Mo Isom's Blog, page 6

Word on the street…

“One of the hardest things to see about my generation is the complete fear of pain or dealing with brokenness. We cover our wounds hoping they’ll go away, when they don’t. Mo reminds us that brokenness is actually the very place God meets us the most, and the place where we can find Jesus like never before. I can’t wait to see this book unleashed to the world!”

–Jefferson Bethke, New York Times bestselling author of Jesus > Religion

“A raw and honest story of Mo Isom’s trek from a cracked and hopeless life to one of healing and restoration found only in Jesus. Mo can truly say now that her self-worth comes from her complete dependence of Christ. Joy comes to her and to all of us by saying yes to Jesus. This book will bring you hope in your own journey, and you’ll find yourself celebrating not just her life buy your own.”

–Shelley Giglio, cofounder of Passion Conferences/Passion City Church; chief strategist of sixstepsrecords

“In Wreck My Life, Mo tells the amazing story of God’s grace and redemption in her life as He uses what was broken and makes it beautiful. It’s a reminder that we serve a God who never fails to meet us where we are and promises to give us beauty for ashes. You will find life and grace as you turn each page.”

–Melanie Shankle, New York Times bestselling author of Nobody’s Cuter Than You

“Mo Isom is an incredible communicator, both from the stage and in her writing. It takes a lot of heart to combine your own personal and heartbreaking stories with life lessons and biblical truths and do so with humor, candor, honesty, but Mo has done it. Every person who picks up this book will be challenged, entertained, and more connected with God by reading it.”

-–Annie Downs, author of Looking for Lovely

In a generation that lacks authenticity, Wreck My Life shines bright. Mo’s raw, real, and unfiltered story will captivate you in a way others can’t. Everyone can relate to the real-life issues tackled in this book, and everyone needs the hope it provides.

–Sam Acho, NFL linebacker; humanitarian

“No one wants pain. No one seeks out brokenness. But Mo Isom reminds us that when those things come our way, they are exactly what God uses to form us into people He can use.”

–Danny Wuerffel, 1996 Heisman Trophy winner; executive director of Desire Street Ministries

“First of all, if I had a little sister, I’d want her to be just like Mo Isom: fearless, compassionate, hardworking, and deeply funny. Secondly, when I sat down with my copy of Wreck My Life, my plan was to read one chapter. Just one. Two hours later, however, I looked up and realized I’d been deeply engrossed in Mo’s story–a story that’s heartbreaking, relatable, inspiring, and redemptive. Mo’s words are such a reminder that we serve a good God who faithfully rescues us from the wreckage of our lives, a God whose plans for us are so much more than we could ask or imagine (Eph. 3:20). By the end of this book, you’ll feel like MO is a longtime friend and you’ll be better for the time you’ve spent with her. Don’t miss this phenomenal book!”

–Sophie Hudson, author of Giddy Up, Eunice and Home Is Where My People Are

“It’s said that ‘the struggle is real.’ In Wreck My Life, Mo Isom is a tour guide who lead you to the center of some very real struggles. But she doesn’t leave you there. She crafts a life-giving narrative chock-full of Scripture and stories that will help connect the personal details of your greatest challenges with the pervasive hope, healing, and freedom found in Jesus Christ.”

–Gwen Smith, speaker; worship leader; cofounder of Girlfriends in God; author of Broken into Beautiful and I Want It All

*****

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*****

If you enjoyed this post and would like my blogs and videos to pop straight into your email inbox, I’d love for you to SUBSCRIBE HERE. You’re not the only one trying to navigate this crazy world in His name. Join the MOb to stay challenged, encouraged, and inspired!

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*SNEAK PEEK* // Chapter 1: The Breaking Point

 

I was as wounded and scabbed and scarred as they come. All I wanted to do was forget.

But I couldn’t just forget. I couldn’t forget the image of his body on a morgue table. I couldn’t forget the feeling that his love for me wasn’t strong enough to change the outcome of that day. I couldn’t sit still long enough to let my wounds heal because all I wanted to do was run.

Thanksgiving break couldn’t come soon enough. I needed out. Out of the college town that sung my praises, even when my depression drowned out their cheers. I needed home. The arms of my mom and the safety of a place where I could take off my mask and stop acting like I was strong. I needed rest. I was tired and empty and so sick of faking “fine”.

My day had been filled with distraction after distraction, task after task that popped up and had to be finished before I could head home. I was preparing to trek back to Georgia—an eight-hour drive from Louisiana’s capitol. A drive I had made so many times before. But something about this time was different. The year had taken more of a toll on me than I even realized. I was anxious and restless and found it hard to shake the resentment that tightened my tired muscles. I was eager to leave the day and to abandon the moment, to drive in hopes that I would forget all the moments that came before it. Even just for a little while.

By the time I finally finished everything I had to do and hit the road, it was nearing 5 p.m. When I pulled onto the interstate, it quickly became apparent I wasn’t the only one eager to head home for the holidays. In fact, the entire population of Baton Rouge seemed to be parked on the freeway. After about two hours, I had moved about two miles. When the traffic finally broke, my eight-hour drive had quickly become a 10-hour drive and I had the road rage to prove it.

But I drove. And drove. And drove.

For a while I let my mind be hypnotized by the passing street lines. Zip. Zip. Zip. Zip. They flew past like fireflies as dusk settled and my restless day turned into my anxious night. At the core, a part of me felt reckless—never fully present in a moment or concerned with anything more than the pain of my past and the hopelessness of the “now”. My whole year had felt that way.

Dragging through stop-and-go traffic, I remember texting a few guys in my phone. One in particular was bad for me. Or should I say, I was bad for him. I was bad for all of them. But that had never stopped me from getting my fix before. After all, the hole in my heart from all that had happened through the year was gaping. The brokenness that riddled my bones was only ever temporarily fixed by the encouraging words of friends and family. The loss hadn’t just left me broken, it had left me desperate. And desperate girls do desperate things when they don’t feel loved.

This guy was no different than every one before him and my intentions were no more pure. It felt good to know that I could make a man desire me with just a few words. It felt good to know I’d have a hook up waiting at home. As I gave myself away to the imagination of a man who wouldn’t matter, a part of me felt powerful again. A part of me felt like I was in control.

The other part of me knew it was wrong. It was all wrong. It had all been wrong for the longest time. I wasn’t ignorant to the spiritual warfare that was ripping me at the seams; I was just too numb to fight it anymore. The tension was unceasing—it had been for a while. And rather than fight to seek hope and find solution, I just absorbed it. I absorbed the tension into the DNA of my character and came to a half-hearted peace that this was as good as it was going to get. This unsettled angst was my new norm and if I wanted to feel okay, I just needed to accept that, and move forward.

