I closed my eyes, rested my head on a pillow and let the truth of His words burrow deep into my soul. And then a verse I’d memorized in Sunday school, circa 1980, flashed on my mind’s screen: If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God. I couldn’t remember the scripture reference, but I knew it was in there. The Lord Himself must have written those words on my heart because they popped up like they’d been waiting for such a time as this.
With the simplicity of a child, I prayed aloud, “God, I don’t want the world’s wisdom. I want Your wisdom. Please give it to me.”
I received it in faith.
Verse after verse confirmed His desire to pick up right where we’d left off. For real, God?
Proverbs 1 said: YES.
No probationary period. Just a willing heart and a desire to meet Him every day.
And an alarm clock to get me up in plenty of time to meet with the Lover of my soul. Thank You, Jesus.
That morning, I thought God was reviving our spiritual intimacy because I had been working too much, because I was tired all the time, or maybe even because He was tired of seeing those unfolded clothes on the couch.
But, really, there was much more at stake than I could have imagined.
Chapter 11
The next morning, I could hardly wait to get into the prayer closet and be alone with God. I had located my own Bible under the driver’s seat of my car, told God I was sorry for losing track of it in the first place, and received His grace to pick up where we’d left off.
Being reminded of His love, His mercy, His teachings gave me a sharper spirit throughout the day. Aside from an ear to hear, my heart yielded easier to His nudges.
By Wednesday, I set the alarm fifteen minutes earlier, and I even wound down in the prayer closet after we got home from mid-week service. I’d listened to Pastor Toole’s sermon and amen’d right along with the rest of the congregation, but I wanted to get back home and discuss the meaning of absolute surrender with the Author of the concept, personally. His text, 1 Kings 20, was Ahab’s declaration, “My lord, O king, according to thy saying, I am thine and all that I have.”
Yes, I had quit my job. Yes, I had (begrudgingly) been submissive to my husband and even my best friend’s words confirmed what I had already been feeling. I had all the outward signs of obedience to the Lord, but deep down inside, my heart still hadn’t come along for the ride. And when I admitted that to myself, I heard Him whisper in me: I want all of you.
All of me? I thought I’d already given Him all of me. I mean, I did believe on Christ as my Savior. I did know Him and seek to walk in His ways. What else did He want from me?
All of you repeated in my spirit.
I knew there was no sense in arguing with God. Not likely He was going to change His mind. He wanted all of me—even that little rebellious part that wanted its own way, couldn’t stand to be taken advantage of, and always tried to make things easy for myself.
But what was He going to do with it? Kill it? What would I be without my defenses? I didn’t want to be one of those weak people who let people run over her. Always praying, always hoping. Helping everybody else and then one day I’d wake up and realize I’d spent my whole life doing what other people wanted me to do.
I wanted to do me. LaShondra.
Not other people. Me. rose inside my mind.
His thoughts baffled me. Sent me back to the drawing board. “You, God?” I had to ask myself if it would be any easier to follow God’s will than my husband’s. Really, would my feelings change if I knew the plan was coming directly from God? Would that have made me receive this change with joy?
Probably not.
With that revelation, my eyes rendered tears of grief and repentance. “I’m sorry, Lord.” Lord. Why was I calling Him that name if He really didn’t have that place in my life?
“Jesus, I crown You Lord. Even if it means my worst fears come true, be the Lord of my life.”
My back bolted straight up. Those sentences didn’t even sound right. What would make me think that receiving Jesus as Savior and Lord would make my life worse off?
I flopped onto the bed and grabbed my journal. I made a list of all the bad things that I thought could happen to me if I actually surrendered all to Jesus, like Pastor Toole had preached.
Surrender Cons
1. I might have to go to some faraway place to be a missionary.
2. I would be poor and suffering.
3. I would lose all common sense.
4. I would be weak and whiney (God, you know I can’t stand weak, whiney people).
5. I would be all “holier-than-thou”, so heavenly minded I was no earthly good. Can’t relate to real life.
6. I wouldn’t get to have at least one guilty pleasure in life.
7. I wouldn’t get to do what I wanted to do in my life.
As I glanced back over the list of objections, my English degree kicked in. The subject of every sentence was “I”. Everything was about me.
“But isn’t this my life, Lo—” I couldn’t even finish His name before Paul’s words, something about ‘not I, but Christ’ slammed me with the truth. I flipped to Galatians because I knew the book, just not the exact verse.
The search results landed me at Galatians 2:20. I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.
The only question on the table: Whose life was this, anyway? Was I dead to sin and alive in Christ or not? Was I living for my glory or His?
Sure, I knew what the “correct” answer was. I suppose if I’d been in Christian autopilot mode, I would have gulped down this hard truth and promised God I would “do better”.
