by Beth Moore
God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.
Did you hear that? We have this treasure! We are aflame with God’s glory and radiating with the light of His knowledge in the exquisite face of His Son, Jesus Christ. And we’re insecure? What kind of lies have we believed all this time? We, of all people on the earth, possess the reason, the residence, and the ongoing revelation to be, of all things, most secure.
By the time my friend was finished testifying, I was nearly on my feet, and my heart was a flood of fresh faith. That’s the way women are meant to build one another up in God-given security.
And it doesn’t always have to be in person either. We can help each other out from across the planet if that’s what it takes. A few days ago I was working on a Bible study by my friend Jennifer Rothschild as part of my early-morning time with God. She told a story about listening to the Bible on tape while she worked out on her treadmill. Here’s the part of it that speaks so clearly to you and me at our present juncture:
In between verses, my mind would wander to other things, like my flabby arms. I began to scold myself for not being more diligent with exercise. Then I followed my thoughts down a path of how disappointed I was that I let my weight fluctuate. I would veer off my miserable mental path every few seconds to tune back into the Bible that was still reading in my ear. I remember distinctively tuning in just in time to hear Psalm 84:1.17
Sit back and absorb the verse she’s talking about:
How lovely is your dwelling place, O LORD Almighty!
I memorized that wonderful pilgrim psalm many years ago, but not once have I ever seen the opening verse in light of believers as the current dwelling places of God’s Spirit. A few quick glances in the New Testament would tell you that my friend had her doctrinal ducks in a row (1 Corinthians 3:16; 6:19). Imagine how different our days would be if we woke up every morning and, before putting on a stitch of makeup or flat-ironing our hair, we confessed out loud to God: “How lovely is your dwelling place, O LORD Almighty!” And what if we said it with the enthusiasm conveyed by the exclamation point playing pogo at the end of it? Actually, I don’t have to imagine what it would be like, because I’ve been trying it. I say it in the early-morning darkness on my way from the coffeepot to the place where I sit with my Bible, and I smile every time. I think God does too. If you are a believer in Jesus Christ, I dare you to say this out loud right this minute no matter where you are:
I am lovely.
One more time with a little more enthusiasm.
I AM LOVELY!
Yep, I think you are too. A well-meaning man asked me not long ago if I was scared a book like this would tempt women to pride. Are you kidding me? This culture is so brutal on a woman that my fear is not talking long enough and hammering hard enough on her value. Girlfriend, the fact that you’ve made it this far in this journey means that you needed it as much as I did. We can’t even check out our groceries without looking at the covers of magazines and feeling ugly—even if we have on our favorite jeans and the cutest top in our closet. Arrogance comes from a whole different place than God-confidence. If somebody walks away from this book with pride, she missed the whole point. We simply want some dignity back.
Because we happen to be lovely—but, these days, it’s a beast to believe it.
Chapter 16
A Passion to Look Past Ourselves
Well, my sister, we are only three chapters from our journey’s end. Before we know it, we’ll each be on our own with a faithful God, challenged to live steadfastly as secure women in the rough-and-tumble of a grossly insecure world. It will not suddenly cease shouting deceptive words to us about our identity, our dignity, and the fast track to security. If the roar of the world were unconvincing and illogical, books like this one would be unnecessary. We’re together on this page because we’re in a battle that can’t be won timidly or accidentally. We need to be ready to discern the difference between the truth and a lie, especially when the lie is proclaimed at high volume while the truth is only whispered through a still, small voice. In this chapter, let’s reiterate what we can expect to hear shouted from the world and learn how to actively offset our addiction to listen.
After all, we still have to live here, and we might as well admit that the world has its appeals. I’m fairly certain my two daughters toddled their first strong steps while in a shopping mall. When you live in a stifling climate like ours with air so hot and wet you practically have to hack through it with a machete to get to the car, you either swim or shop for amusement with your children. By the end of June, the pool water feels like a hot tub without the jets, so if you’re like me, you set your sights on the welcome corridors of the closest mall and start digging through your purse for Happy Meal money.
Amanda, Melissa, and I have bonded over the Formica tables of food courts for decades. We’ve often bought little more than lunch on our frequent shopping sprees, and we bowed our heads and thanked God for the joy of it. On the other hand, a few times we’ve blown so much cash that we’ve driven home on the fumes of frantic prayer because we didn’t have a dime left for gas. Our saving grace was embodied in a woman of impressive stature and garlic-strong personality by the name of Mary Jo. Heads of state would have done well to hand Mary Jo the nation’s checkbook. She was a math whiz with a hard-knocks degree in accounting who kept the books for my father-in-law’s successful plumbing business for thirty years.