It’s hard to describe what the tension of warfare feels like. For me it was a constant tugging in my chest, a tightness that was only eased by sitting through a church service and hoping that counted for something. By drinking myself numb or distracting myself with men or drowning myself in my work and my athletics. So I did all of these things well—anything to pretend. Anything to be affirmed and to feel wanted. But the tension hadn’t ceased through the year. If anything, it had grown stronger and tighter, clenching me like the grip of a father who refused to let go of a thrashing child.

Like the grip of the Father who refused to let go of my wandering soul.

I was apathetic on the outside, but screaming on the inside. Screaming that this wasn’t the life I had planned! Screaming to a God who I proclaimed to love, but in the depths of my heart, doubted was even good. Screaming in frustration that I even cared so much! How weak I must be—what a pathetic, soft woman, that my emotions and my pain could rule my days.

I felt captive to the world’s perception of me. A slave to pretending like I was healing, giving pre-packaged glory to a God I didn’t know. My lips stayed sealed with my ever-practiced smile, but my mind was screaming for freedom. I was at the breaking point and the internal battle was ravaging me. It had been a year of anguish. Several years of feeling lost. Then found. Then lost again. It seemed like I was on a roller coaster ride and my heart wanted off. I was done!

My car continued to speed down the interstate as dusk became darkness and night crept into morning. Even though the mile markers assured me I was headed home, it felt like I was crawling. The hours dragged by and my eyes sagged heavy and my phone buzzed loudly and all of it just felt annoying.

It wasn’t long before I realized it was 1 a.m. and, for the most part, I was the only car on the road. I spotted a few deer eyes glow past in the woods, but they were hard to catch amidst the fog. Fog so thick and dense it blanketed the street and swirled up from the center median. My car split through it at 80 miles per hour as my mind slumped numb in the driver’s seat.

It was almost easier not to care. It was almost easier to crawl into the sheets of a “friend” and keep secrets of what happened in the dark. It was almost easier to talk the talk and rest in the lies and accept the praise. After all, I knew all the right things to say—whether they were truthful or not. It was almost easier to take the depression meds and convince myself they’d work one day. To laugh along with the world’s sense of humor and be entertained by the newest craze. It was almost easier to fall back in my pity when the tension was tight. To blame my behavior on the scars of my circumstances and to rationalize that it would someday all be alright.

It was almost easier to exalt my wreckage than to seek the seemingly fleeting God who was wrecked on my behalf. If the year had convinced me of anything, it was that that God, the God everyone shoved down my throat—the Healer and Redeemer and Restorer—was far, far away from me. Sure, I was good at regurgitating His memorized praises, but in my broken, burnt-out state, my calloused heart prayed not for salvation or for strength, but for proof. For months I’d pleaded for proof.

Prove it. If You’re so real, if You love me the way everyone says You do, reveal Yourself to me. I want what everyone else seems to have and if somehow that’s from You, give it to ME! Prove it!

In desperation I’d spent months petitioning a God who I demanded cater to my needs of proof. I’d tried fighting the tension by demanding God fix my circumstances and bless me out of my mess. Half-believing He might and half-believing my prayers were a last ditch effort that I could pretend I hadn’t been desperate enough to pray, if anyone asked, when still nothing had changed.

I’d tried challenging God into restoring my brokenness, never realizing that He heard my cries and knew my brokenness better than I knew myself. Never realizing that my pleas for revelation were about to be answered by a Father who wasn’t trying to preserve me, but who was willing to wreck me for His glory.

A Father who’d been waiting for such a time as this—to wreck my life.

I glanced over in time to see a street sign glowing green in the night.

ATLANTA—100 miles.

Thank goodness. I was nearing the state line and home was in sight. My eyes hung heavy as my phone buzzed and when I caught the road, the fog was dense and spinning. Before I could make sense of the moment, my steering wheel began to jolt and jerk. Cranking side to side, I realized my wheels were twisting through mud and grass. I had been speeding down the left lane and was now dropping off the side of the road. My mind snapped out of its haze and, in desperation, I clenched the cold leather wheel and pulled it hard to the right.

Get back on the road! Get back on the road!

My heart pounded and my muscles spasmed in fear as I tried desperately to regain control. When the fog split, I saw the front of my Jeep speeding forward almost completely perpendicular to the asphalt.

No! No! This can’t happen! Get on the road!

I watched as my front two wheels lunged back onto the fogged pavement and charged straight towards the right, wooded embankment. In an attempt to correct my course, I desperately pulled back towards the left, just as my wheel caught a deep divot and, in the deepest parts of me, I knew it was over.

My arms fell limp and my body gave way to the force that was overwhelming my car. Fear paralyzed me. A piercing, screaming, indescribable type of fear. A fear that floods you as fast as a waterfall but forces time to slow to a drip. My stomach felt as though it might bulge up into my throat as I realized equilibrium was off. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, and let out a gut-wrenching groan as sound flooded the night.

Crash! Tear! Shatter!

My body slapped and ripped against itself, against the window, the car wall, the steering wheel. My ears rung as the volume roared and my neck whipped with the rolling force.

Crank! Wrench! Reel!

My eyes tore open in time to see a steel signpost speeding closer. The muddy ground. The empty street. The freezing sky.

Pound! Crack! Screech!

My head burned and my eyes stung and I felt debris pound against my face. The sound grew louder and I realized, as I choked back some unknown heat, that half of that sound was roaring out of me. My body thrashed and whipped and coiled and…

Slam!

Everything went black.

 

*****

CLICK HERE to order your copy of Wreck My Life: Journeying from Broken to Bold on Amazon

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CLICK HERE to order your copy of Wreck My Life: Journeying from Broken to Bold from Family Christian

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*****

If you enjoyed this post and would like my blogs and videos to pop straight into your email inbox, I’d love for you to SUBSCRIBE HERE. You’re not the only one trying to navigate this crazy world in His name. Join the MOb to stay challenged, encouraged, and inspired!

The post *SNEAK PEEK* // Chapter 1: The Breaking Point appeared first on Mo Isom.

The Day You Made Me A Mommy

I remember feeling like the contractions would never come.

I was so anxious to meet you. So anxious to kiss the feet that pushed against my tight and swollen belly. From the inside out you owned my curiosity. I longed to know every inch of you.

I was only two days past my due date, but you could have convinced me I was two years overdue. Every minute felt like an hour as I waited for you.

For some reason I was convinced my body wouldn’t know how to go into labor. Bear in mind it had conceived you, miraculously known how to grow and nourish you, carried you perfectly, stretched to accommodate you. From microscopic in size to plump and feisty and bulging, you had grown patiently. Somehow you and my body had worked in sync–a miracle that only amplified the wonder and creativity of our King.

