There Will Be No Stones.

Does a week’s blogging absence demand an explanation?  (I hope so;)

I’ve been recovering.

Early last week I stood before hundreds of women and told my scandalous story of ‘mad woman redeemed.’ A friend asked, “is this by choice?”  My sister said, “No, technically it’s not normal for people to want to confess their ugly past.”

I wouldn’t say it was a want inside of me. When the leader of Women’s Ministry asked me to share my testimony, I knew it was a command from inside my heart.

I worried about the judgment and reactions of the Surely More Godly Women — the women who’ve known Him longer and didn’t need to travel such scandalous roads to find the love they sought.

But, I knew these women already; we were all talking about real grace.

A few weeks earlier our worship leader Jill shined new insight onto the story of the Samaritan woman at the well. When the shameless hussy experienced a life-changing encounter with Jesus, she ran back into town boldly and excitedly sharing the news.  She didn’t fret about her reputation or their judgment. She didn’t have any shame inside her that was as powerful as the experience of meeting Him and hearing His words.  She was only new. And she knew now that in God’s eyes she was new.

Jill’s teaching ministered to me throughout the days leading up to my time to speak.  With a microphone around my head and a room full of 350 women. Egad.

I felt the intense prayer of the other leaders supernaturally lifting me. I thought that enough of them had read the story in advance and that’s why they believed I needed extra prayers of protection. From the angry mob that will surely want to stone me.

But actually, they knew something very different.  They knew the blessing of sharing a true testimony of God’s scandalous grace and love was so powerful both for the person sharing as well as the group receiving it, that the spiritual battle waging relentlessly above our heads would be intensified.

My small perspective was widened. I felt the strength throughout the morning. Overcoming weakness and fear. As I prepared at home, primped and coiffed, practiced and prayed. Greeting my friends arriving to support and smile, feeling conspicuous in my presence. I knew deeply: it wasn’t about me.

After my story ended, the room prayed and my resistance to being the center of attention was pushed aside by the group’s desire to protect me in prayer. I shut off my head and let Jill’s prayer soak into my flesh. I was still quaking inside. I think I talked too fast. Women approached me from all directions and said I’d told their story. Different parts, different origins, but so many of the same broken pieces. Each identifying with their own experience… and that’s the miracle. We are each living the story of our life, intertwined as one creation, intended for love, earnestly seeking fulfillment and understanding.

I’m truly amazed by the blessing of this experience.
The very nature of my heart is affected. I was genuine in my truth, deeply desiring to share God’s story, and indeed He used it apart from me for the good of His bride.

It’s one story of millions, but each story is part of the whole, and important to the growth of the body.

May you find the chance to share your broken parts so that He may widen the perspective of love in this world of glorious grace. That His love may be brought to light through each of our ragged attempts at Life as Perfect.

May we know that in His sight, as we seek Him, we are already guided toward beautiful perfection.