David Generation

David is probably most known for two things: killing a giant and sleeping with Bathsheba. Isn’t it funny how the narratives that stick with us the most seem to be the ones of either great heroism or massive failure? In reality, every person is much more nuanced than that.

David was the overlooked youngest in his family. He spent much of those early years looking after a bunch of smelly sheep. He put the time to good use though. He wrote and played music. He became a pretty good shot (slingshot that is) by killing off predators like bears and lions in order to keep those dumb sheep alive. He was anointed as Israel’s next king somewhere in those young buck years too. Even so, he made no assumptions. He didn’t arrogantly advance to that position of power on his own.

According to Hebrew history, he did kill the giant Goliath. And he kind of soared to fame after that. He also was forced into running and hiding like a common criminal after the giant-slaying thing because of the current reigning king’s jealousy and fear of losing the throne. Only after that king died, only when the time was perfectly right, did David ascend the throne.

Though I could spend many paragraphs describing David and some of his admirable qualities, instead I’ll direct you to the stories of his life written in 1&2 Samuel, 1 Kings, 1 Chronicles, and Psalms.

Eleven years ago I began praying that my generation would be like David. I want to be clear that my prayers were for men and women. All the poet-warrior stuff makes for obvious #mcm material in my opinion, but jokes aside – the wholeheartedness, genuineness, worship, and tender-hearted repentance that defined David were qualities I wanted for everyone. Like I said above, we tend to tell stories of great failure or great heroism. But truthfully every individual is fully sinner, potentially saint, and an utterly ordinary human. We see the span of all of those things in David’s life, and I think that’s why he seemed like such an appropriate model. A hopeful model too because, even with that mixed bag of ordinariness and sin, David is called the man after God’s own heart. So, my prayer was that those who knew Jesus would not just know and follow Him an inch deep, but that they would be all-in, wholehearted followers of Jesus.

After about 8 or 9 months of praying this, I was driving west on 2nd street in Edmond. Coming up on Broadway extension, I was very conversationally praying to God and asked Him, “What’s next in the story?” Within a minute of asking that I slowed to a stop at the intersection and glanced over at the lane to my right. In big letters on the door of the truck next to me were the words: “King David Construction”.

Eleven years ago I began praying for Davids. Eleven years ago – assuming God intervenes in our ordinary day-to-day and maybe has a little sense of humor – God provided encouragement that He was working on them. That was eleven years ago. So you best believe I'm on the lookout for those grown Davids now.

After the Dark Comes the Dawn

About six years ago the word "gift" kept coming up in my life. With some variation -"gift", "God's gift", "gift from God"- it consistently presented itself through people, through spoken or written word, or through a series of "coincidental" events. My attention was first drawn to it through two of the same gifts brought to my home within the same afternoon. I think God often uses repetition or multiples of the same thing to get a message across. I sensed God say, "Pay attention. I have gifts for you."

         I continued thinking on this gift thing as it appeared in my day to day life. I had a full and interesting spring, summer, fall. So now it had been a year of multiple repetitions of "gift" and one night - and it was literally an over the night change - some personal hopes of mine were disappointed and doubt began to weave its torturous web.

         It wasn't even so much the specific let downs that were depressing, it was what they reminded me of. They reminded me that I'd hoped before, been disappointed before, felt this pain before, and wondered if it would always be this way. (Isn't that just so human? When we enter into a hard or disappointing season it feels like it will always be this way.)

         I hardly ever have any trouble sleeping. I'm grateful for this. I know it's not everyone's experience.  This night was different though. I tossed and turned. I heaved those chest-aching sobs, the kind that - for me at least - feel a little like what I'd imagine drowning would. There was anger and broken-heartedness, confusion and frustration verging on despair.

And I cried out to God continually:

         "I don't understand. Do you even see me? Do you really care? How does this keep happening and will these desires ever stop being painful?"

         "Do you know what I want?"

         "Do you care about what I want?"

         "Do you even see me?"

Like a broken record - "Do you know me? Do you see me?"

         It was a long night and at the same time I was still surprised morning came so soon. I was so preoccupied with my questions - with trying to make sense of things, and having no progress - that it seemed as if no time had really passed.