Seeing the handwriting on the wall with the birth of a second daughter, Keith put Mary Jo in charge of our family finances while he and I were still in our twenties. The girls and I were scared half to death of her—and with ample reason. She’d agreed to the position under one condition: her way or the highway. The fact that we aren’t hitchhiking on that highway today is a testimony to her larger-than-life role in our lives. We mostly lived on a cash-only budget because she made us pay off our credit cards in full every single month, even if we had only four dollars left to last us from the twentieth to the first. Every month she issued us six envelopes with words like groceries and gas scribbled on the front of them. Each one contained the amount of cash she deemed we could afford to spend on each need. Let me interject that the woman saw no need for frivolity, and if my middle name was anything at all, it was frivolity. To say we were on a budget with no budge is putting it kindly. I felt she didn’t understand our needs. She felt I didn’t understand our balance.
Keith and I stood at her casket three days ago with such lumps in our throats we couldn’t speak, but had we been able to utter a word, this is what we might have said:
Thank you, Mary Jo. We paid for two girls to go to college because of you. We narrowly avoided foreclosing on a home during the Texas oil crisis because of you. We’re not in debt up to our eyeballs because of you. We always pay off our credit cards each month, even if it nearly breaks us, because (we’re still scared) of you. We’re holding out hope that you may be faking your demise because we honestly don’t know what we’ll do without you. And Mary Jo, one last thing: our girls are better women because of you. We’d have been in perpetual bankruptcy, and they’d have been perpetually spoiled rotten. After all, our name is Moore. To us, if a little is good, more is better. We were blessed with a little bit less all because of you.
At least for now, Keith and I can pay our bills every month. Our house of twenty-five years is paid off, and so are our cars. I mention these facts because we are all so very tempted to think that financial solidity would make us secure. That’s why a fresh reminder might be in order: though this book’s poster child (please see cover) possessed financial stability when she wrote the first chapter of this book, she was still absolutely desperate to be free of the albatross of insecurity. Money helped pay our bills. It did not assuage my chronic insecurity. Maybe, in fact, it was t
he last straw. The final proof that nothing I could hold in my hands or put on my body would ever do the trick. No amount of stuff and no amount of money can soothe the savage beast of insecurity within all of us. The sustained hope that we will someday have enough only increases the pressure, decreases the time off, and delays the inevitable disillusionment.
Thousands of years ago, an old prophet spoke words that would be frighteningly consistent with many of the headlines we’re seeing on news magazines during this nation’s current economic crisis:
You believe your wealth will buy security, putting your family’s nest beyond the reach of danger.
Habakkuk 2:9, NLT
No amount of wealth can buy security. Every rich man and woman in the world is squirming in that reality right now. You and I have learned along the way that our need is far deeper than our circumstances and more cavernous than our pockets can plunge. Our world system has made financial promises it can’t keep, and though its confessions are made only in whispers, if we’ll listen closely, it’s finally admitting the lie. A fat bank account is still entirely dependent upon the dollar retaining some value. The red flag is waving. Though we had all better get serious about making wiser financial decisions and learning the science of saving, no bank under heaven can promise complete immunity from economic disaster. Even if, God forbid, we withdrew every dime from our accounts and buried them in airtight chests in the family graveyard, the question would still remain: what will the dollar be worth when we dig it up? People who have placed their trust in money are shaking in their boots on slippery sand right now.
There are other deceptions that this world system doesn’t have any intention of owning. There’s too much at stake to even whisper these lies. We’ve hammered one of them over and over because it’s such a huge investor in female insecurity, but as we start drawing our journey to a close, we’re going to hit it one more time. In order to sketch a familiar concept in a fresh framework, permit me a quick return to the shopping mall with both of my daughters.
Since much of the time when we’re together both girls are attached to me like a fifth and sixth limb, I always know something is up when they try to lose me at the mall. If either one of them asks, “Why don’t we go our separate directions for a few minutes and meet back up?” it ordinarily indicates one thing: one of them needs to grab a new undergarment at a certain infamous store, and the last thing on earth she wants is for me to accompany her in there. All this fuss because on the rarest occasion I’ve voiced the meekest opinion about said store. I’d like to be clear. I believe wholeheartedly in underwear, so my issue is not with the merchandise per se. My objection is the gigantic, hypersexual posters in the storefront for every prepubescent girl and boy in the entire mall to see. That’s what I find particularly appalling.
A couple of years ago I waited and waited to no avail at the spot in the mall where we three were supposed to meet after going “our separate directions.” Finally, I headed to where I knew I would find them. Sure enough, they were both standing in the checkout line at the store in question, and I suppose it’s only fair to add that both girls were well into adulthood and could purchase what they pleased without my permission. Both of their faces turned as white as bleached sheets when I joined them in line. The ensuing conversation went like this:
Amanda: “Mom, why don’t you go out there and sit on one of those benches till we’re done? This could take a little while.”
Me: “Do I look seventy to you? I can still outrun both of you. I don’t mind waiting right here.”
Checkout girl: “How are you today, ma’am?”
Melissa: “Please, miss, don’t ask her any questions. It’s better if she doesn’t talk. She’s fine, and she’s on her way out of the store.”
I received a firm nudge but remained impressively stalwart. After all, the young woman at the checkout asked me a question and how rude would I be to ignore her?
Me: “I’m well today. [Followed by something I, the pun queen, alone found amusing:] How is business here in the underworld?”
