Returning to Christ

Even when we fail to pursue God, he always equips us to turn back to him.

A few weeks ago, I reviewed my New Year’s resolutions for 2011. My list included several impactful spiritual goals that I’d needed to work on when the year started.

The update: I’m failing. Miserably so, but I already knew that.

I’m not a woman of action. I leisurely get tasks done, often procrastinating until the last minute. When I do accomplish something, though, I celebrate. I say to myself, Look at what you’ve done. You are a capable, creative, and independent woman. It feels so good to be productive. And it really does! The problem is I’m not disciplined enough to change my habits when the next task presents itself, and I live in a cycle of simply completing or doing nothing at all.

The same can be said of my spiritual life. Like many of us, I go though phases—wavering in my commitment. The last five months have been a low swing, a long stretch that I’m only beginning to correct.

Here’s where I found my spiritual life three weeks ago: I’m not pursuing holiness; I’m not reading my Bible; I’m not pursuing relationships that will help keep me accountable; I’m unmoving.

The picture was bleak—a “doing nothing at all” phase.

The hopeful thing about a phase—it passes. I’m still receiving information about God, being moved by him, and listening to him. My pride and selfishness have kept me in neutral, but the desire to lift up my heart to him hasn’t disappeared. Because, thankfully, we serve a Lord who faithfully pursues us and listens to us.

Several women have spoken words of wisdom and direction to me in the past few weeks. I have some clear strategies for renewing my goals for the year. Once again, God has equipped me and awaits my return to intimacy.

During this time, as I slowly walk back into the light of God’s embrace, I’ve found comfort in David’s words in Psalms. David, a man of God, certainly had his phases. Yet he continually returned to the Lord knowing his need for grace and a loving God. I’m beginning my journey back to knowing Christ more intimately. How do you need to return to him? Let David’s praise encourage you:

I love the LORD, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy.
Because he turned his ear to me,
I will call on him as long as I live.
The LORD is gracious and righteous;
our God is full of compassion.
The LORD protects the simplehearted;
when I was in great need, he saved me.
Be at rest once more, O my soul,
for the LORD has been good to you.
For you, O LORD, have delivered my soul from death,
my eyes from tears,
my feet from stumbling,
that I may walk before the LORD
in the land of the living.
—Psalm 116:1–2, 5–9 (NIV)

What’s in a Name?

An interview with the woman who named Kyria.com

Kyria.com is two years old! We’re celebrating our two year anniversary on August 26. We have often received questions about our name: how to pronounce it (we prefer Keer-eea instead of Ki-reea), why we chose it, what does it mean. To give you some insight into some of these questions, we interviewed the woman who gave Kyria its name. Meet Carolyn Stonehocker: wife, mother, grandmother. Here’s what she shared about being a woman of influence.

Tell us a little about your background.
CAROLYN: I grew up on a farm in Kansas and studied music education at Kansas State University. I taught music for several years before going to graduate school for an M.A. in New Testament Studies. At graduate school I met and married my husband, Keith. After multiple miscarriages, the Lord gave us a gift in our son, Tim. I enjoyed homeschooling him and was pleased when he entered Stanford, where he met his wife. Keith and I are now the proud grandparents of two-year-old Toby. Plus for the past four and a half years I was a fulltime caregiver to my aging mother.

How did you come to name Kyria.com?
My husband (who is Christianity Today’s Chief Strategy Officer) mentioned at dinner one evening that they were looking for a name for a new women’s website and digital magazine. I immediately thought of Kyria and got out my Greek New Testament to show Keith where it was used in 2 John to refer to the “chosen lady .” Keith submitted it to Ginger Kolbaba (Kyria’s editor) the next day, and I was pleased to find out that they liked it.

I knew a couple in college who’d named their daughter Kyria, and the name stuck with me. If we would have had a little girl, I would have liked to use this special name.

At Kyria we believe that women are chosen in Christ and called to influence. What does being a woman of influence mean to you? A woman of influence has an impact on how others live their lives through what she says and does. And we have to remember that there can be women of influence for good or for bad.

Being a Christian woman of influence is being so yielded to the Lord that others are attracted not just to her but also to God through her life. She motivates others to seek the Lord and live in obedience to him through his enabling power. An influential woman seeks to bring glory to God, not to herself.

How do you live out being a woman of influence?
First and foremost I seek to have a deep, intimate relationship with Jesus Christ. My prayer for many years has been, “Lord, I want to know you intimately and accurately.” The Lord has been answering that prayer in ways I never expected.

