Spirituality – Page 2 – Meagan Louise

Grace, Given.

I’ve been hearing a lot about grace lately. When the same word or idea presents itself over and over again, eventually my ears perk up and I realize that there’s something for me here. At first, it was the fact that I have RECEIVED grace, and Jesus died so that I could have it. He bore the weight of all of my sin, forever, so that I could be blameless before God. This is a big deal. Then it became the idea that if I have received grace, I should also GIVE grace.

Jesus told this story of a guy who owed a ton of money (like a TRILLION dollars worth of money), and after begging and pleading, the king actually forgave him of it. He gave him GRACE. Then this dude went out to people who owed him money, (like a couple hundred dollars) and even after they begged and pleaded, he threw them in jail until they could pay. Once the king heard about this, he was furious! Grace etiquette had been broken. This guy received grace at a high cost, but when given the opportunity to extend grace, he chose not to.

I had to ask myself, what do I chose? I thought, surely I choose to extend grace.

Jesus was waiting for me to ask this question.

Not an hour later, I got a phone call from someone I haven’t talked to in over 9 years. For good reason.

Long story short, when I was 18 my great-grandmother passed away, leaving me a trust fund my grandparents had set up for me when I was born, and everything in their home. Including furniture, pictures, clothing, jewelry. All of this was stolen from me, by family.

I ended up with a couple pieces of moldy furniture, and some costume jewelry that they claimed were wedding rings. My aunt was wearing my great-grandmothers wedding ring as she asked me to sign that I had received everything in full.

I was young, and naive. Thinking that people who once loved me, would always have my back. I was wrong. And I got screwed. My grandparents had a lot to give, and a lot to be taken…and it was all taken.

I didn’t care about the money, except that Babu and Papap wanted me to have it. They thought my education would be paid for, that they were setting me up for my future. I wanted to wear my grandmothers wedding ring on my wedding day. I wanted to sit in the chair my great-grandfather sat in EVERY day and smoked his cigars in. I wanted to hold pieces of them that reminded me of my time with them. The glass grapes my sister and I always got yelled at for playing with. The mink scarf Babu would delicately place on my shoulders as I twirled in her mirror. Memories of summers spent with grandparents. History. Family.

This phone call, was from one of these family members. All of the sudden, I realized I had NOT forgiven them. Even though it didn’t harbor on my mind, one second of their name appearing on my phone flooded my heart with anger and bitterness.

I was reminded quickly that those who receive grace, extend grace. And all of the sudden that question I had asked earlier was given a different answer. When given the opportunity, do I withhold or extend grace?

I didn’t like my answer.

Jesus said that we should forgive over and over and over and over. Seventy times seven. But can I forgive this transgression, just once? Forgiveness is not free. If someone steals from me, and I forgive them, I am saying, “It’s okay. I’ll pay the cost.”

What a difficult thing to say. But Jesus did. For all of us. The cost of offering us grace was death. I mean, someone FREAKING DIED FOR ME, and I can’t let a few thousand dollars go.

So I’ll think I’ll be focusing on grace. Memorizing it. Swirling it around in my mind, and absorbing what it means. Maybe if I soak it in, I can pour it out. Not forgiving, not offering grace, those are chains I put on myself. I want to be free.

Jesus. Thank you for offering me grace. For forgiving me the millions of times I’ve needed it. For dying for me so that I can come to you clean and new. Help me to see what that looks like, and help me to offer that same grace to the people around me. I want to rejoice in opportunities to extend grace, because it’s opportunities to be like You. Bless my family. Heal my family. Soften their hearts to receive love. Never stop chasing after them, and never let them forget that they too are forgiven. No matter what.

A Story of Mercy

Mercy: (especially of a journey or mission) performed out of a desire to relieve suffering; motivated by compassion

Walking through a tough season of pain, disappointment, and loss, I am feeling jaded and worn. My hallelujah is tired. I am tempted to draw a line in the sand of my faith and say, “I can’t go any further. I might even take a step back. This is TOO MUCH.”

