Grace In The Grief ~ revised.

Originally written and posted in March 2024.

February 12 still echoes in my bones. Three years ago, that date marked the end of a relationship I once thought would last forever. The first anniversary tasted bitter—like something sacred had been torn away. But the second year? It was then that I saw the grace in the grief.

That morning, I lay on my bedroom floor and was transported, not physically, but soul-deep, back to a dorm room in North Carolina. Back to that night.

My body remembered before my heart did.

The ache came first. Then the flood of memories. Then finally, the tears. Not from the 20-year-old woman I was, but from the not quite 18-year-old girl I used to be. The one who had been too strong, too quiet, for far too long.

I remembered the exact moment it happened. His voice. His words. My dreams collapsing in real-time.

“I’m not arguing with myself. I’m arguing with God. He says 'you have to end this'.”

“Us?!”

“Yes.”

Just like that. Everything we had built for three years—memories, promises, plans—burned away in an instant.

And I still tried to cling to it. I still tried to convince God to let me keep what I wanted. Even after that moment, I chased what had already crumbled. I manipulated. I said “I love you” not as a gift, but as a strategy. I got on my knees and begged—not for God’s will, but for mine.

When it ended for good, I let grief harden into bitterness. I ran to someone else, someone I shouldn’t have. That relationship broke me more deeply than the first. I was still trying to self-heal, to self-direct, to take control of what only God could redeem.

But the night it ended was the night I also called out to God with no pretense, no plans. Just wreckage. Just me, shattered and unsure, finally giving Him the pieces. I let Him hold me, and in that brief window of surrender, I was exactly where I needed to be.

I didn’t stay there. I got up the next morning and went right back to chasing my own way. It would take another heartbreak, a full year later, before I finally stopped running.

But looking back now, I see it clearly: He never stopped chasing me.

God's voice didn’t leave when I ignored it. His grace didn’t withdraw when I resisted it. He kept whispering. He kept waiting.

Now on February 12, I don't just remember the breakup. I remember the mercy. The way He knelt beside me in my dorm room. The way He stayed—even when I didn’t.

I begged Him to restore the relationship. His answer was no.

But hidden in that “no” was a much better yes. A yes to healing. A yes to growth. A yes to someone new, someone who knows and cherishes me, someone who walks beside me in faith and love, someone I never saw coming. But God saw him.

He always did. Because God's "no" meant that one day I could say "yes". And soon, "I do". 

Back then, while I was sobbing on a dorm room floor, my future husband was making choices hundreds of miles away—decisions that would one day lead him to me. I didn’t know it. But God did. And now I can say it with confidence: I wouldn’t change a thing. Not for the world. If I had to go through it all again to make it here, I would do it gladly. 

Maybe February 12 will always be a little bittersweet. But it’s not just a day of heartbreak anymore. It’s a marker of God’s faithfulness. A reminder that even when I let go of Him, He never let go of me.

While it's not the outcome I wanted back then, I will forever be grateful to my ex for walking away - he gave me the freedom to find God's will for me. To find the man I was supposed to marry. To find myself. I pray he has found where he is supposed to be in life, also. 

If you're in a season of loss, I hope you know this: In case anyone told you otherwise, it's okay to grieve. What's more, Jesus doesn’t leave. Even when everything and everyone else seems to. He’s still the first one to show up, and the last one standing. He will hold and heal and put your life back together when it feels broken beyond repair. It may not be the healing you wanted or asked for, but it's healing, regardless. Deep, full healing that goes far beyond what you think you want or need. 

Years later, I can say it now without hesitation:

Jesus was there. Always has been. Always will be. And by His grace, I’m okay.

No…I’m way more than okay.

Queerness, the Church, and the Space We Don't Give: Revisiting My Story

Originally written when I was 16. Revisited, years and a lifetime later.

I went by “Emmie" back then. I was a newly baptized Christian girl terrified of her own thoughts. I had no framework, no language, and no safe place to talk about the reality I was facing. I was clinging to Jesus with all I had, but I was scared of being disqualified, judged, or shamed. I thought if anyone found out, they’d never look at me the same again. And I wasn’t ready for that.

