THE COLD WINTER OF 2010

After a long and complicated winter, longer than normal it seemed and colder, much colder, I am, like the tentative green leaves on my Aspen trees, peeking my head above the chill of winter and daring to expose my fragile soul to the outside world again. Does this sound morose? I don’t mean it to be.

I am in the second year since John’s death. The first year, in a sort of fog, I felt wrapped in the warm arms of love and support from friends, family and most certainly from Jesus. I felt protected and cared for in ways I cannot even describe and I thank Him most of all for the care that He provided, and still provides. The second Christmas, as I have previously written, it felt as though the fog lifted and I experienced the grief in its entirety. The blanket of protected security seemed to have been removed and the onslaught of grief was almost more unbearable than the actual time of his death. This surprised me.


In January, a crisis hit one of my family members which nearly took me out. I found myself wrestling with many emotional issues which surfaced in my soul, issues that hurt my heart more deeply than I could have imagined. After the warm security and safety of the previous year, it felt as if I were suddenly thrust into a cold, stark and very painful world and to put it frankly, my feelings were hurt. Hadn’t I been through enough over the past five years? Hadn’t I hurt enough? Hadn’t I learned enough about trusting in God, about leaning only on Him, about surrendering everything to Him? And now, still so fragile, this thing lunged at me and assaulted me from every possible angle. I went into hiding; it was all I could do.


On top of the family crisis, another more subtle event was working under the surface. The first year after John’s death, the Lord had launched me into many areas of ministry—discipling women in the Abiding Life, going on an amazing trip with OM Logos Hope Ship and ministering with people from all over the world, teaching a seminar on Abiding Life to poor village women in Honduras and seeing God work in amazing ways, and then the icing on the cake—the invitation to join with Joel Rosenberg’s Joshua Fund team as coordinator for the volunteers. My book was finished and ready for publication. I was in a whirlwind of satisfying, fulfilling, exciting spiritual activity with Jesus.


And then, as suddenly as it had all begun, it simply stopped. In January, everything came to a grinding halt. The event in my family brought me to my knees, but I was unable to speak to it or address it in any way. My prayers floundered terribly. Starting out strong, they seemed to hit an invisible net-like barrier and tangled hopelessly into confusion.


There were no women coming to me for discipleship. Communication with Joshua Fund seemed to have ceased. An invitation to return to Honduras to do another conference fell apart. I knew that I could make some contacts and find other ways to minister, but I kept hearing—off in the distance somewhere—the Lord telling me to just wait. I heard Him speak to me in Isaiah 50:11 about “kindling my own fire.” I didn’t want to kindle my own fire. Jesus had kindled a fire for me in the previous year and I knew the difference between relying on my own understanding and relying on Him. At least I still knew that. It was one of the few things I felt I did understand. You know that feeling when you stand in the surf and as the water recedes, sweeping the sand from around your feet, you are left feeling a bit dizzy and unsteady. So I too felt during the long months of winter.


Somewhere around the time of Passover and Easter, just as suddenly as the family crisis had hit, it resolved. I had not been able to pray and God showed me once again the value of my Christian friends who simply manned the helm and guided my listing ship until I was back on my feet. A verse kept surfacing during this time which I clung to as a promise meant just for me. “But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumph in Christ Jesus” (2 Cor. 2:14) He always leads us in triumph in Christ Jesus. Not sometimes, and not in some ethereal unknown way. It is in Christ Jesus. Christ Jesus lives in me. Therefore, I am always being led in triumph. Thanks be to God.


I had read in David Wilkerson’s pulpit letter how the children of Israel sang the song of victory after the Red Sea crossing (being led in triumph). But as the title of the sermon explains “Right Song, Wrong Side.” What if they had sung the song before the crossing? What if their praise had ascended to Heaven before the answer came? That is the question that came to me during the latest time of trial and I am developing a new understanding of the power of singing the right song, on the right side of the Red Sea. Singing when the army is approaching. Singing when the enemy is assaulting. Singing when death is imminent. Singing when my eyes are weeping and my heart is breaking.


These are hard lessons, but how I want to get it, have it permeate every fiber of my being. The enemy has no power against praise, that is key. He doesn’t comprehend it; he doesn’t know how to combat it. There is power in praise in the eternal, above-the-line, realm. I learned a little bit more about it this time, but I thank Jesus for His patience in this training also, because this one is huge and I want it for my life.