Yet a part of me still doubted I’d somehow give birth to you. It was too inconceivable a thought to me. Sure, we had taken the classes. I had meticulously typed out the birth plan, mentally prepared like an athlete training for a championship, daydreamed different scenarios of how you and I would come to meet. But it still baffled me, at the core, that I would give birth to a human being.

I never had many Braxton Hicks contractions. My body rarely lurched and tightened to practice laboring with you. But the day leading up to your arrival, I knew something was different. And around 2 am on December 11th I woke up to use the restroom and finally saw a small sign that you may be coming. A long, slow contraction wrapped around from my back and tightened my belly and felt like a hug from the inside saying, “Mommy, I’m almost ready to meet you.”

I curled back up in bed and said a prayer for you. My excitement wound itself together with an overwhelming peace, and I knew I needed to save up my energy, so I drifted back to sleep and only occasionally woke as those long, slow contractions reminded my body you were coming soon.

Around 11 am I text my doula to ask if this could be the real thing and she encouraged me to get up, walk around, and keep track of my contractions–gauging the length, intensity, and time in between. So I stirred around the house and ate and showered and your daddy and I celebrated a special love wrapped up in our sheets. I figured this would be a long day, that the hours would pile on top of one another and that I would have plenty of time to knock out a few things.

Silly mommy.

Not long after I started moving around things escalated…quickly. My contractions went from 30 minutes apart, to 10, to 5, to 2! And before I knew it I was draped over my bed with what felt like the worst kind of charlie horse starting in my lower back and pulsing around to the front of my stomach, tightening every tendon and ligament and muscle like a coil.

I had planned to labor for hours and hours at home. I had planned for the doula to labor with us in the comfort of my own bed. I didn’t want to be the woman who headed to the hospital way too early and had to turn around and head back home. I had candles. Candles! Didn’t you get the memo that there were candles and essential oils ready to be used?

I guess not. Because you were coming. Quickly. And as much as I worried I would hardly be dilated enough, the plans were out the window. I knew things were moving fast. And I knew we had to go.

Your daddy drove me to the hospital like a man on a mission. You should have seen the excitement in his eyes. You’ll learn soon that when your daddy gets excited and nervous he asks a lot of questions at the most inconvenient times. It’s a cute quirk. But you’ll also one day learn that when electric pulses are shooting through your body and your whole being cranes through a contraction while your car tires are bouncing over potholes, the LAST thing you want is for someone to ask you what your favorite early 90’s rock ballad was and if you can remember the chorus.

The car ride was rough, but we made it to the hospital and somehow made it up the elevator before my knees buckled in pain as we made our way to the triage room.

The nursing staff was so calm. Too calm. I’m not sure anyone believed me when I said you were coming VERY soon. They asked if this was our first baby and how long we had been laboring. When they checked me and I was only 2 centimeters dilated they casually suggested we head back home and return after a few hours. I could almost feel their eyes rolling as I desperately looked at your daddy and our doula. There was no way I was going back home.

It was a little after 5 o’clock, so I think they made the excuse that traffic would be rough and asked if we could walk the halls for an hour to see if my body progressed. The nurses agreed and that’s when it began.

The journey. The me and you moments where the world faded away and I entered a place between desperation and liberation. Every step through the halls felt like a mile as I draped my body over your dad’s strong arms and groaned and breathed and plead for constant counter-pressure from our doula.

We walked and walked and the pain paralyzed me with each contraction. There was so little rest in between. Our doula reminded me to ride the contractions. To imagine them flowing down and opening my body. To give them purpose. Those were the moments I remembered that this pain served a purpose. That it was immeasurable, but not unsurvivable. That with each contraction I was closer to you.

I shifted between wanting to give up, and wanting to relish the moments. This was your birth. It was impossible and empowering all in the same breath. It felt so much like the mental battle during those college soccer wind sprints. When every ounce of my body wanted to stop, but something deep inside my mind knew I was stronger than the struggle. And knew that quitting wasn’t an option. It felt like those moments as a follower of Christ when I’d wanted to cave. When obedience was painful and felt like it robbed me of what I wanted on behalf of what I needed. When the best for me was synonymous with the hardest for me but the result would sing of glory.

I hardly remember getting back to the triage room. But the next thing I knew they had checked me and in that hour’s time I had progressed from 2 centimeters to 5. They left us to prepare a labor and delivery room and it felt like just a few moments passed before my water burst. The contractions intensified and the pain grew and the monitor strapped around me showed contractions on top of contractions on top of contractions with no rest in-between.

This pain has purpose. This pain has purpose. I am stronger than the struggle.

I almost blacked out. I told a nurse who peeked in to check on us that if they didn’t get me into labor and delivery soon I would be having this baby in their triage room. She asked if I wanted to walk or ride in a wheelchair to the l&d room. I repeat, the woman asked if I wanted to walk?! I could hardly breath. My water had broken and my contractions weren’t stopping and I’m pretty sure I looked like a scene out of The Exorcist and the woman asked if I wanted to walk. No. I did not, ma’am.

Nobody realized I had transitioned in the triage room. Not until I crawled onto the bed in the delivery room and immediately told them I needed to go to the bathroom. And push.

I had progressed in triage from 5 centimeters to 10 in about 45 minutes. And it was time. The midwife wasn’t even there yet, but I was fully dilated and apparently my urge to go to the bathroom was actually my body’s urge to push out my sweet baby.

In that moment I felt primal. And instinctual. I thought of Eve. In her disobedience this was God’s response, pain in childbirth. Your will, Father. I thought of Mary. How she must have labored and ached as she brought forth life. I knew her in that moment like I’ve never thought to know her before. A young woman who birthed a Savior. Your will, Father. I was flooded with the thought of every woman through the course of time who had naturally birthed. I thought of the women around the world in the same moment as me. I thought of this perfect life that was entering life and would change my life forever. Your will, Father.

I turned onto all fours and pressed my face into the mattress. The pressure was overwhelming and, for a moment, I couldn’t believe it was real. I was really going to meet you. But, first, I really had to birth you. And as scary as it was, only I could do this. My body wasn’t mine to protect anymore. I had to surrender it to you. Page one of a saga God was now writing in my life–motherhood, the complete surrender of self for the love of another. This moment of endurance was but the first few pages in my love story with you.

And with the most primal, animalistic, empowering screams, three waves of contractions and pushes passed and I felt you leave my body.

I looked down just as they slid you between my legs and I stared into the eyes of a gift who had just made me a mommy. It was finished. We had done it. And all in the same moment it had just begun. Our story. Our story of mommy and baby, mother and daughter, children of God, sisters and friends. You mine, and I yours.