I don't recall the exact timing, only that these events took place during my Sophomore year, somewhere between fall and winter. I later wrote and published to my former blog something that I described never in a million years guessing that I would write. It exposed one of my deepest secrets at the time, something I haven't shared much since. 

It was something I was scared to say out loud, something I felt I’d be condemned for if I even dared expose it.

Perhaps some of you remember - 2019, early 2020, sometime in that period. I came out as bisexual and exposed my struggle with attraction to the same gender. 

One afternoon while chilling in my dorm room after class, one of my best friends came bursting into my room, sat down beside me, and said she needed to talk. Her voice was different. Shaky. Honest. "I think it's time for you to know... I’m bisexual."

Shock flooded me. I froze. Not because of her, but because I saw myself.

We talked. She was vulnerable. I was silent, trying to understand, to show compassion and support. But there came a point where my heart was so exposed that I couldn’t take it anymore. I excused myself and ran to the prayer room downstairs. I locked the door, collapsed in a chair, and sobbed.

Not because she made me uncomfortable.

Because I was.

I wasn’t angry with her. I wasn’t judging her. I was just haunted by the truth I’d never spoken. Her confession unearthed mine. It pulled out the secret I had promised myself I’d never tell a soul.

I’d felt these things before. Quiet feelings I buried under spiritual busyness, moral guilt, and silence. The first time was three years earlier, when I realized I was attracted to a close friend. I panicked. I begged God to fix it. I told no one. I shoved it back down. It came again. And again. I prayed harder. I was definitely attracted to guys, and I ran with it. I distracted myself. I was even in my first serious relationship at the time this happened.

But I couldn’t outrun it.

That night, I went back to my friend, and I told her the truth. “I’m just like you.” I had no more energy for hiding.

Slowly, I started telling others, those I trusted the most. Eventually, I even opened up to my parents. It wasn’t easy, but it was the beginning of freedom.

Let me be clear: I steered clear of choices that would reflect that. I’ve never dated a woman, despite real temptations—especially in seasons of singleness and heartache before I met the man I’m now preparing to marry. I hold to what I believe is the Scriptural teaching: that God designed romantic and sexual intimacy for marriage between a man and a woman.

But I don’t believe that means those who identify as LGBTQ+ are unworthy, unloved, or beyond reach. Not even close.

Over five years after coming out, I’m not writing this from a place of “figured it all out.” I’m writing this as someone who still has to wrestle with thoughts, with flesh, with fears. I still carry this story. But I carry it differently now.

Because I’ve come to know a Savior who doesn’t flinch at my fears. A God who draws close, not away, when I whisper what I think disqualifies me. If you’re reading this and wondering if the same can be true for you, it can.

But I also need to confess something.

In the years that followed my first coming out, I’ve not always lived up to the grace I so desperately needed. There were moments I spoke out of fear and self-righteousness. Times I made comments—about people I didn’t know, about situations I didn’t understand—that came from insecurity and not love. I’ve said things that hurt, things I now regret. If you were ever on the other end of that, I am truly sorry.

Hypocrisy is easy when we’re scared. But Jesus isn’t afraid of our contradictions. He transforms them. And the more I let Him shape my heart, the more I ache not to demonize but to witness. To listen. To serve. To reflect Him.

To my LGBTQ+ friends: You are not what people have labeled you, and you are not invisible to God. I apologize on behalf of the church that has made you the centerpiece for their culture war and has used a politically charged religious bat to continually hit you over the head with. 

To those like me who fight these battles while still deeply loving Jesus, forgive us for not giving you a space to share your voice and have conversations about what it means to be LGBTQ+ and still be the church. Please don't stop trying. Please don't give up on us.

You are sought. Valuable. Loved. I cannot apologize enough for those who may have told you different. 

Even if you never change a thing. Even if you’re still figuring it all out. Even if all you have to offer is your honest ache and a whispered prayer.

And to those who, also like me, have been hypocritical or dismissive or quick to judge—there’s grace for you too. But may that grace lead us to repentance, to deeper love, and to being better mirrors of Christ’s compassion.