Second, living out your influence means that you accept and rejoice in what the Lord has for you. Until recently, for me it’s been through caring for my aging mother in our home until her death this past March. I considered caring for her an assignment from the Lord, and my greatest desire was to be obedient to him in every aspect of carrying out this task. Now I’m in a season of restructuring my life to pursue work and ministry opportunities that God has placed on my heart.

Being a woman of influence means trusting and delighting in God’s goodness no matter what season of life you’re in. He calls us to influence others through seasons of studies or work or ministry or motherhood or caregiving. Each period is a time to love God and love others, which is what living out your influence is ultimately about.

What insight about being an influential woman do you want to pass on to others?
I want women to know that understanding and believing in God’s goodness is the key to unswerving faith and trust in him. I love this quote from A. W. Tozer’s The Knowledge of the Holy : “With the goodness of God to desire our highest welfare, the wisdom of God to plan it, and the power of God to achieve it, what do we lack? Surely we are the most favored of all creatures.”

Trusting God’s goodness helps us to seek his kingdom above all else and to influence those around us to do the same.

How about you? How do you live out being a woman of influence?

Prone to Wander

Why is going back to my first love so difficult sometimes?

My church is monstrous thing. It’s probably considered a mega-church, even though that term sits in my mouth about as easily as vinegar. There are more than 50 campuses worldwide, a well-known, well-traveled, well-studied, well-published pastor, and worship leaders who win Dove awards in their spare time, when they’re not flying to India to care for orphans. It’s a wonderful place. But sometimes, I get a little too caught up in it.

In a thriving church, it’s easy to allow responsibility for my personal holiness to dwindle, to have others “do it for me.” I can feel filled up as I let the pastor’s words soak in, or as I allow the worship to move me. During the service, I drift aimlessly in the direction of holiness, carried and pushed by the waves of worshipers who surround me. And I’m intentional and focused on worshiping my Savior. But then when I leave church I feel more of a contact-high than anything else.

Wasn’t that great? I pray as I pull out of the church parking lot. I love my church. God, thank you for my church. I’m so thankful for my pastor. He’s the best. And the worship leaders are so great, so focused on you. Lord, make me like them.

I hear myself say these words, and I know I’m missing something. I can sense that these are partial, surface prayers.

By the time I’m pulling into my driveway, I feel empty again. And I think that maybe this emptiness is coming from being in love with the wrong thing.

In Revelation 2:1–7, Jesus Christ reveals himself to John, addressing the church of Ephesus. Jesus commends them for all the wonderful things they’re doing. He says that they’re hard workers, perseverers, and protectors of what is right. I bet they had great church services too.

But then verse four punches its reader in the gut.

“Yet I hold this against you: You have forsaken the love you had at first. Consider how far you have fallen! Repent and do the things you did at first. If you do not repent, I will come to you and remove your lamp stand from its place” (italics added).

This is not good.

Jesus knew that this church had gotten good at being “good.” They were great at “doing” church. They were so nice. They wanted the best for everyone. They probably did a lot of kind things.

The problem was, they’d forgotten that you go to church to meet with God. And I did too.

Like the church in Ephesus, my “first love” for Christ alone has become elusive. Some days it appears that my heart has given up on chasing it down and bringing it back into the light. I’m filled with a sense of distance and unworthiness, but instead of returning to the throne, I busy myself with more good deeds. I wonder if I’ve ever caused Martin Luther to roll in his grave.

I think we all feel this way sometimes. Like we’re standing outside a crowd, watching them partake in the beauty of Christianity while we self-consciously itch our arms and look around, hoping no one will notice us. We close our eyes and raise our hands and hope to catch some of that Holy Spirit that everyone around us seems to be experiencing, but often, we’re left empty and frustrated.

Fortunately for those of us, like me, who have been feeling lost in the masses lately, we have a Savior who loves drifters. He understands our natural, human desires toward sin and apathy.

He knows that at times, we get too caught up in the blessings he has given us to spend time sitting at his feet. He understands it, but he doesn’t leave us alone. He comes back for us.

Jesus is the shepherd for the lost, and for the lost again. Under the grace of Christ, we’re never really lost anyway.

A few chapters later into Revelation, Jesus says these words, this time to a different church struggling with lukewarm faith:

“Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline. So be earnest and repent. Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me” (Revelation 3:19–20).

Jesus doesn’t give up on his people. In this passage he spoke to an entire congregation of fruitless, passionless Christians. I think it’s safe to say that these people had forgotten their first love. Maybe they, like me, had been letting the “church experience” carry their spiritual lives. But Jesus loved them, and he told them the same thing he told the church in Ephesus. The same thing he’s telling you and me. Let’s get this relationship back to what it used to be.

