It wasn’t kind when I said it. More than that, it was biting. Did it feel true and justified? Absolutely. But now ask: did it have any redemptive value in how and where I said it? Not a bit There is a specific kind of discomfort that follows moments like these. We call it conviction,…
I hate being made out to say things I never said. My chest tightens, my mind races to defend not just my words, but my identity. Confusion floods the mind right along with the nausea that rises from the sting of such a betrayal. It’s exhausting trying to manage the story being told, only to realize that some people don’t care whether it’s true at all.
Before we can truly understand others, we must first be honest with and understand ourselves. As women, we often like to think we see things clearly. Yet discernment without compassion is simply judgment, and insight without inward honesty slips into arrogance. I know this because I’ve done it. I’ve used discernment to criticize rather than to restore.
Imagine her with me if you would, a young girl sitting in the church pew, absorbing hundreds of hours of preaching and teaching. Extra-biblical mandates, woven between the lines of Scripture, shaped her conscience, leading to a striving for approval and the brittle comfort of control.
We need each other. Because community can’t grow where insecurity rules. And jealousy will keep you lonely, even in a crowd of people. You can’t build sisterhood while secretly wishing to be the main one standing.
I’m on a ten hour drive headed home to Kalona today. I can already smell the earth after harvest, hear the clip clop of buggies, and imagine three inches of road dust that’ll cover the car. There’s something about this beautiful area that settles deep in my bones.
If the price of truth is your life, then you are unbuyable. Your integrity and the raw purity of the truth you stand for are not for sale – not for comfort, money, followers, reputation, or anything else.
Honor is a bridge to healing and hope, even when our wounds run deep.
Sometimes we slip into thinking, ‘Okay, this one’s on me. I need to fix this, and I need to make up for it.’ But Psalm 23 doesn’t say mercy leads us, it says it follows us. It’s not waiting on our perfect performance. It’s not holding back until we finally get it together. It followed us all through our past, and now it walks with us in the present. God’s mercy covers what we thought disqualified us. It didn’t miss the moments we’re most ashamed of. It followed us there, right through that too. It will follow us all the way home.
We’re not so very different.
We reach for a taste of validation, influence, reputation, whatever it is.
And before we know it, the door’s slammed shut and we feel stuck and really frustrated. All for that stale, probably gluten-free breadcrumb called human approval. People pleasing gives an illusion of control, and chasing acceptance feels predictable. Obedience means handing all of that control over to God, which isn’t always so comfy.