As I consider this topic in light of my blossoming career toward Bible teaching and chaplaincy, I find myself frozen in worry that the church once again will refuse to step up for its LGTBQ+ youth. I’ve witnessed firsthand first as a student myself and now as a teacher/minister in training how many students carry hidden wounds, silent fears, and questions they’ve never had permission to ask in church spaces. I understand - I have been one of them.

And I know this topic—same-gender attraction, identity, sexuality, faith—isn’t going away. We've kept those skeletons in our closet way too long. It’s not a "phase" our generation will outgrow, nor is it a cultural problem we can ignore into silence. These are real lives, real souls, real stories, sitting quietly in pews, attending youth groups, leading worship, and desperately wondering, Is there a place for me here?

I want to be a voice that says yes. Yes, there’s space. Yes, you’re seen. Yes, you matter. Not because I have all the answers, but because I believe in a God who does. I believe in a gospel big enough to hold our hardest questions. I believe in a God who meets us with both truth and tenderness. 

And I believe the church has to learn how to do the same. Lord, have mercy. How long will we ignore this call?

I pray that the next generation doesn’t have to choose between being honest and being welcome.

We can have these conversations.
We must have these conversations.

Jesus isn’t afraid of them.

And quite frankly, we should not be, either.

Wardrobe Theology

Author’s note: First published on my previous blog in February 2020, with a revision in July 2022. This final version was updated again in June 2025 for this blog. Blessings. :) ~ ML

During my sophomore year of high school, I was enrolled in a puppet ministry organizational class with my then-boyfriend. One evening after class, we attended the first of a series of evangelistic meetings our church was hosting. Though the day had been mild, the temperature had dropped significantly by nightfall, and a biting wind had picked up. I had worn a sweater, but it wasn’t enough. I was shivering.

He noticed. And without hesitation, he offered his jacket. I was slightly mortified. After all, I’d spent two weeks in Fairbanks, Alaska the winter before with no issue. But my pride wasn't going to warm me up, so I gave in. I let him drape the oversized jacket over my shoulders. That jacket stayed with me for the rest of our relationship...and honestly, for several months after.

At the academy we attended, a girl wearing a guy’s jacket—especially one with his name embroidered on it like the guys from the gymnastics team had—wasn’t just a fashion statement. It was a quiet declaration: I belong to someone. Even now, long after we've gone our separate ways, I smile when I remember that night. Because that jacket has become part of what I suppose you could call wardrobe theology—a lesson on righteousness that God has been slowly tailoring into my life all these years later.

Wearing that jacket was a symbol of intimacy, of mutual understanding. I was proud to wear it. And somehow, over time, years and a lifetime later, that image has stuck with me. Why? Because Christ invites me to do the same thing with His righteousness.

Jesus offers me His robe. Not a literal coat, but something far more meaningful: His perfect character, His blameless covering. He invites me to wear it with confidence, not because I’m worthy of it, but because I belong to Him.

But let’s be honest. Sometimes it’s easier to take the jacket off.

It’s hard to be associated with Jesus when it isn’t socially convenient. In a world where Christianity is often misunderstood or misrepresented, publicly wearing His righteousness can feel risky. Peter knew that. Peter loved Jesus—he swore he’d die for Him—but when the moment of pressure came, when being identified with Christ meant possible arrest or humiliation, Peter threw off the jacket. He denied Him.

I’ve done the same. Maybe not with my words, but with my silence. Heck, y'all, I'm worse than a denier! I've tried to keep the look of Christianity without the weight of commitment. As though compromise could operate here. 

There was a whole season of my life I've done this, notably senior year of high school to through most of my first year of college. I wanted the appearance of a godly life without the discomfort of conviction. I threw off the jacket. I tried to be enough on my own. I failed. Actually, failed doesn't capture the extent. People, I fell flat on my face. 

But here's the beautiful thing about God’s wardrobe policy: grace doesn’t expire. Jesus holds out His righteousness again, gently, patiently. And this time, I’m wearing it not as a showpiece, but as a lifeline.

Yes, I’ve had people call me a “Jesus freak.” Some meant it playfully, others didn’t. Whatever. I’ve decided I’d rather be fully clothed in Christ than fashionably neutral.