I like that idea, so here’s what I’m going to do:

I will repent—ask forgiveness of my Savior, and look my sin straight in the face.

I will spend time in prayer—real time, talking to God, and sharing my doubts, fears, thoughts, hopes, and dreams. I will ask for his advice and seek his will. These are the things I did at first. These are the things I need to return to.

I will read his words—not words someone else wrote about God, or an article written about a famous Christian. Those are good things—but I need to stop being afraid that once it’s just me and the words of God, his words will fall flat. They don’t.

Christianity was never meant to be impersonal. It was never supposed to be done for me. Faith requires a one-on-one relationship, not a mega-church standing ovation. And somewhere along the line, I forgot about that.

I still love my church—the worship, the pastor, and everything else. But I’m done letting them do the heavy lifting for my faith.

So this is where I leave you. It’s between me and Jesus now. And I can hear him at the door.

Forced to Face My Issue with Grace

How God used my gallbladder to show me an area in my life that needed work

After a year of having an on-again, off-again “funny stomach” that I blamed on bad food or bad-for-me food or a passing flu, I woke up one morning with excruciating pain just under my right rib cage. A few hours later it passed, but I knew I couldn’t blame the episode on bad food or the flu. Within a few weeks I saw several doctors who concluded that my gallbladder was the culprit. Surgery was scheduled, but in the meantime I still had graduate classes, work, and household duties.

It was difficult to keep up with my responsibilities. The pain was so strong sometimes that all I could do was lie still, nibbling on crackers to try to settle my stomach. Additionally, I was relearning what I could and couldn’t eat, which meant I spent a lot of time worrying about what I’d eat at weekly work lunches and how that would affect me. Plus there were all the doctor appointments. I had blood drawn at least once a week for months and saw four different doctors during the ordeal.

One professor showed me endless grace that semester. I missed several classes, couldn’t help out with a group presentation, and was behind on a few assignments. Each time, though, she assured me that whatever I could do would be enough. I couldn’t help but feel guilty.

After surgery, friends and family helped out. One person stayed with me while my husband, Jim, refilled my pain medication. Another brought magazines and some post-surgery food. Some friends brought food from a local BBQ restaurant for Jim to eat so he didn’t have to share my bland meals. Despite their generosity, all I could focus on was how terrible I looked in front of guests.

Jim helped the most post-surgery, and he seemed happy to do so. I quickly learned how unwilling I was to accept his help, though. The night I arrived home from surgery, for example, I felt great, so I made some oatmeal and sat to watch TV with Jim. The shows lifted my spirits and reminded me that this nightmare would soon be over.

At 10 p.m., everything changed. I attempted to get out of the chair and realized that I couldn’t. Jim had fallen asleep on the couch next to me. I didn’t want to disturb him, so I carefully tried to wiggle out of the chair, using my arm strength instead of my abdominal muscles. As I stood, I felt a ripping sensation inside. The sharpness took my breath away, and I immediately started to sob. The sobbing, though, shook my stomach, which increased the pain, which made me want to cry even more. I tried to sit back down and discovered I couldn’t do that either.

I stood there, wanting to scream in agony, yet knowing that too would hurt my incision. I managed to make enough noise to wake my husband. Startled by the terror in my eyes, he quickly got up, walked me slowly to bed, and supported me as I lay down. He propped up my head and shoulders with pillows, got me more pain medication and cold water to sip, and sat with me while I regained composure. For the next five days, Jim had to help me sit up and lie down. He brought me food, entertained me with games, and distracted me when I felt nauseated or in pain.

You’d think I would be grateful, that I’d accept his help more than willingly. Yet just a few days later, I tried to sit up on my own. I felt stronger, and the pain was nearly gone. But then the terrible ripping pain came again, all because I wanted so desperately to be independent.

As I lay there helpless, I had to face the fact that I needed to accept the help Jim and others were giving me. I knew deep down this was a pride issue. I didn’t want to need anyone. I wanted to be independent, to prove my worth, to contribute. I hated having to depend on others so much. I sent up a prayer, Why do I keep doing this, God? Why am I so eager to prove myself? I determined to be better at accepting my husband’s help. But it was still a slow process.

Shortly after returning to classes, my grace-filled professor gave us an assignment: keep a journal of grace-sightings that week, times when people showed us grace, or when we were able to show others grace. In her wisdom, she stated that showing others grace was an opportunity to bless someone, and accepting grace was an opportunity to allow someone else to be a blessing. That shift in perspective was exactly what I needed.