         But morning came. The first grayish-white, cool sensations of light creeping into my bedroom through the window and gradually becoming wider and warmer and golden.

         I'm a communicator. I could read, or talk, or listen, or write every moment of every day if it were feasible. Communicating is the last thing I do before going to bed and often the first thing I do when I wake up. Since I'd already been talking to and trying to listen to God all night and was getting (in my self-absorbed opinion) precious little for my efforts, I opened my email.

         This is what I found*:

         Gifts.

         There it was again.

         I guess if God was trying to answer the questions I'd been asking all night it would be:

         Yes, I see you.

         Yes, I care.

        Yes, I "know the good desires of your heart" because I put them there.

         I see. I know. I see. I know.

         About a month later I was out of town and ran into a friend I hadn't seen in a while who also couldn't have known what I was going through. She asked if she could pray for me and the words in her prayer were so similar to Tony's words above.

         

More repetition. More of God seemingly trying to get my attention. More telling me that what I want isn't bad, that I don't have to resent it. I don't need to pretend it doesn't exist. And more promises that God has good for me.

         I can always use this reminder. That was 6 years ago, and here in Philadelphia over the last 2 years there's been a new set of pain and tears. I think I've cried more in these last 2 years than the previous 29 combined. Being away from family and friends is hard. Losing dance and running for a season was hard. Death in the family, multiple car accidents, having a front row seat to the often overwhelming burdens of single moms - these things are hard. My personal disappointments and unanswered prayers - those are hard too. But I haven't reached those same questions again of "God, do You know me?" and "Do You care?" because He answered already. In many, many ways before that email but in a special way through this night. When I remember that awful night and that beautiful morning and that timely email, I just can't bring myself to despair the same way again.

         I have good in my life. Much that is good. Actually there's not much in my life to not be deeply grateful for.

         At the same time there's more ahead that I am hoping for. So much more.

God sees. He knows. He sees. He knows.

*I think it's important to know that no one - least of all Tony - knew what kind of night I'd just had right before this email. The night of house church he's referring to in the email was a night I shared routine life updates with my small group. I was not sad then in the least and was actually anticipating some specifically good things coming my way at that time. Disappointments came afterwards.

Rejection. That's a fun topic.

Do you remember the earliest age you felt rejected? By the time I was 8 years old, I’d lived in 4 different places: Texas, Italy, Florida, and Oklahoma. Each move meant making new friends. It took time, but I never felt rejected in my efforts until we moved to Oklahoma. My family had settled into a church where I was soon to learn, by experience, that 8 year old girls are not always the nicest beings on earth. I was often - directly and indirectly - reminded by these girls that I was not one of them. Our families didn’t share a history, we had not been friends since the womb, and we might not ever be friends now either. These things were repeated to me often by these girls.

There are few things I’ve experienced in life that are quite as painful as rejection.

When I was 9, and still attending this church, some women came to pray over students in the Sunday School class. When it was my turn, the woman praying for me said she saw for me a picture of something in nature. This thing in nature is as common and as specific as a sparrow. It wasn’t a sparrow, but because this thing in nature continues to be significant for me, I am going to keep it private and use “sparrow” throughout this story as a replacement. The woman who got this picture for me of a "sparrow" said that I was beautiful and could appear tough, but that I was also fragile and easily broken.

I felt so seen and loved in that moment. I’d been trying my best to get these mean girls to like me. But in that moment I felt I was already seen as beautiful and accepted, even in the midst of feeling very broken.

Fast-forward about 4 years. My family and I are still attending the same church (though the girls who had hurt me, and who eventually became my friends, were no longer attending). Again I am in Sunday school. My teacher has the class form two lines facing each other with our eyes closed. We prayed for the person in front of us and then spoke any prophetic words we might have received. The person who happened to have me first was actually my teacher. With her eyes closed she said she got a picture of a “sparrow” and went on to describe things about beauty and delicacy. (I’m sure she was glad to see me when she opened her eyes instead of some macho guy who might have been offended by being described as beautiful and delicate).

Later that year my dad was in a prophetic training class. The assignment was to look at a “sparrow” that the teacher had brought into the room. My dad sketched a picture of it and wrote a poem about it. The "sparrow" had made him think of me, so he wrote the poem about the sparrow for me and give it and the sketch to me.