That red jacket eventually lost its meaning. The relationship ended, and I moved on - glaringly obvious as I'm constantly mentally stuck on the man I'll call my husband in about five months. But the robe Christ offers me? It never fades. It never loses meaning. It's not stitched with thread, it’s woven with mercy and sealed by blood.

So, here’s to wardrobe theology: to the jacket I once wore as a girl in love, and the righteousness I now wear as a woman learning how to love Him back. But most of all to the God who has put up with the mistakes and the tantrums and the "not-yets" that build my life. To the Spirit who pushes me to keep pursuing public faith, even when it’s uncomfortable. To belonging boldly. To being unashamed.

Because when it comes to Jesus, quite frankly, I’d rather be wrapped in His truth than dressed up in anyone else’s approval.

Thoughts Of My Heart: Gratitude

Beloved one, you are writing this with such a full heart! You have come so far, and your life is so rich! Your Creator has reached down and raised you with His righteous right hand from the depths and onto the Rock. You are far from perfect, but you have been drowned in perfect love, transformed in fire and water. Wolves of the past still surround you, but you trust in your Shepherd, who has led you all this way.

 
Michelle, from the Hebrew Michael - "who is like Yahweh?" Your name is a question, a question you pray will be answered with your life as you seek to be more like the One who made you. You're truly embracing the words of the apostle Paul that your Senior class chose for your theme during graduation - Philippians 3:13 - "forgetting what is behind, straining toward what is ahead". Yet you are learning to sit in the moment too, to be "content in all things", another theme of Paul's.

 
You are no longer the restless 17-year-old who wanted to be a year or two ahead of where she was. Nor would you want to be. Because beloved, you are so happy where you are right now.

 
You've just finished your third year at Southern, and you're thrilled because your grades and personal goals have exceeded the hopes you planted at the beginning of the semester. You're getting to stick around campus to work as a summer research assistant for the School of Religion, and you're so excited about the knowledge and experience it could give you. You're just barely over 6 months away from your wedding, and you lose thought of everything else every time you look into Jonah's eyes and remember how God wrote your love story.

You have been given amazing gifts, and amazing mentors. In high school, you were praised for being an excellent writer and speaker. Now you're at one of the best Adventist Universities in the country, perhaps in the world. You're the TA of the former President of the Adventist Theological Society. Alan and Nicole Parker, esteemed in Adventist circles, are your marriage counselors. You have learned preaching from Dr. Jud Lake, and he tells you that your natural speaking talent and passion have already made you an excellent expositor and narrative preacher, and you have so much potential. Dr. Bradley says he believes you have the gift of teaching, and that you will be an amazing religion teacher. Yet you're learning to take praise with humility, to give glory to God while embracing yourself and the gifts you have been given. You trust that He will help you become the best you can be, as a teacher, chaplain, and whatever else He makes you.

You have a wonderful family. While you don't feel as close with your dad since his retirement, and it's not always easy to make time for your mom when you both have busy lives, you love them, and you try your best. Your step-mom is your best friend, your sister is your biggest fan, and you have the security and normalcy in your step-family that you never experienced with those actually blood related to you. You're slowly but surely building close ties with your in-laws, and you even have gone from barely knowing how to have a conversation with your future mother-in-law to texting her almost every weekend and even sending her a Mother's Day gift.

 
You're rebuilding your social life, both in person and online. You've called CeCe often the last few months just to hear her voice. You rejoined the Living Room Lifegroup thanks to Dominic, and it feels like family - especially with Sam, Ally, and Angel. You've reconnected with your old friend Casey from academy, and you text with her regularly now. Alexander’s brotherly smirks always make you smile, and you wonder what he’s plotting next.

You saw Morgan in February, finally caught up with Eden, and reunited with Mafer and Kyndra after four years. You’ve built a bridge toward friendship with Mung and Caleb, your fellow Religious Ed majors, and their spiritual support already blesses you. You make bigger efforts to stay connected with the Groupsters, even though you're sad to see Mafer and Roo struggle with depression, yet you're grateful to stay so close to them. Melissa is finally returning from her student mission year, and you can't wait to catch up.