Your cord that pulsed from me was eventually cut. Your warm body rested on me and finally nursed. You were cleaned and weighed (you 10.1 pound chunk-a-lunk!), held and hugged. You were a perfect stranger, and yet a part of me. And in those traumatic, painful, powerful moments, I fell in love.

I had some physical complications after delivery. I’ve dealt with some mental and emotional strains I didn’t quite expect at times. And am still waiting for my plaque in the mail that awards me for naturally birthing a 10 pound baby. I’ve been imperfect at this mommy thing. It’s really hard to do.

But today you kicked and squirmed as you heard me walk in and sing to you. You stared into my eyes and smiled as I changed you. Wrapped your arms around my neck and cooed as I carried you. Rubbed my face and chest with your soft, wandering hand as I nursed you. And as the sun slid through the shades and your daddy stirred and slept, I kissed you.

For making me a mommy, I thank you. My sweet Auden Noelle, I love you.

*****

If you enjoyed this post and would like my blogs and videos to pop straight into your email inbox, I’d love for you to SUBSCRIBE HERE. You’re not the only one trying to navigate this crazy world in His name. Join the MOb to stay challenged, encouraged, and inspired!

 

The post The Day You Made Me A Mommy appeared first on Mo Isom.

A reflection on Easter: To the parent who watched their child die

I guess my heart has never had the capacity to wrap itself around the full picture.

Not until this year.

Not until this Easter as I raised one arm up in the air to worship Your name while the other wrapped its way around the baby hiked up on my hip.

I’ve only ever pictured the Easter story through Jesus’ perspective. Through the eyes of the spectators. The disciples. The Roman soldiers. I’ve never thought to put myself in Your shoes, God. Or maybe up until now I never truly could.

The Gospel story is what first wrecked my heart for You. It’s what stopped me in the tracks of my lukewarm life and shattered my logic and rewrote my history, titled “GRACE FREELY GIVEN.” It was that story of sacrifice. That Jesus story. That grace that wasn’t actually free, after all.

Someone had to pay the price for my sins. And all this time I’ve believed it was Jesus who did.

But I’m starting to wonder if the greater price was paid by You.

As I stared at my blue-eyed girl there was no hesitation in my thoughts that I would willingly give my life for my child. But I couldn’t swallow the idea of asking my child to give her life for others that I love. No, not my baby. That’s not fathomable to me. Not as her mommy. It hurts my heart to even hear her cry. But to watch her die? Absolutely not.

No. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t watch my child be sacrificed.

But You. You had to.

I think sometimes there’s a disconnect when I think of You, God. You are the Alpha and Omega. The Beginning and the End. I truly do believe You see the full picture. You are orchestrating a mighty work that is inconceivable to me. I don’t always understand it. I don’t always understand You. But I believe You are Holy. And I trust You.

In the same breath that also often leaves me believing that this is all easy for You. That since You know You will have victory in the end, that somehow the battles don’t phase you. But I’m starting to understand the heart of a parent–so it’s becoming increasingly impossible to believe that’s true.

If You are my Heavenly Father, and I your Daughter, then you must actively, PRESENTLY feel as deeply for me as I do for You. You are a God of the present. And as I believe You can be pleased and honored and glorified in the moment, I must also believe You can be grieved, too.

I wonder then, God, how deeply You must have grieved those moments at Calvary. Those moments leading up to Jesus’ death. Watching your innocent baby–your boy–being betrayed and beaten, mocked and crucified. Nailed to that rugged cross.

You were His Father. And I’m now a mother. And if I am made in Your image, and the things I feel for my daughter are even a fraction of the things you felt for Your son, I can only imagine how Your heart must have ached. How that boiling fury at the sin of the world must have set every inch of you on fire. How You must have grieved. How deeply You must have grieved that this was how it had to be.

I know You saw it coming. I know You orchestrated its necessity. The persecution itself–it was prophecy. It was Holy. But how You must have grieved in the moment, God…when Holy and hell had to collide.

If my child had knelt before me and cried out like Jesus did, “Is there any other way, mommy?” I couldn’t have done it. I would have interceded. But you didn’t.

If my baby had been beaten and lashed and abused and forced to drag that cross while her knees buckled beneath her, I couldn’t have done it. My anger towards those hurting her would have boiled so fiercely inside of me that I would have interceded. But you didn’t.

If my blue-eyed angel had hung on that cross and in her last gasping breaths cried out in anguish, “Mommy, mommy, why have you forsaken me?” that would have been it for me. I could never have turned my back. I couldn’t have allowed her death. Nothing in me would have cared about anyone else but her. I would have interceded. But you didn’t.

I remember the deepest moment of anguish in my life. When three officers stood in the doorway of my daddy’s office and told us they had found his remains with a bullet hole in his chest. I will never forget the noise that came out of me. It was a deep, guttural, indescribable sound that welled up so deep within me it burned when it growled out. A noise that vomited from me like brokenness. It hurt as it escaped my throat–an anguish like I had never known.

I imagine You cried out similarly. It’s why the skies darkened and thunder rolled and the earth quaked and the veil tore in two at the moment of His death. It was finished. It was a Holy moment–but what Holy, victorious anguish must have flowed from You. The roar of a lion in Your victory, but the cry of an aching father in what was necessary for victory to be won. All in the same breath.

You, God, did the unfathomable as a parent. You watched your child die, because You loved us too fiercely not to. You so loved the world that You gave Your one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. (John 3:16)

The same world that mocked Him, and mocks Him to this day. The same world that tried Him, sentenced Him, and put Your son to death. The same world that’s full of sinners like me–that we might come to know a love like Yours. The love that was formed before the foundations of the earth. A love so deep that it would give anything–everything–to say You are mine and I am yours. 

I guess my heart has never had the capacity to wrap itself around the full picture.

Not until this year.

Not until this Easter as I raised one arm up in the air to worship Your name while the other wrapped its way around the baby hiked up on my hip.

From a now-Mother to the eternal Father, thank you. For paying that unimaginable price. For making the greatest sacrifice so religion could die and grace could come to life.

Thank you for watching your child die so my child doesn’t have to.

So I don’t have to.

So none of us do.

*****

If you enjoyed this post and would like my blogs and videos to pop straight into your email inbox, I’d love for you to SUBSCRIBE HERE. You’re not the only one trying to navigate this crazy world in His name. Join the MOb to stay challenged, encouraged, and inspired!

The post A reflection on Easter: To the parent who watched their child die appeared first on Mo Isom.

Talking Sex with Priscilla Shirer (VIDEO)

Sex. Porn. Promiscuity. And our culture.

We got to chat about it all.