But I didn’t want to promise God something I didn’t have a burning desire to do because that would only lead to an empty vow. That would only get us right back to square one; me going through the motions, just riding out this season until I got to a section of life I really liked, which may or may not have anything to do with Christ.
The war inside my body, between the flesh and the Spirit, was almost tangible. Why is what I want and what God wants so different? I was tired of doing the right thing but resenting it the whole time. But I didn’t want to live my life without Jesus. I mean, I wanted Him in my life; I just didn’t want Him to be my life.
Even after all the years I’d spent in church, all the time I’d spent getting to know Him. And despite the fact that I truly loved Jesus and I knew He loved me, I wasn’t willing to die. Not all the way, all the time.
And yet, this was His request. This was why He had pulled me in so close to His very heartbeat. He wanted to be my Lord. My King. To rule every aspect of my life.
I had to shut my Bible and my journal on that somber note. I closed my eyes and prayed again. “God, you gotta change me ‘cause I can’t do it.”
I left our set-apart space with more questions than I’d ever had about my walk with Him. Confusion wasn’t quite the word for my state of mind; it was more an expectancy than anything. What would my life look like after He changed it? Would I recognize myself? Would I turn into one of those COGIC congregation mothers with the fierce scowls who testified that I had been “saved all day, no evil have I done”?
Stelson was already asleep in bed. The television was still blaring, which meant he must have been trying to wait up for me because he wasn’t one to fall asleep with the tube going.
I, on the other hand, planned to take full advantage of the fact that he was already in dreamland. I switched the channel to TBN, hoping to find one of my favorite ministers preaching.
Instead, I got someone I’d never heard of on the screen, but a quick check of the guide showed a familiar Bible-teacher coming on in seven minutes, so I kept it there.
I must have underestimated what the prayer closet had taken out of me because I didn’t make it past those seven minutes before drifting off myself.
Still halfway sleep, I could taste the sweetness of those words in my inmost parts. God is not a bully. He’s not out to hurt me. His plan for me is good.
Somehow, in all my fears, I had forgotten Who I was dealing with. Underestimated His good thoughts toward me.
But not anymore.
“Thank you, Jesus.”
Stelson stirred. “Huh?”
“Go back to sleep, baby. I love you.”
“Yeah. Love you, too.”
I still hadn’t learned to beat the laundry game that week because I hadn’t taken Peaches’ advice about getting a formal schedule together. But the schedule was the last thing on my mind. My convictions weighed in every moment of the day, and the love of God so completely enveloped me that I had no choice except to agree with Him. Christ revealed Himself to me countless times throughout the day, sending me back to the Word for confirmation of the nuggets dropped into my understanding.
Am I really dead in Christ? Colossians 3:3.
Is my new life gonna be terrible? John 10:10.
What if I want my old life back? Matthew 16:25.
With cheeks covered in tears, I succumbed to a new, deeper understanding of the marvelous truth. I could no longer fight for a dead woman.
Okay, God. I surrender all. Take all of me.
Spending so many hours dedicated to His presence, between feeding, changing, and taking care of Zoe, put me in a bad position by the time Seth got home. I had to put him to work.
Little did I know, Seth was the absolute best towel-folder in the universe. I mean, he lined up those corners with a surgeon’s precision and straightened the linens flat! Obviously, he’d inherited his father’s ability to pay attention to details. The best part was that it took him forever to fold perfectly. I could get some serious work done while the boy was folding, and he was gaining the opportunity to lengthen his attention span.
He also came in handy for bending down to hand me the clothes so I could load them in the washer.
He intently watched me operate the shiny red machines. “Can I turn it on?”
“Maybe when you’re older.”
“But I’m in pre-k now.”
“Yes, but you have to be tall enough, too. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you start washing clothes the moment your arms can reach these knobs.” I pointed at the silver disks, promising my child something I knew he would later regret.
When he asked, I explained the functions of laundry cleaners, because I fully believed in training up young men to do household chores. “Detergent is like soap. Bleach spray gets the clothes nice and bright, and fabric softener makes them feel soft and smell good.”
“Like perfume for girls?” He recoiled.
“No, no. More like sunshine. Fresh.”
“Okay.” He seemed pleased to know I wasn’t trying to turn him into a girl.
It seemed as though my afternoons were consumed by one question: What do we do now? I really didn’t want to become the kind of parent who parked her kids in front of a screen and gave them half a Benadryl to make them drowsy (this I learned from watching way too much television myself).
Try as I might, the living room still looked as messy as ever by the time Stelson arrived. “Hey, babe.”
“Hey.” He looked over me at the kitchen table cluttered with paper and crayons. “Um…okay…I thought the house would be…you know…better.”
Now that he’d mentioned it, I also looked half-thrown-together in my yoga pants, oversized t-shirt and dry ponytail. And yet, it wasn’t as though I’d been sitting on the couch eating ice cream all day. “Busy day.”