 
Beloved, you have so many friends, and yet only a few you hold very close. You're learning. Learning to choose the people who see and love the real you, to wisely distance yourself from those that refuse to or don't understand how. The few you have, you hold close, but prayerfully, not too close. Because you've learned that God gives and takes away, but He always gives back what He takes, only so much more and better than before. In the meantime, you're learning not to chase, but to trust. To choose. And beloved one, you're choosing well.

 
You have also, by the grace of God, healed. I know that 2022 and 2023 were so hard, but sweetheart, those years built you. Those heartbreaks, the disappointments, the not-yets, the mistakes, they have built you. You are not who you've been. If you or anyone else went looking for "Emmie Lee", they wouldn't find her. She's gone. Long gone. But they will know, in time, the soon to be "Michelle Dinger", who is so much more than a mere name. And yet, in many ways, younger you is still there. I just hope you remember, love her in spite of her mistakes. She was still growing up, and so are you. You have endured and overcome what life has dealt you so far - both the pain inflicted on you, and the wounds you have inflicted on others. You are learning to forgive those who hurt you, and you know that God has forgiven you for your own wrongs, even if they haven't. But I hope you never stop learning to forgive yourself - because you are the hardest person you've had to show grace to.

 
You are living a life marked by grace, growth, and resilience. Don't forget what Tara Tello told you three summers ago - "one day you will tell your story, and it will seem like the third person, because that is how deeply God will heal you". You have already experienced that deep healing in so many areas of your life. Never forget how far you've come. You’ve been raised from the depths to stand on solid ground, clothed in strength and dignity. Yet your journey isn’t finished. Keep choosing your circle wisely, loving without fear, and trusting the One who has led you this far.

 
Your story is still being written, and the best chapters are yet to come.

"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland."

Isaiah 43:18-19 (NIV)

Thoughts Of My Heart: Home

Without a care in the world...

Many emotions and memories flood my mind as I read what 16-year-old me wrote. It has only been about five years, but teenage high schooler “Emmie”, with her fast-paced handwriting and highly emotional spirit, is quite different from “Michelle”, whose handwriting is somewhat neater and who is slowly but surely becoming calmer and more composed, though she wears her heart on her sleeve just as much if not more than her younger self. 

I read through it, finding an abundance of prayers, Bible verses, songs, references to my personal life. I find notes from documentaries and podcasts I listened to, incomplete family trees from before I had my DNA test done, important dates of my life up to that point, and the highs and lows of Junior year on Zoom. Then there is the little that I wrote between 2021 and 2022, documenting frustration, heartbreak, and a dying spiritual life. Then a small glimmer of hope as my high school graduation and a lonely summer faded into the light of starting college. My last entry in this specific journal? Late August of 2022. I smile, recognizing that this was the month my greatest gift came into my life - Jonah. 

But the most precious words I find in the journal turn out to be those of a song, a song I learned from a dear friend during my first year of academy. I hadn’t heard this particular song in months, maybe over a year. It has a simple title. Home. The words fill my mind. I find them shifting, changing, becoming personal to me.

All is well with the world, and I'm not dreaming. 

I ask my Amazon Echo to play it. The melody and words flood over and through me, and I am overwhelmed by the sense of calm and peace I feel. I realize that this song, describing the experience of waking up in the glory of eternity, free of cares, strife, tears, and enemies, resonates with how I feel right at that moment. 

It's not that my life is perfect. But I'm peaceful. I'm content. I'm happy. So, so happy!

I belong, love is drawing me.

The words sink into my soul. They speak of heaven, but it connects so well with my current season of life. Because love has drawn me here. Because I have found belonging. Even in the midst of ongoing cares. 

I feel that God is giving me a taste of heaven on earth. My relationship with Him is deepening, and I see the changes He’s making in me—I’m slower to speak, quicker to listen, and more focused on others. With the support of a skilled therapist and a caring emotional and spiritual support team, my chronic anxiety and trauma are easing. My heart feels full and satisfied, especially after my recent engagement to the love of my life, a beautiful redemption after a few years of devastating relationship failures that left me empty and broken.

Sorrows past...an old thing...

I think of what we’re told in Scripture. The kingdom of heaven is here. Not back there, not somewhere in the future, but here. Now. While in the world, pain and suffering are ours, but peace can be, too. We are intended to live in love and peace and harmony now. Not tomorrow. Right now. 