Not too long ago I was given the incredible opportunity to sit down with Priscilla Shirer and tape a few episodes for her web show, The Chat With Priscilla. If you aren’t familiar with Priscilla, she is an amazing speaker, author and actress. Daughter of Tony Evans…sister of worship artist Anthony Evans…actress in The War Room…all-around rockstar in the faith. To say that I was nervous to sit across the couch from her and even try to sound like I knew what I was talking about would be an understatement. But what grew out of our time together was incredible. And powerful. Sprinkle in some serious wisdom from Sheena Meekins, the Director of Integrated Marketing at TEEN VOGUE, and it was a party.

These two episodes are about 30 minutes each, but I really do believe they’re worth your time. As if I haven’t admitted enough embarrassing parts of my past before, we dug even deeper here. So put in your earbuds, get a cup of coffee, pretend you’re typing so your boss won’t be suspicious, and stay a while. I hope these words reach you and reach others you know. We’re all in this craziness together.

We live in a sex-crazed society. Even within the Christian community, it seems like the grey area is becoming even greyer. How do we as young women respond with the pressures of sex, pornography & the “hookup culture”? Join us as we hear from blogger & speaker, Mo Isom, as she shares a bit about her story and helps us uncover what’s really going on in the hearts of women struggling with promiscuity & pornography and how God’s grace can turn it all around.

In Part 2, Mo will be joined by Sheena Meekins, Director of Integrated Marketing at TEEN Vogue, who lives in the heart of NYC. We’ll talk with Mo & Sheena about the trends they see in the lives of young women today, the dangers of such things and how we as followers of Christ should respond.

The post Talking Sex with Priscilla Shirer (VIDEO) appeared first on Mo Isom.

The Holy Threesome (Part 5): You Are What You See

It all starts mindlessly enough.

We see less than half-dressed women in the magazines. The suggestive sex-scene on the movie screen. The single bachelor and bachelorette stealing off for a night of romance on reality TV.

We hear the song lyrics about the boy and the girl in the back of a pick-up truck. We’re flooded with the instagram bikini pics and the celebrity hook-ups and the barely-there-fashions on models who look nothing like us.

We’re already in the midst of being awkwardly introduced to the budding hormones inside of us. And all these new things peak our interest and feel good. And look good. And please us. So why look away? Why think too much about what we’re taking in if we believe the fact that we’re not putting out is good enough? After all, we’re kids. And all of this we’re being exposed to becomes more and more normal, every day, to us.

Then gradually, over time, the intensity picks up. And the half-dressed women in magazines become the completely naked women on our computer screens. And the suggestive sex-scenes in the movies become the hard-core porn in our browser history. And the single bachelor and bachelorette’s night of romance becomes a trigger for our own arousal as we find ourselves lusting for and coveting the same empty things.

And we become young adults who move from mindless kids to reckless teens because we’re desensitized to the sensitivity of sex as a precious thing.

How did we get here? From innocent to unfazed so quickly? And, even worse, defensive about these things?

I read recently that the average age a child is exposed to pornography is eight years old.

Eight.

I was about that age, if not even younger than that. If you read my viral post, 50 Shades of Grace, you know that I was exposed to pornography young. And struggled with the bondage of that temptation and the repercussions of that fixation for years to come.

But my struggles with porn weren’t simply born out of my first glimpse at a graphic scene. They were born out of an unguarded heart and unspoken conversations that nobody thought to have with me. They grew out of a desensitization to broken, messy things and an unawareness that what I was mindlessly taking in, on a day-to-day basis, was actually shaping me.

In a 50-Shades-of-Gray-Orange-Is-the-New-Black-Kardashian world, there is no slowing things down. There is no changing the trajectory of a sex-crazed culture fueled by big money. There is also no way to shield ourselves from ever coming into contact with these things. We’d have to lock ourselves inside our homes and never turn on a phone or a computer or a TV.

But those wouldn’t be the first steps of change, anyways. Because changing those things is entirely too far out of our short-term reach. What’s not out of our reach is choosing, wisely and with self-control, what we choose to see. After all, we may not be able to control what we are served, but we have complete control over what we choose to eat.

It is a basic principle, but a conversation that seems to have been forgotten, spiritually. Or maybe a conversation too far delayed when we step back and look at the reality of the situation and the ages of exposure to certain things. We know that someone doesn’t become obese after eating one cupcake, it takes long-term and continuous consumption of high-sugar, fatty foods. In the same light, we know someone doesn’t become an expert in their field of study because they solved one equation correctly. It takes hours of study and practice and application to master a technique. Just as someone doesn’t go bankrupt from spending one dollar unwisely. It takes several poor decisions, irresponsible investments, or careless spending. And behind all of these things exists conscious mental decisions and choice-making. So why would the same simple, guiding standard not be applicable to what we consume, visually?

If you are what you eat, are you not also what you see?

Jesus spoke to this fundamental truth in Matthew 6:22-23 when He said, “The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light, but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!” In other words, we are shaped by what we see. What we choose to watch. What we consume mindlessly.

If we want to understand the root of where so many of our sexual issues grows, we’d be wise to begin paying attention to what we are seeing and watching and reading. What our prayer must become is, “God, give me eyes to see the world as you do.” And what our awareness must shift to is what we are taking in, and what that’s desensitizing us to.

Because when the naked woman on your computer screen is finally seen as a daughter of the King being exploited for sexual reasons, it changes things.

And when the sex-scene in the movie is finally seen another cheap attempt for the box office to make money, it changes things.

And when you realize the reality TV show showing singles wiling to compromise just about anything to get a rose and a ring looks nothing like a pure and holy and God-honoring reality…it changes things.

But most notably, when you begin to see sexual things outside of the context of how God intended them–NO MATTER the intensity or degree–you begin to understand why sin breaks God’s heart when it has its stranglehold around you and me.

We are called to guard our eyes and guard our hearts fiercely. May we have the commitment of David who said, “I will set no wicked thing before my eyes.” (Ps.101:3)

God, give us eyes to see the world as you do, and help us to fix our gaze on You.

“Finally, believers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable and worthy of respect, whatever is right and confirmed by God’s word, whatever is pure and wholesome, whatever is lovely and brings peace, whatever is admirable and of good repute; if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think continually on these things [center your mind on them, and implant them in your heart].”

(To be continued…)

*****

If you enjoyed this post and would like my blogs and videos to pop straight into your email inbox, I’d love for you to SUBSCRIBE HERE. You’re not the only one trying to navigate this crazy world in His name. Join the MOb to stay challenged, encouraged, and inspired!

The post The Holy Threesome (Part 5): You Are What You See appeared first on Mo Isom.

An open letter to my child: I love God more than I love you

At 8:31 pm you changed everything, and in the same moment changed nothing at all.

My labor was fast. Crazy fast. And overwhelmingly intense. Contractions on top of contractions and two and a half hours later I was on all fours and my mind was in a place only a woman on the cusp of motherhood can come to know. And with the deepest screams all of that pain birthed purpose and they slid you between my legs and we locked eyes and I stared, in shock, at this stranger who I couldn’t wait to get to know.

