kids about the real cost of freedom in Christ—a freedom that can never be quenched. I stoke the flames of *that* fire—one whose light will never go out.

My worth as a woman doesn’t come from my ability to vote, although I’m thankful for it. We were made by him and for him; our names are written on his palms. Our influence is deeper and broader and realer than anything we find inside the ballot box. When I laugh at what’s to come with my kids in the Gospel-soaked air of our home by faith, I do as much to ward off the darkness as any vote.

So I vote, then I exercise the real guts of my freedom, a freedom bestowed by God through Jesus. The freedom to pass this faith on to others, which is unable to be contained by laws; the freedom to know YAHWEH, that is Christ the Lord; the freedom to be loved by God and to love others. We are free to be his, friends. Today is a day for thankfulness.