Each of these separate incidents were not ones where the individuals knew about my having received words about being a “sparrow” before. I’ve continued to receive timely and encouraging words with this specific symbol. My God sees every small and great thing. He knows the number of hairs on my head and yours. He is able to give words of encouragement through His people that show He knows you and sees you.

Friends, if you have experienced pain or rejection, I would love to pray for you. I can’t command or compel God to speak, but I have sometimes received words or pictures that I believe were from Him and that have been an encouragement to those I’ve prayed for. The effects of rejection can be deep and far-reaching. The healing can be a slow process. I can’t explain everything perfectly when it comes to healing, all I know is that one of God’s many names is Jehovah Rophe, “God Who Heals” and that I’ve experienced deep and far-reaching healing in Him.

And the most miraculous change is...

It’s August 31st. Like the procrastinator that I am, I am posting my monthly post on this last day of the 31-day month of August. I can hear the sigh of relief, like a mighty wind, coming from my masses of readers.

Have I mentioned that I’m not perfect? It should go without mentioning. Imperfection is kinda one of those self-evident traits.

But let’s get specific.

First, let’s cut to the back story:

It’s 2008. I’m chatting on the phone with a friend. He describes that he’s experienced so much sudden, positive change in himself that, though he’d thought he’d been a Christian before, he wasn’t so sure anymore that he really had been until these recent events. He goes on to say, “What comes out of you shows what’s really in you. If what comes out of you is hatred, or bitterness, or uncontrollable anger - lashing out at people….that’s not the fruit of the Holy Spirit. That’s not love, that’s not joy, that’s not patience, that’s not kindness.”

(Backstory to the backstory: Jesus claimed He was one with God the Father. Jesus also said that whoever believes in Him would receive the Holy Spirit. Once the Holy Spirit sets up shop inside a person, He is continually transforming the inner being of that person.)

At that point in my life, I already know the backstory to the backstory. I’d already accepted Jesus and I’m thinking “I’m good”. Also, this guy is like a little brother to me, so I indulge his chattering and think patronizingly, “This is so great for him that he’s coming to a deeper understanding and transformation in his life.”

Ok, that’s the backstory.

Fast forward a few days.

It’s still 2008. I’m under tons of stress while studying in nursing school. I’m still living at my parent’s place at the time and sharing a washer/dryer with them and my siblings. I find out that my brother ruined a few new shirts of mine because he used the wrong settings. I say not nice things at high volumes. A few minutes later another brother experiences my wrath. A few minutes after that came the third incidence and the final straw:

My dad says something to me that is entirely innocuous.

I rip his head off.

(metaphorically)

I go on and on about how much stress I’m under and how people around me should behave differently.

I think my dad’s response was one of gentle calmness mixed with surprise.

“What comes out of you shows what’s really in you. If what comes out of you is hatred, or bitterness, or uncontrollable anger - lashing out at people….that’s not the fruit of the Holy Spirit. That’s not love, that’s not joy, that’s not patience, that’s not kindness.”

My friend’s words came to my mind unbidden. After three unrelated instances of uncontrollable anger, I went upstairs to my room and dissolved into a pile of tears. What washed over me is hard to describe. There was a profound awareness of what had spilled out of me so naturally. I was also profoundly aware that it was disgusting. I felt a deep sadness - almost like a lonely fear - that I was actually quite distant from this God that I had thought I had received. I felt powerless to change myself and at the same time very hopeful that the Holy Spirit would do the work for me. Basically, I repented in dust in ashes.  

Maybe it’s necessary for me to clarify at this point that anger is not wrong in and of itself. My responses, however, were totally out of proportion to each of the three situations. My words were rude and completely self-centered. And the change that came over me that afternoon and in the coming months was one of deeper peace and patience.

My monthly stories this year have been mostly fun little “coincidences” that I like to call “God-incidences”. The physical healings my friends and I have experienced, the arranging of lives into exciting, storybook form, people having knowledge of things they couldn’t have known on their own, the wishes and prayers granted miraculously - those are all great, and I’m happy to have witnessed so many little delightful stories.  But all of those changes to the things around me are so small in comparison to the meaningful changes that happen within me and within the lives of people I know.