I glanced to my right and to my left for a little appreciation of my obvious quick wit, but Amanda and Melissa did not crack a smile. Both nearly bore a hole through my forehead with eyes like steel bullets. The checkout girl sensed something was amiss and wisely joined them in observing a moment of silence.
Me (trying to be reassuring): “Don’t mind me. I’m just going to mind my own business and stand right here until you guys finish up.”
I was feeling mature. Surprisingly unbothered. Both daughters resorted to nervous fidgeting and several unsuccessful attempts at line cutting. I pinched my lips pale while two women in front of us checked out, but I began to feel a certain itching sensation on my tongue as we stepped up for our turn. After a near eternity of waiting, both girls finally put their small (emphasis on small) purchases down on the counter. I stepped up right between them and received one last stern stare from each direction. I had planned to keep my mouth shut this time. I really had. Even when I loosed my lips, I meant to limit myself to a friendly repartee. Anyway, how can a person learn if she doesn’t ask questions?
Me: “I was just wondering what makes a mint sexy.”
Checkout girl, looking baffled: “Pardon me, ma’am?”
Amanda: “Oh, no. Here it comes.”
Melissa: “Don’t do it, Mom. We’re almost done here. Thirty seconds, Mom. Thirty seconds!”
Me (ignoring them): “I was asking you about these cute little containers here on the counter. The ones called ‘Sexy Mints.’ I wonder what qualifies a mint to be sexy. I mean, since they’re food, really, and not even much of that, I’m just curious about the name. What makes one mint sexier than the other?”
The unsuspecting young woman looked at me like I’d looked at Mary Jo during one too many excruciating interrogations. In hindsight, the darling salesclerk was as sweet as she could be and awfully caught off guard. I was wrong to hold her responsible for an entire company’s ad campaign. She was just trying to pay her rent and get a small discount on elastic bands. It was entirely my fault. My self-control took flight and fled, and mature reasoning followed it. Just as I was on the verge of becoming one of those people I can hardly stomach, Amanda and Melissa each did an about-face in perfect synchronization, hooked an arm through each of mine and literally dragged me out of the store. I was still facing the checkout counter as they headed toward the door, hauling the very woman who had walked through the valley of the shadow of death to birth them. As we finally crossed the sacred threshold back into the light, I got out my last few words: “I just don’t get it! Why does a mint have to be sexy? Why can’t it just give us fresh breath?”
The silence on the way home was deafening. The only words the girls said to me were these: “That’s it. Never again.” Thank goodness, they didn’t mean shopping. They just meant that I never get to accompany them into a store like that again. They’ve kept their word. The problem is, it’s not the inside of the store that bothers me so much. It’s the outside. It’s the involuntary visual assault on innocent passersby. You could be on your way to the Disney Store with your seven-year-old daughter to pick up a birthday gift and suddenly find her transfixed in front of a huge glossy poster of a gorgeous young woman in her underwear in a pose that ought to throw her back out.
Perhaps now is not the best time to try to convince you of this, but I really tried to pursue a semblance of balance in my parenting as I raised two daughters in this out-of-balance society. Keith and I were deliberate in our choice to protect our children within our culture rather than isolate them as the general rule. Our strategy didn’t turn out perfectly, but parenting is too hard and too human a job to perform to perfection. To the grace and glory of God, the “four Moores,” as we refer to ourselves, made it to our primary goal line without too many scars. Sometimes the process wasn’t pretty because Keith and I had our own ugly baggage, but both daughters turned out to be gracious, God-seeking adults who seem to know that people ar
e higher priorities than possessions.
Yes, I will admit that if we were raising them in today’s culture, we would definitely have to make some adjustments for the snares that have multiplied in the jungles of childhood. Each set of parents has the responsibility to pray for wisdom, follow their own healthy convictions, and determine what works best for the individual child. As for Keith and me, we just never felt that social isolation was the ultimate answer.
With a mom in the annoying middle of their personal business, both girls were very involved in large public schools, had boyfriends, and participated in all sorts of extracurricular activities. We saw movies and watched television and kept up with current events. (These are not remotely offered to you as recommendations. They are simple facts and perhaps even confessions in hopes that they’ll buy me some credibility on an impending issue.) One of my worst nightmares was that in trying to do the right thing, I would shape our children’s theologies in such a way that they would see God as the Big Taker in the Sky instead of the Giver of “every good and perfect gift” (James 1:17). I never wanted them to think that the only word He had uttered since the conclusion of the sacred canon was no.
Thus saith the Lord: No, you may not . . .
That’s not the way I saw Him. That’s not the way I believed Scripture painted Him either. These are the kinds of things God has taken from me: a ton of guilt, a path of addiction, a string of bad relationships, and a future no different from my past. Every no God has issued to me was to keep me from missing a glorious and far greater yes. I wanted my children to know the God who had been the biggest joy and adventure of my entire life. In my attempt to choose battles carefully and balance some firm, immovable noes with plenty of yeses, we occasionally wobbled on a pretty fine line between worldliness and godliness. On a constant intravenous drip of grace, we eventually made it to the other side in one piece, and the girls knew without question what was important to us.