As a Seventh-Day Adventist, I often hear about Jesus returning to establish His kingdom, but what if we're missing that He is already establishing it? The goal isn’t ultimately escaping this world, it's about restoring it. We love to sing about when we all get to heaven, but I think we forget that heaven is coming here. After a thousand years, earth and heaven will merge, and all will be recreated. We will finally be home. In the meantime, can we not see the glimpses of this miraculous merge in the brokenness of our lives? Dare I say, I think I have?

Love has brought me home at last...

My first year of college, I learned about spiritual pathways, nine different personality styles that individuals have in the context of a relationship with Christ. Some connect best through nature, others through tradition. Mine is a combination of the contemplative and sensate pathways - those whose spiritual connection is strongest through relational intimacy with God and who also experience Him through their senses. Perhaps the way these pathways are responded to in my heart are why I am led to tears as the song goes on. 

Heart fluttering when He calls my name...no shame, nothing is hidden. 

No shame. Nothing hidden. Nothing held back. I can say with every confidence that Jesus was the first one I ever fell in love with. First love in every sense of the word. But, as so often happens in the Christian walk, I chose to separate myself. My academics, my human relationships, what I thought I wanted and needed all took prominence over Him. I talked the talk, but didn't walk the walk for about two years. He never stopped chasing me. 

Contrary to the belief that He is hard to get close to, God is in fact the relentless lover, chasing down His bride who has run from and cheated on Him time and time again. He did so with Israel, He has done so with the Church, and He has certainly done so with me. People have failed, betrayed, and abandoned me, but He never left, even when I fail, betray, and abandon Him. I've had people in my life who have gotten fed up with me and walked away, but the only Person who had any right to condemn me and walk away...doesn't. 

The song begins to close, speaking of nations and tongues coming together, that marvelous day when the world will be made whole. I reflect on the suffering of the world, and can't help acknowledging that we are certainly not home yet. But, as aforesaid, "home" is nothing less than heaven and earth merging. It happens every time the Spirit breaks through, every time someone finds hope and healing, knowing the ultimate restoration is coming. We are close, so close. 

I am grateful for the glimspes I am given in my life and in my soul. I have a wonderful family, supportive friends, a beautiful church and school community, and the man who will soon be my husband - all things that are blessings from above that lead me closer to that true Home and to my First Love. 

I know I am where I belong. My heart and soul at least, have come home.

Thoughts Of My Heart: God, My Safe Space

It had been a long time since a certain dark force swept through me. Something devouring, intense, and bitter. I had not forgotten its name, or purpose. Hatred. 

I will not go into the details of what has caused me to harbor it. Those are things reserved for the privacy of my journal and my personal conversations with God. But what I will say is that this began with the well-meaning intentions of one who fights fear, and this fear triggered a series of events that left me feeling betrayed, traumatized, and broken beyond belief. 

I have come to believe there is truth in a certain Star Wars character's words - fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate. In fairness, it is not as bad as it could be. I need to acknowledge the cliche - it could be worse. It could be so much worse. There are things that could have happened, and didn't. God, in mercy, came through and answered desperate cries. He healed what could have been permanently broken. He is still healing now. Yet at the same time, I have had to learn to build myself back up, gather the courage to forgive, and fight to move ahead with my life. It has been a battle of several months now. I am still battling this demon with the name hatred. 

Scenarios pound through my head, visions of payback. Revenge. Justice. At least, my weak, flawed view of justice. I want to make them pay for what they did, not only to me but to someone I love. Verses in the Bible about hatred being murder and vengeance belonging only to God both haunt and confront me. I am drowning in darkness. 

I grew up the daughter of a pastor. I am beyond thankful for this blessing. It was a gift, a replacement for the father who abandoned me at birth and left scars that have never truly healed. My dad always told me that it's ok to yell at God. "He can take it," he said. I have done this in previous seasons of my life. I cried out to God when my birth mother showed her true colors. I cried out to Him when I wanted to end my life. I cried out to Him when I was feeling friendless and alone. I cried out to Him when I was going through a breakup. I cried out to Him when I found myself battered and broken from a toxic relationship in my first year of college. 