In that instant you changed everything, and in the same moment changed nothing at all.

Know, first and foremost, that I love you deeply. And in the same breath know that I love God more.

That’s important for you to know. I can only hope one day when you find your words and you find your way you’ll look me in the eyes and tell me the same. In the meantime I’ll work, every day, to love you in such a way that you’ll come to know The Father through your faith-filled and deeply-flawed mother.

In two short months you’ve changed everything, and in the same amount of time changed nothing at all.

You’ve changed our lives. Our routine. Our home. You’ve changed our conversations and our priorities and our volume. It’s amazing how strategic you’ve made our to-dos. Tiptoeing and whispering and diving on top of our dogs so their barks won’t wake you. You’ve changed my heart. My capacity to love. My patience and my compassion and my empathy. You’ve enhanced my eyes for children, for adoption, for the hurting and the sick and the unloved. You’ve caused me to feel so deeply, I ache for the world to know this kind of love–this good, rich, dense love that makes me want to move mountains (as quietly as I can while you nap.) You’ve changed things in me I didn’t even know needed changing. You’ve brought the black-and-white to technicolor and gifted me with a respect and love for my own body that I never knew I lacked. Even with these squiggly stretch marks that slide across my stomach and tell a story of your growth. And with this pancake booty I haven’t known before. Every day I watch in awe as my amazing, imperfect body perfectly nourishes yours and I realize you’ve changed everything.

But all the same, you’ve changed nothing at all.

I remember when I came to know Jesus. It was just as intense as your delivery. I hung upside down in that mangled, shattered Jeep and in a moment of complete pain and vulnerability I felt a presence that was overwhelming. Crushing, even. And I placed my faith in a King who spoke so clearly to my heart that He had plans for me. And purpose. That I was forgiven and redeemed. That He desired for me to go forth and make disciples of all nations so that other wandering, broken hearts may come to believe.

My focus hasn’t wavered since that November night in 2009. And in six and some odd years since I answered His calling I’ve seen Him transform my heart, transform my life, grow a ministry, gift me with a husband and bless me with you. And in six and some odd years I’ve gone, and made disciples. And seen thousands come to believe. And, even though I’ve stumbled, I’d like to think I’ve walked my calling faithfully.

At times it’s been hard. At times it’s been easy. But it’s always been my sole focus and required all of me. But now, now you’re here. And, darling, you’ve changed everything.

Now more than I could have ever imagined of myself is required by you. My body. My time. My energy. My mood. And while every ounce of me wants to curl up and snuggle you and forever close off the hard and broken world and endlessly shield you, that’s something we simply can’t do. Because the world needs to be nourished just as much as you. The world needs the Word, it needs to be nursed by its life-giving Truth.

It’s important for you to know that before God called me to be a mommy, He called me to go and make disciples through His Truth. THAT calling hasn’t wavered or changed. THAT calling never will. You may have changed everything, but in regards to THAT calling, you haven’t changed a thing.

So, my love, the very best I can do is set the example for you. It’s going to be hard–it’s meant to be hard–balancing the two. Our mission field as a Christ-follower and our mission field in our jobs and titles and roles and all we “do”. But it must be done. Because I don’t think the mission field of mommy NEGATES the mission field of evangelism, I think it ENHANCES it. And I don’t think my mission field as an evangelist NEGATES the mission field of mom, I think it EMPOWERS it.

I can’t wait until you can travel with me and see me on stage sharing the Gospel and see that as normal, because it is. And I look forward to you seeing me, in the same night, curled up in the hotel room praying and crying over the people we met and the stories we heard and how this world is too crazy and overwhelming and hard. I look forward to pulling you onto my lap and explaining that this is life and this is loving people. The messy, the broken, the stressful. It’s all vital. And it’s good. In our weakness we’re made strong. Stretching ourselves to the point of weak is what we’re called to do.

I think you’ll learn from my mission field for work, and I think that work will be enhanced by my mission field with you. Because, at the end of the day, that’s how we must approach life. All of us. Understanding that there is a symbiotic relationship that must exist between the us of the world and the us of God’s story, and that He makes a way for balancing the two. That I may be your mommy, but you and I both are also daughters of the King.

And living out the Gospel is what we are all called to do.

So see, you’ve changed everything, but really you’ve changed nothing at all. Because I love you more than I ever even knew I could love someone, my angel. But I will always love God more than I love you.

*****

If you enjoyed this post and would like my blogs and videos to pop straight into your email inbox, I’d love for you to SUBSCRIBE HERE. You’re not the only one trying to navigate this crazy world in His name. Join the MOb to stay challenged, encouraged, and inspired!

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In Response To the Viral Post About Anna Duggar (and Why I Wholeheartedly Disagree)

I’m disappointed.

I’m disappointed by the deep sexual sin that has a stranglehold on our world. I’m disappointed that unfaithful marriages plague our society and I’m disappointed that websites like Ashley Madison even have the ability to exist–byproducts of our catastrophic human brokenness and our insatiable desire for anything and everything that will fill the vacancies that exist within us.

But today I’m even more disappointed in the reaction of our society–especially the mass reaction of Christian women–surrounding the revelations about Josh Duggar, as well as the viral words directed towards Anna Duggar in the wake of such broken events.

So this open letter is to Jessica Kirkland, the fellow Georgia mother, who penned this viral Facebook post, and to every individual who has shared her words or spread this message or agreed in similar sentiment…

Let me start by saying that I am a fire-breathing woman. I am bold, I am outspoken, I am passionate. I am educated with a college degree. I am empowered. I own my own business, travel the world speaking, and have my first book being published, with a second guaranteed.

So, based on your words, I am much like you. And I am many of things you presumed Anna Duggar not to be.

I am also a 25-year-old, married mom-to-be. I believe the Holy Bible is the living, breathing Word of God and I cling to it’s truth wholeheartedly. I believe in the covenant of marriage–the magnitude of the vows made before God to love another unendingly. I believe in staying chaste before marriage, if my father had been alive I would have prayed he would have deemed Jeremiah “acceptable”, and I pray for the strength to stand by the man I am married to, daily. I believe I have a duty to love my husband just as Christ loves me, and that I have the blessed opportunity to bear children for him…for our family. I have been instructed by the wonderful people around me–men and women, alike–on what it looks like to be Godly. And though completely imperfect at this, I continue to lean into God’s instruction and grace constantly.

So, in truth, I am also stunningly similar to the Anna Duggar you perceive.