I began to see grace differently, and I was more willing to accept grace from others, knowing that I was allowing them to be a blessing. Even, perhaps, allowing God to work through them to bless and provide for me. I became less obsessed with proving my worth, and more comfortable resting in the worth that God has already bestowed on me. Although I still fight it sometimes, I’m learning to accept grace from others more and more. The true gift of grace is to know that we are full of worth, regardless of what we do (or don’t do), and to be freed from the never-ending treadmill of trying to prove ourselves.

How well do you accept grace from others? Are there times when it’s easier or more difficult?

A Narrative Problem

Our stories can define us in both good ways and bad. Too often I was choosing the bad.

Not long ago, I found myself telling a new friend an old story.

It’s a pretty good story, as stories go. In it, I’m the wise, intrepid heroine who navigates an especially tricky matter of the heart with resilience and aplomb. Despite tragedy, heartache, and loss, I emerge on the other side a little sadder, but a lot stronger, with help from mother wit, some swinging jazz standards, and the occasional pint of Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch.

At least that’s how I thought it sounded when I began.

About halfway through, I realized that something was wrong with my story.

It wasn’t that anything in the story was untrue. And I happen to believe that, along with good friends, mother wit, swinging jazz, and ice cream combine to provide an excellent cure for what ails you. I think, too, that my technique was pretty good. I shared the choicest details, pausing occasionally for effect, punctuating with the right amounts of wryly raised brow, ruefully shaken head, and “Girrrl, you won’t even believe this.”

No, the problem wasn’t with the story itself. The problem was that I was still telling this particular story, long after the events in question had transpired.

As I spoke, I realized that telling this story was an important narrative act—and not in a good way. By pulling this old story into my new friendship, I was allowing it to define me. I was giving it more space than it deserved. Without saying so, I was conveying to my friend—and rehearsing for myself—some very significant, and very uncomfortable ideas:

This story is one of the most important things you should know about me.
This story is what I believe about myself.
In some ways, I’m still living this story.

As I listened to myself, I didn’t sound wise and intrepid, but foolish and fearful. I didn’t sound stronger-if-sadder; instead, I just sounded stuck. In this particular case, my story, and my willingness to share it, revealed an incompletely healed heart—an unresolved narrative.

I believe strongly in the power of narrative. I believe that stories affect our minds and hearts in unique ways, and must be handled carefully. I decided to become a writer and communicator because I honestly believe that good stories change the world. In fact, I think that some of the biggest problems in our lives and the world can be traced to incorrect or poorly told stories. Even in this postmodern age, I believe in the idea of metanarratives, or master stories, that shape our thoughts and beliefs.

In the introduction to his book, Tell Me A Story: The Life-Shaping Power of Our Stories, the author Daniel Taylor argues that we are our stories, and that those stories emerge from our desire to understand the meaning of our lives. Because of that, understanding the stories we believe, and the stories we choose to tell ourselves, is critical. “Knowing and embracing healthy stories [is] crucial to living rightly and well,” he writes. “If your present life story is broken or diseased, it can be made well. Or, if necessary, it can be replaced by a story that has a plot worth living.” In a later chapter, he adds, “The best cure for a broken story is another story.”

Remembering Taylor’s words helped me to reconsider the story I’d been telling my friend, and myself. I finished the tale, and I doubt my friend noticed that anything was wrong. Still, as I reflected on our conversation later, I decided not to tell it again soon without thinking and praying about it.

Over the next few weeks, I began to pray earnestly that God would remind me where he had entered this painful story, and that he would allow me to see it in the proper context of his work in my life. In my journal, I drew two plot pyramids: a false one that positioned the story in a climactic place in the narrative of my life, and a true one that positioned it as just one of many ups and downs in a long story of triumph and trial. As I consulted wise Christian friends, I determined to tell this particular story only in limited contexts where I knew it would be helpful, and only when I knew I was viewing it in a healthy way.

We tell stories, both good and bad, as a way to bond with one another, to share important insights into our hearts and lives, and to convey what’s deeply important to us. In fact, sharing a painful story can be deeply therapeutic, and part of God’s healing work in our lives.

So in some ways, my decision to refrain from speaking casually about this particular story is counterintuitive (and writing about not talking about it is strange!). I’m interested in your thoughts: How do you know when to share a story, and when to hold back? What principles have you discovered for discussing painful situations, and how do you discern when it may be helpful, or when it may result in more harm than good? When has sharing a story resulted in deep healing for you? What role do the stories you tell about yourself play in the way you view your life?

Returning to Christ

What’s in a Name?

Prone to Wander

Forced to Face My Issue with Grace