But God is waiting in my doorway, standing on my doorstep, just waiting for me to open the door. He hasn’t left, and he hasn’t yelled to be let in. He’s just…waiting. I look out my windows at Him and contemplate the person that disappointed me. Who didn’t answer me when I called. I am angry at Him, and I am unsure of our relationship. How do I act if I let Him in? Can I hear what He has to say?

But then He sends people to me that I do trust. He softens the blow and heals my heart even though I’ve kept him standing on my doorstep. They tell me that He is waiting for me to show Him my brokenness. That if I would let him offer me mercy, He wants to relieve me of my suffering and fill me with the only things that can fill this hole in my heart. Faith, joy in suffering, and hope.

I unlock the deadbolt.

Unable to stop thinking about the storm swelling under the surface, I tell Him, “I’m not ready to let you in yet. But I’m here. I am still here.” I pull a chair up to the window and talk to Him through the door.

I ask a lot of questions, laced with distrust and anger. He listens.

I stop asking. And open the door a crack.

He reaches around the frame and holds my hand.

All he offers me is comfort. Reminders of his love for me. He tells me that His heart breaks too. That I am brave. And that the mercy of redemption is always on the table, and He is always sitting at it.

He stills sits on my doorstep, but my door is cracked a little. We are talking now. Maybe we’ll laugh some too.

But I’m not hiding anymore. My shades are not fully drawn. I’m letting the sun in, even when my skin cringes at the exposure.

{God, thank you for never withdrawing your mercy. Thank you that you never take mercy off the table for me. Help me to take it today and offer myself to follow you.}

3 Things About How God Speaks To Me

God said some big things to me today. BIG and CLEAR were these things, and I love how He talks to me. But I know that the idea of God talking to us can sometimes be very confusing. It tends to get blown up to this enormous mystery that only certain people seem to understand. But how I feel God talks to me is SO SIMPLE.

(But simple does not always mean easy.)

Now, I am not a genius. I am not a theological expert. I only speak from a place of experience, and of trial and error. Note that the “error” part is still a part of path that I am walking, and I am certain always will be.

That being said, I think that God talks to us often. I know He talks to me way more than I am listening. And sometimes, it takes big things and a lot of wandering to make me hear what He has to say.

But when I do…

1.) It sounds like my own voice.

I’ve never heard an audible, out-loud voice booming from the heavens. Usually, it’s just a thought. When I was a teenager, Gods voice sounded like a teenager (albeit a wise one) and now his voice sounds like a 20-something. He uses my language. He doesn’t speak in King James or use language I don’t understand. He is exactly who I need Him to be, exactly where I am.

2.) It often repeats itself.

When I see/hear the SAME thing over and over again, I start to pay attention. Sometimes it’s the meaning behind the same song, a phrase that different people keep saying, a scripture that seems to be everywhere I look. When something is repeating, it’s not coincidence, it’s God talking.

3.) It comes with peace, not confusion.

If the above two are happening, but I have a sense of confusion and not confidence, that’s not God. I know because HE SAID SO. Paul told the church at Corinth “For God is not a God of disorder but of peace” and since 2 Timothy 3:16 says that all scripture is God-breathed (meaning God spoke it), we can believe it to be true. God’s character doesn’t change, and His character is PEACE, not chaos or confusion. Anything that resembles the latter can be ignored.

There’s no formula or science behind hearing Him. HE WANTS US TO HEAR HIM. As a human, I like to overcomplicate things, but it’s just not that way. Thank goodness.

I also believe that God speaks to people differently. Like I said before, He is exactly who you need Him to be, exactly where you are.

How does God speak to you?

Hope After Miscarriage

“When you’re sharing your story over and over, just filling someone in, the experience begins to lose it significance. The words lose their meaning and the sentences become mundane and distant. Like an echo that drifts further and further away and fails to retain its original sound.”

That’s what I wrote when I originally thought about writing out my story. And then I shared my story again today, and it was not that. It was not what I wrote. I suddenly realized that every time I share my story with someone new, pieces of the story change. Every time I talk about heartache, I see more beauty and I feel a little more whole. My motivation for this is not to get it off my chest once and for all, but to SHARE it over and over. To talk about it again and again and again, keeping my messy beautiful story in the light, so that it never festers, and it never grows dark or dim. It remains a story of hope, a story of healing, a story of you’re-not-alone and you’ll-be-okay-too.