And as a woman who understands your fire and frustration and passion quite intimately and, at the same time, a woman who wholeheartedly supports Anna Duggar’s incredibly tough decision to stand by her all-too-human, broken husband loyally, I am disappointed at your perspective and your condemning words towards a perfect stranger’s family.

If I were in Anna Duggar’s shoes, I hope I would choose no differently. Because when Jesus Christ hung on the cross and bled for all of my transgressions and sins and failings, He chose no differently in spite of me. And when Anna made a vow to her husband, for better or for worse, she chose to love him as Christ first loved her. And that kind of love is unending.

That kind of love stares sins of the past in the eyes and says, “This aches me, and it hurts me, but we will work through this. Because, in Christ, You and I both have been redeemed.”

That kind of love stares sexual temptation and infidelity down and declares, “These sins will NOT win our marriage and will not own our story!”

That kind of love recognizes that even the Holy Word of God gives permission for divorce in the wake of infidelity, but it ALSO gives permission for grace to soak the situation and for a marital vow to rise above Satan’s victory.

That kind of love BREATHES FIRE, because it is the kind of love that is hard, and messy, and God-desperate, and grace-hungry, and prevailing even when everything the world says isn’t worth pursuing.

Not every woman who breathes fire feels the need to do so like a raging dragon on a public stage.

We have no idea the dynamic in their home. We have no idea what they are working through, the strength she is clinging to, and the hard road she is traveling in faith that God’s promises of healing and redemption are true. Really true. The kind of true that crawls off the pages of Scripture and breathes into real life. The kind of true that brings God’s grace to life for a sinner like Josh Duggar–even if it takes years to process through and surrender and heal. The kind of true that brings God’s grace to life for a sinner like me–who is strengthened in knowing that a life-long covenant of marriage is possible, even through seasons of defeat.

Who are we to throw stones at the house of a family who raised a daughter who is showing more composure in the face of national humiliation than most of this world could do? Who are we, as women, to presume we know all about another based solely on what we’ve seen on TV or read on our screen? Who are we to presume ourselves SO MUCH STRONGER than who we choose to label as “weak”? As if there is no sin or brokenness or struggle in our own homes that we are successful at muting or hiding.

Rather than spouting harsh words full of assumptions about a woman we do not know, we would be wise to share a viral message that MATTERS for thousands to know. Never mistake kindness for weakness. There is the strength of a lion within the spirit of a lamb. Grace is selfless strength.

I look forward to the day that immediately standing up and stepping out of a marriage isn’t seen as the strongest thing to do, but rather, that we would rally around those who fall to their knees and seek strength from the King who they vowed their marriage to.

I look forward to the day that we all lower ourselves for the sake of forgiveness so that those who fall short can rise up in grace. Because I would hope on the day that I undoubtedly fall short, as well, those around me would do the same.

I look forward to the day that we BREATHE TRUE FIRE as women, by loving and encouraging and lifting up one another, rather than presuming another woman is weak because she does not choose to do what you would do.

And I look forward to the day that our marital mentality is not framed around a record of wrongs and a power-struggle that would provoke one or the other to COWER, as you state. But that we would begin to build marriages where mutual respect and forgiveness and grace flow from our covenental wake.

I am praying for Anna Duggar. I am praying for their marriage and I am praying for their families. I’m also proactively praying for my own marriage–that we would never have to wade through this type of pain and adversity. And I’m praying for the COUNTLESS women and men whose stomachs turn when they turn on the computer and see posts about these things, because they know the same anguish exists in their own stories.

I’m praying for our children, that they would grow to breathe fire, indeed. But that that HOLY FIRE would look radically different from a world that says “run when it’s not easy…”

*****

If you enjoyed this post and would like my blogs and videos to pop straight into your email inbox, I’d love for you to SUBSCRIBE HERE. You’re not the only one trying to navigate this crazy world in His name. Join the MOb to stay challenged, encouraged, and inspired!

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The Holy Threesome (part 4): Virginity, Purity & the Gray Area In-between

I can clearly remember the day.

I was sitting on the edge of a little red love seat in my parent’s bedroom. It’s where my mom and I had most of our best talks. I grew up in a conservative, well-monitored, Christian home, but at that point in my life, I had already been exposed to pornography. I had already had an older neighbor tell me everything they knew about sex and foreplay and masturbation and boys. And I had already figured out that certain things felt good on my body.

I was only 9 years old.

I don’t think my sweet mom knew all that I had already come across, but she wasn’t naive either. She was the world’s best mom for honest conversations and over-explanations and subtle interrogations to keep tabs on me. But that day when my questions started to creep towards one too many sexual topics, I remember her sitting me down and looking at me with an endearing anxiousness. (I’m sure if my 9-year-old were tossing around terms like I probably used, I would be a bit panicked, too.) But she found the simplest words she could and explained to me that sex was meant to be shared between a husband and a wife. That God desires for us to be virgins when we marry, meaning we have not had sex with anyone else. She shared with me that both she and my dad were virgins when they married and had only had sex with each other. And that in marriage when you have sex, you can become pregnant. And that is how my sister and I were born and how families are formed.

For a girl who idolized her parents and yearned to follow in their every move, I had heard all I needed to hear. I don’t think a moment passed before I stood up from the couch and boldly stated, “Then mommy, I promise to be a VIRGIN until I’m married, too!” And with a quick twist and a tightened upper lip, I triumphantly marched out of the room.

I didn’t give her time to explain much else. And I suppose to a mommy trying to keep things simple for a 9-year-old girl, that day was a small victory. But the issue that arose, over time, was that my mind became set solely on virginity. I had no real concept of purity and I grew to harbor so many unanswered and confused questions about the gray area in-between.

There was a sense of pride that came with the title of “virgin”, to me. It was different and it certainly rubbed against the grain of what society pushed and what people practiced. But it was something I could control–a distinctive factor that set me apart–and a title I gradually owned and proudly wore, as if it somehow amplified my righteousness for people to see.

I never understood why culture and media and the movies made virginity such a taboo thing. I never “got” why girls were trying to lose theirs by prom, or handing it over to their first boyfriend to prove to him they loved him enough. I wasn’t ever on board with the respect behind guys racking up their “number”, and the double-standard of girls being labeled and titled if they gave themselves away just as freely. Honestly, it just all seemed messy. And if I’m being transparent here, it all felt beneath me. As I proudly waved my flag of abstinence and arrogantly exalted my intact virginity, I unknowingly identified virginity as a thing and started to wade into gray area when suddenly the sexual temptation was directed towards me.

It started innocently enough. I was alone. And it was my body. And as far as I knew masterbation had no effect on my virginity. So I could still wade into the water here and not be violating my decree.

And soon enough it was nervous first kisses and making out if we could sneak away and find a private place. No effect on my virginity.