More than anyone else, God, my first Love, has seen my darkness. He has seen the darkness I caused, the darkness others caused that I was swept up in, and the darkness I myself have contributed to. None of it changed His mind. None of it could chase Him away. This truth came back to me now. It was ok to admit my hatred. It was ok to admit my hurt. I could pour all the ugly and gross and messy out on His feet, and He would take it. He, the Light, could handle my darkness. 

So, one afternoon when I had the house to myself, I let it all go. The dark, the ugly, the broken, the sinful. Tears and hateful words spilled out, desires of revenge and threats, the pain of betrayal and the pain of shattered trust, it all flowed out as a river to Heaven. I sent my deepest, darkest thoughts straight to the heart of the Father, and found my own heart relieved and freed. Soon the tears were regret, my heart reproaching me because I know that so much of what I battle right now reflects a character so unlike Jesus. 

But in spite of the chaos, I knew that I had been heard. Perfectly understood. The darkness and light alike in me were exposed and known. I wasn't ashamed of what I had poured out in the sense that I tried to retract or hide it. I had been honest with God. 

I am now wondering if the only way hatred can be overcome is by acknowledging it rather than forcing it away. My only moments of peace in this battle are the times I have poured it out instead of bottling it in. Not on others. Not to others. Only to God. Honesty with Him brings freedom. He is my safe space. 

In this safe space, I can not only learn to let go of my hatred, but I find forgiveness. Forgiveness that I can give others because my stubborn, dark heart has been forgiven. 

This experience reminds me of Job, a man of God who was brutally honest. He was also angry. Also bitter. Yet he did not curse God. There are many lessons in his story, yet I would consider the most important is that he maintained his relationship in the midst of suffering. He didn't abandon his faith. He held on to God. He fought, cried, complained, even blamed, but he held on. He never turned away. 

So, like Job, I will keep coming with this burden, continuing to give it, continuing to release it, as long as I must until this battle is won. Because the point of Christianity isn't that there isn't a battle. It's the One who fights in our stead, our safe space in the war zone. 

Thoughts Of My Heart: Election Fears

It's time to share my heart, or as much as I can permit myself to share. 

My fear in this election goes beyond human politics. It's a fear for where I stand in my faith, and a fear that I'm having to say goodbye to something beautiful and precious in November. 

I know what I believe about the end times from growing up Adventist. I see things that mirror the prophetic interpretation I'm familiar with. I see people, people I know and love, falling for the culture war battles and creating American Messiahs, as if we aren't explicitly told in Scripture that the kingdom of Heaven is not of this world. I see church and state beginning to merge, and Christians rejoicing over it. I see fingers pointed at worldliness and evil on the outside, but never any spotlight on the problems within. I see a country and people ready to tear each other apart. 

I see what I believe to be prophecy fulfilling. I see the signs. The end is near. Jesus is coming. 

I should be happy. 

I'm not. I'm afraid. 

I'm afraid of what's coming. I'm afraid for my friends and family who have fallen for the deceptions. I'm afraid of those who pay too much attention to the world and they don't seem to care or see that Jesus and Christianity are being horrifically weaponized and abused. I'm afraid for myself, because my faith is weak. 

I'm not just afraid. I'm heartbroken. Because if things play out how I believe they will, many of my dreams may not come true. 

I may not graduate college, have my own family, or travel. The same things that my Adventist identity has impressed upon me as critically important (education, marriage, children), the interpretation, if true, will take away from me. Within this is yet another fear, that my dreams have become idols and they're more important to me than Jesus. That my fear of the future tramples my love for Him.

There's a lot of talk in Christian circles about sacrifice and taking up one's cross, and while there's worth and value in that, I don't believe God intended the Christian walk to be entirely suffering and miserable. That has not been my experience. The biggest thing that I'm having to sacrifice isn't necessarily my dreams. It's my own heart. There's a difference. Sure, it would be a sacrifice to give up those dreams for the sake of Christ, but I believe those are dreams He gave me. I guess maybe it's true - He gives and takes away. 

It's something I'm praying about and trying to work on. But either way, it's painful. 

Whatever the answer or result - the time approaching, this election, is spiritual. Nothing scares or saddens me more than the realization that so many don't see that.