We found out we were pregnant when we were just 3 weeks along. It was a crazy idea, but I took the test anyway. A story that deserves its own post, but WE WERE PREGNANT. I stared at the positive pregnancy test, jaw dropped for a long time. I set it on the counter, picked it up to look at it, half expecting the positive line to disappear, countless times over the next hour. Shocked at first, the initial holy-crap factor turned to joy which turned to tears of joy which turned to laughter.

I was full of emotions, so excited I couldn’t WAIT to tell Geoff. When he came home, I handed him a box with the positive test in it. When he opened the box, he just stared in silence for a good 30 seconds, stood up, kissed my forehead, and sat back down. Still no words. Then we both just started laughing and smiling and “Is this REAL-ING” each other.

We decided to wait to tell our families until we saw them face to face at the end of Aug / beginning of Sep, with a few exceptions. We told friends that had visited us, as well as one of my sisters who visited, and a close friend here in MI. Other than that, no one knew, and no one would know until last weekend.

On Tuesday, I started bleeding. Just a little, but immediately my heart sunk. Grasping for faith, I was drowning in fear. I clung to promises God made to His people, promises that God made to me. I prayed for healing, for health, for what I thought was happening to not actually be happening. I was about to be 9 weeks, and I was supposed to hear my babies heartbeat in SIX DAYS. I reached out to my prayer warrior friends and we wove our prayers together and prayed for peace and His presence.

But the bleeding continued, and my emergency ultrasound revealed that there was no heartbeat, and the baby stopped growing at 6 weeks. So we waited…

I miscarried on Sunday. Contractions began naturally, I never had to have any surgical or medical intervention, thankfully. But it was done; it was over. Most of the miscarriage happened in triage, there was too much blood and too much pain. Even the vicodine I was prescribed wasn’t enough to counteract the contractions.

“I have the amniotic sac” the midwife said.

My heart sunk. There it was. The baby that I talked to, prayed over, hoped for, dreamed about. Only 6 weeks grown, still an embryo in medical terms, but very much so our baby in my heart. My husband sat stoically by my side, holding my hand. Eyes wide. There were no words. What words do you say? Just a flutter of emotions. Eventually, the bleeding stopped and I was sent home. We were so exhausted, we practically fell into bed that night. Geoff took off work on Monday to stay home together, best decision ever.

Just a moment to boast a bit on the man that stood next to me through the poking, prodding, and all the other things that happened that night. He was so brave, and so compassionate. If chaos and struggle reveal your inner man, my husband’s inner man is a beastly saint. He was so strong for me, but so tender and thoughtful of my needs. I could not have asked for a better partner.

Now that we’ve walked through the physical loss, we turn our hearts towards the emotional one. That’s a much longer road, and a much more complicated one. I have a lot of questions, and lot of grieving, and still, a lot of hope. I’m not sure why God answers some prayers, and not others. I do know that this world is broken, there is a ruler here that is out to kill and destroy. I know that God is still good, that He comforts me when there is struggle. We were never promised Heaven on earth, but we were promised peace that surpasses understanding, and a love that can never be taken from us. I will hold on to that, I will praise Him, and I will say “Thank You”.

When I asked off work this week, the Momma that I’m working for shared that she too had miscarried before she had her now, 5 month old. She too wrote a blog post about her experience and her struggle with faith. She reminded me that “God has not called me to be successful. God has called me to be faithful.” The wise words of Mother Teresa. I don’t have to be good at faith, I just have to show up.

So when I go for a cup of coffee and instinctively look for decaf, I remind myself that this is not the end. When my hand gravitates to my belly, I remind myself that life will again be there. When I put away the baby books and close the tabs of nursery furniture in my web browser, I breathe deep and lean into peace that surpasses understanding. I don’t understand, I don’t know. But sometimes in the midst of suffering, in the cracks of life, we get to see the beauty and restoration that we might have missed. We get to share war wounds, and war stories, and rejoice in the overcoming.

We get to say, YOU ARE NOT ALONE and YOU’LL BE OKAY TOO.