The year after my outbursts (and Holy Spirit’s transformation of me in response), my grandfather passed away. At his funeral someone shared of a commitment my grandfather had made as a young man to not be given to uncontrollable rage. That was my first time to hear of it. I didn’t know that I had followed in his steps at about the same age that he did. My grandfather was deeply committed to following Christ, as was his father before him and as has been my own father after him. I’ve not witnessed a fear-based religion of legalism in them. The continually transforming power of the Holy Spirit is much more personal than that.

He is love.

He is joy.

He is peace.

He is patience.

He is kindness.

He is goodness.

He is faithfulness.

He is gentleness.

He is self-control.

People who do not know Christ: Allow me to introduce you. This list describes Him well.

People who claim to have accepted Christ: does this list describe what naturally comes out of you? If not, I won’t doubt that you have a relationship with Him, but I have no reservations in saying that you are missing out if there are areas of your life that aren’t surrendered to Him on a mental, emotional, and willful level. Fear, disgust, and sadness have their place when directed at corruption.

Repentance is your friend.

Just speaking from imperfect experience.

Call Me Maybe

Have you ever felt that if you could just witness an obvious sign that God existed, you would believe? If He would wake this friend from a coma...if He would come to you in a vision or dream...if He would speak a word audibly…if He would take away your pain...

Let’s be real though.

If any one of those things happened your mind would probably come up with a naturalistic explanation. Think through those scenarios above, or come up with one of your own. Do you really think you can think of any “miracle” or answer to prayer that you wouldn’t be able to explain away with naturalism? We have an incredible capacity for making sense of things in a way that suits our already internalized beliefs. Confirmation bias is pretty impossible to overcome. That said, I will probably not be changing anyone’s belief systems today.

But I’ll tell the story anyway.

When I was in college, I was part of this crazy group of messy people who loved Jesus and tried to follow what was written about Him in Scripture. One night we were hanging out and some of us went to pick up pizza for the group. In the car I said something to my friend, Zack, about wanting to experience something really crazy - like hearing the phone number of a stranger.

He said, “Have you ever asked the Lord to give you that?”

I said, “No,” but then instantly a 7-digit number was scrolling through my head and as I dialed it the name Caris came to mind. It was strange for sure. Maybe I could have explained it away a la naturalism by saying that I’d subconsciously stored the name and number of someone I’d met once but forgotten. And I might have explained it that way to myself had it not been for what happened next,

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”

I turned to my friend Zack and told him that the number was disconnected.

“What was the number?” he asked. (I hadn’t told him the number or the name I’d had in mind before dialing.)  I told him the number that had scrolled through my head.

He said, “Maybe you’re close but mixed up a couple numbers. Try 93 instead of 39. Like, 555-5935 instead of 395.”

So I dialed it again with the (kinda weird) modification he suggested (I mean, switch the middle two of the last four numbers???) I still had not told Zack the name that was in my mind or that I even had a name in mind, I just dialed the new number.

“Hello?” came a man’s voice.

“Hi, is Caris there?” I asked.

“No, she’s in New York right now.”

I felt my heart drop and thrill at the same time. What in the world?! That random number is actually connected to this random name that came to mind??! I've never even met anyone named Caris before! It's not like it's a super common name! My other thought, however, was, What in the world do I do next???

I proceeded to explain to the man, who told me his name was Alex, how I had just gotten his phone number. My memory is blurry on all that I said exactly. I think I started with something like, “So you don’t know me, but God knows you.”  I remember telling him that God loved him and something about God seeing every one of his baseball games even though Alex’s dad didn’t go to them. (Random, right?) I also remember that I encouraged him to go to church. I don’t remember if I ever asked him a nice follow up question like, “How is this all sounding to you. How are you feeling about having a stranger call you out of the blue?”  I was so caught off guard and out of my element through the entire conversation, which probably didn’t last more than 5 minutes.

I may never know Caris’ and Alex’s side of this story. I vaguely remember leaving a voicemail the next day with my contact information, offering to pray for them or answer any questions. But I wanted to respect their privacy after that. I think it was several months later that I called again and the phone number had been disconnected.

What if Alex had asked God that day to give him a sign that He exists? And what if when he hung up the phone with me that night he thought, “Caris knows some weird kids. I guess it's a pretty harmless phone prank though.”