His mouth remained open as he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, Shondra. I’m sure it is tough getting used to a new schedule. And I love you for making this sacrifice for our family,” he backpedaled.
“Thank you. That’s more like it.”
Chapter 12
Instead of focusing on the brainlessness of folding clothes, I sang songs of praise, knowing my children and my husband were gifts from God. Aside from that, there were countless women who would give up everything to be in a wonderful marriage with great kids. Gratefulness became the order of the week as, moment after moment, the Holy Spirit reminded me of who I was and Whose I was. I could have kicked myself for not accepting the fullness of Christ sooner.
But God knows when we’re ready.
Stelson and I stayed up late one of those nights watching television. After putting the kids to bed, we snuggled up on the couch and indulged in messy, completely un-nutritious pour-over cheese popcorn.
“This stuff is so good,” he smacked, wiping his fingers on his T-shirt.
“Ewww! Why are you doing that?”
“Because I’ve had it on all day and I’m gonna throw it in the hamper when I leave this couch.” He smiled down at me.
Sometimes I thought Stelson did things to flirt his way under my skin. Men. I rested my head on the clean side of his shirt again. “Spray some spot-cleaner on it first, please.”
He kissed my forehead with his greasy lips.
I slapped his chest. “Stop! That’s gross!”
He laughed as I wiped the combination of saliva and processed goo off my skin. I rubbed the residue into his shirt.
“Ewww! Stop! You’re getting my dirty clothes all dirty,” he mocked me.
Laughter snuck past my lips. “You wrong for that, baby.”
Stelson chuckled, too. “I know.” The rumble of his deep voice vibrated against my face.
God, I love this man.
The day of the picnic, Stelson left before me so that he could help the brethren with preparations to host the twenty-five or so families registered for the event.
Of course, I started my morning with quiet time, conversing with my Father, thanking Him for new life in Christ and for His love. Really, I wished I could have spent all day with Him. Just go get a hotel room somewhere and have a spiritual honeymoon.
Zoe’s whimpers wouldn’t allow it, however. With Stelson gone, I’d have to get the kids up and dressed by myself. Thankfully, we had all gotten more than enough rest in anticipation of a busy, active day. I put a full breakfast on Seth’s and Zoe’s stomachs and was even able to throw in a power nap myself before we left at noon to join the festivities.
It was Labor Day weekend, so the park was packed. The line to turn in to the Marina stretched a quarter of a mile long as families with boats and jet skis waited to enter the camp and lake grounds. The temperature had reached 88 degrees and was expected to climb another 5 degrees. In Texas, 93 degrees in September is actually a fortunate break, but it still was enough to make a woman throw the hair back into a ponytail, slap on a visor and sunscreen, and call the beauty regimen “done”.
Stelson had texted me pretty good directions to help locate the Living Word pavilion. I spotted his truck and found the next closest empty spot for my Honda.
I was trying to keep an eye on Seth while I held Zoe on one hip and retrieved our chairs from the trunk. Pastor Toole’s twin pre-teen daughters, who were also getting out of their parents’ car, rushed to me. “Hi, Sister Brown.”
Their names were Brittney and Ashley, but I couldn’t tell them apart. “Hi, girls!”
“Can we help with Zoe and Seth?” one of them asked.
“Sure.”
My baby was already reaching out for the closest twin and Seth, who never met a stranger, eagerly took the other one’s hand. With both limbs free now, I maneuvered the chairs and Zoe’s bag from the trunk.
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The five of us walked toward reserved grounds. My motherly instinct measured and determined we weren’t too close to the water’s edge.
Our church’s pavilion covered ten long, rectangular tables with attached benches. Already, seven tables were taken with many of the church’s lively, rambunctious families. As usual, most of the older crowd—with grown children—and the younger, single sector of the congregation had opted to leave all this outdoor fun to those of us with kiddos. I couldn’t blame either group for bowing out because this was definitely not my cup of tea.
Alas, I was determined to make the best of it, as were my fellow moms and dads. The smell of barbecue, the joyous sounds of laughter, the beautiful view of the surrounding trees and the soft murmur of the lake was something I had missed when I was growing up. Exposing Seth and Zoe to God’s creation would, hopefully, make them well-rounded people.
At least that’s what I told myself when a mosquito bite brought me back to reality. This early in the day? I quickly set our belongings at an empty space and retrieved the bug spray from our tiger-striped bag. I sprayed my arms and legs between “Hellos” and hugs, trying not to appear paranoid.
Brittney and Ashley had taken my kids to the table with the rest of the pre-teens, where they were all ooohing and aaaahing over Zoe’s tight, round cheeks.
I made a mental note to find some baby-friendly bug lotion in the future, but in the meanwhile, I sprayed some on my hand, then rubbed it on my baby.
No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown) Page 9