(This is post #7 in a year-long series of hope-filled posts with evidences of God’s intervening in the lives of ordinary people. All events relayed in my posts were witnessed by myself or a friend or family member or multiple combinations of those witnesses, and I have attempted to relay the events as accurately as possible.)

Where does healing come from?

This is a true story. And a simple one.

Once upon a time, a painter was contracted to do some work on my parents’ place. He had been working for a few days during normal business hours. At the end of one of those days my dad arrived home earlier than usual. The painter recognized him but didn’t say anything for a few minutes.

(We’ve all been there, right? You recognize someone, but do you say something about it or nah? 🙃)

Then he approached my dad and said something along the lines of, “Three years ago I had been having migraines that were really rough - really interfering with my life. You prayed for me and I haven’t had one since. I just wanted to thank you.”

My dad is a family practice physician. He sees about 20 patients on a clinic day. He’d probably seen thousands of patients in those 3 years. Sometimes he prayed with some of them. Whatever came out of this appointment, the painter didn’t remember a medication being particularly helpful (if there was one). What he did remember was my dad praying for him, and he attributed his healing to that prayer and God.

For my dad it was an ordinary day, carrying out his ordinary responsibilities. To my fellow believers whose belief is in an extraordinary God: this is my encouragement to you to appreciate the ordinary. Don’t overlook it. In a world that appreciates almost only what is extraordinary - from what makes headlines and clickbait, to what we admire and strive for in life - it’s okay to do the small things. It’s okay to be faithful. We serve a God who outshines us in every way. Why try to compete? 😉 He is faithful too. And He will accomplish His purposes.

And for every dad out there, in the daily grind, doing the little things, being faithful - your impact is more than you may ever know.

My Own Dreams

My Own Dreams

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 27, 2008

(Guest entry by my sister, Andrea Belyeu)

“For most of us, dreams come true only after they do not matter, Only in childhood do we ever have the chance of making dreams come true when they mean everything.”

In an earlier post, I mentioned that I'm going to work on trying new things, and being strong enough to enjoy the experience - whether I fail, excel, or pass by with mediocracy.  When I was a child I wanted to do so much; my plans for all I would do could fill ten lifetimes.  I would win that gold medal at the Olympics.  Every abandoned boy would come to live at my children's home and we would live with racket and adventures, inventions and dirt.  I would live in a treehouse in Africa and reside in a cottage in Ireland's green hills.  

Of course, I was going to return to Italy, where I spent much of my childhood, which is perfect because it is (relatively) close to where I would work in the Romanian children's orphanage, nursing abandoned infants and children to good health and happiness.  At some point, I'd enjoy a Broadway career and write (and star in the resulting film) my fictional-based-on-true-events story of the first hand account of the bombing of the Murrah Building.

So some of these things sound a bit outlandish, but most of it I really believed could and would happen at some point.  The hard part was deciding which one to pursue.  

I will never forget the evening my 12 year-old-self was at some social event, sitting next to my father.  They were doing a game or activity where they listed four things they wanted to be and four things they wanted to do.  

These were my dad's four things he wanted to do:

See Andrea win the gymnastic all-around Olympic gold medal.

Watch Jessica perform Mozart in Carnegie Hall.

Be at the World Series when Joel hits a home run to win.

Watch Timothy accept a Nobel Peace Prize.

My 12 year old self didn't think too much of those words.  How incredibly privileged was I to have a father who just wanted his children's dreams realized?  That's what he wanted to do.  I don't think he wrote each word, believing it would happen verbatim.  If you look very, very closely, he really wrote this:

Andrea will not listen when others question her dreams or hopes. 

Finding that she has the tenacity and skill, Jessica will succeed at whatever she sets out to do.

Joel will find what he was made to do and he will do it well.

Despite what other people think about Timothy, he will live a life of character and influence.  

I plan to hold onto my dreams; they will not become less important as I work, age, procreate, wander, and fail.  They will evolve, develop, and certainly won't include gymnastics anymore.  They will not end in gold medals or a published book, but will be fulfilled when my heart is full and my character solid.  So today I choose to make my hopes the most significant thing, because they just might take me places...

Written by Andrea Lisabeth (Wright) Belyeu