Then one day their hands found the courage to wander and new feelings overcame me and even though there were nerves within me that knew this was more than it should be, I rationalized that it still had no impact on my virginity.

And the hands got more aggressive, and more and more was expected of me. And I never once felt like I knew what I was doing, but why would I give less of myself than as far as I had already been? I felt like performance was expected of me. And, after all, I was still a virgin. I still had my virginity.

And eventually, the day that oral sex came into the equation, I was chin deep in the murky gray area and I just stopped keeping track of my comfort level or my apprehensions or my moral dignity. I knew it was all too much and I knew it was all too far. But “How far is too far?” kept running through my head and my convicted pride rationalized that I STILL had my virginity.

So I spent years giving pieces of myself away, sexually, all while flying my virgin banner high and halfheartedly rationalizing that I still held my virginity. And I would lay in my own emotional filth in a college bed filled with lust and regret and lost dignity and I would wonder why they would whisper and laugh to themselves when I told them we couldn’t go ALL the way because I was a virgin. Yet, like a fool, I would roll over and give pieces of myself away to make sure my newest friend knew I could still meet all of his other needs.

I was empty. And broken. And bankrupt of love. And owned by temptation and lust. My sexual appetite could no longer be satisfied by anything less than as far as I’d already gone by that point. And I despised myself and doubted my worth. But I stood up each new morning with a righteous chip on my shoulder–because I may have a list, and a past, and plenty to be ashamed of–but on my wedding day I could still say I was a VIRGIN.

Surely, that was enough.

Virginity.

It messed with me. And why should we ever expect that it won’t? Because solely holding onto the THING that is virginity robs us of the depth of our own soul’s intimacy and it’s deep desire for abiding worship and worth. God doesn’t solely call us to virginity. God calls us, in all ways, to PURITY and the power of its glory and purpose.

Purity.

Pure thoughts. Pure words. Pure actions. Pure choices.

Decisions that don’t seek first to please us, but that surrender wholly to the King. Thoughts taken captive and temptation captured and surrendered and our minds set on pure and holy things. Pure actions that are uplifting and edifying and good. Pure choices that don’t lead us wandering into gray area, but that keep us on a straight and narrow course towards His glory.

Purity.

I wish that hadn’t been a conversation that the church forgot. I think my parents assumed the church was pointing me towards the bigger concept of purity and the church assumed my parents were covering that ground. But the fact of the matter is that it wasn’t a conversation I broached with my family because I didn’t know it was one I should have. And the church stayed so tight-lipped, nervous as to what age they were supposed to begin to navigate a taboo concept that still made some of the elders blush, that once they did start talking about sex it was simply through the fearful approach of “Don’t do it.”, “You have to wait.”, “Take an abstinence pledge and wear a purity ring and steer clear of sex until you’ve married.”

And while I don’t fault the church or the family for promoting the message of avoidance, it did little to prepare me for when the avoidance technique caved and rule-following seemed mundane and gray-area seemed okay if what I was doing still felt permissible when I asked myself, “How much is too much?” When we exalt virginity as the goal and disassociate how purity plays any role, we lose ourselves in the gray area in-between.

So I suppose I write this post to share more of my own personal failings than to instruct or to preach. Because at 19 years old, and with a list of shame a mile long and a vain title of virgin striving to cover it all, I met a King who said I was redeemed. And through Christ, God began to teach me that He never solely desired my virginity. He desired, above all else, my purity in all things. In my thought life, my words, my actions and my choices.

I wonder how many of us out there are pridefully flying the flag of virginity, assuming that alone is what grows our righteousness and esteem.

I wonder how many are just like me, touting virginity by title but compromising ever step in-between.

I wonder how many recognize their purity was lost long before their virginity and feel like they could never be redeemed.

Or how many for the first time are even recognizing that there’s a difference between what they thought was good enough and how God actually desires we be.

I think it’s due time we place virginity in it’s rightful seat, because it is a beautiful and valuable thing. But we must understand, above all else, that God yearns for a far wider-reaching purpose through our bodies–that we would surrender fully to purity. That we would steer clear of the gray area in order to guard our hearts. That our question would shift from “How far is too far?” and instead become, “Oh God, how close can I draw near?”

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew Your Spirit within me…” -Psalms 51:10

CONTINUE READING // Part 5: You Are What You See

*****

If you enjoyed this post and would like my blogs and videos to pop straight into your email inbox, I’d love for you to SUBSCRIBE HERE. You’re not the only one trying to navigate this crazy world in His name. Join the MOb to stay challenged, encouraged, and inspired!

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The Holy Threesome (part 3): Choosing To Choose For Ourselves

We were created to worship.

Created in the image of God. And in that perfect image, created with everything of God–everything wonderful and spiritual and eternal–stamped into our DNA.

We are not just HERE, we are HIS.

And God, Himself, designed us with the desire to worship coursing through our hearts. A predisposition to our design. Inherent, and ingrained and eternal. And there was and is nothing flawed in God’s creation.

Our struggles, then, don’t originate from our ingrained desire to worship, they originate from what we choose to worship in our lives. Because it’s no mystery that we are ALL worshiping something. Someone. Some dream. We were made to exalt, but somewhere along the line we became willing to exalt anything.

So I think it’s important we first understand where our broken exaltation began. Because man never intended to be bad. We, as a culture (and often as a church), have somehow bought into the hard and fast belief that sin is as simple as bad vs. good, wrong vs. right, hate vs. love. When, in actuality, sin never entered into the world because man intentionally chose to be bad. As God’s perfect and crafted creations, we didn’t revolt with the desire to be BAD people, we revolted with the desire to be our OWN people. And all that could come from that was the bad and the broken we wrestle with now. We revolted as His people to become our own people, and through the course of humankind we’ve rarely looked back since.

The original sin in the Garden of Eden didn’t look like Eve consciously deciding she was going to be bad and sin rather than obey the instruction of God. The original sin looked like Eve curiously choosing to choose for herself, in light of the instruction of God. Identically, in our lives, our sin doesn’t always look like an intentional decision to choose to be bad, it almost always looks like a subconscious choice to choose for ourselves what is best for us, what we desire, and what we think we need.

We were made to worship. But because we are fallen, because we rebelled, we quickly chose to worship ourselves. This is where our sexual sin begins. Not in choosing to be bad, but choosing to be our own, despite recognizing we were created as His.

Sex quickly became one of the first things we chose to choose for ourselves. Created as an act of worship towards God, we wasted no time in making it its own God and worshipping at the throne of our wants. With regard to masterbation, to promiscuity, to pornography, to lust. We’ve chosen to choose for ourselves. And these are all things we want.

Don’t get me wrong, our society will work it’s hardest to convince us there’s nothing wrong with this. We have a living, breathing Word of God spelling out exactly what is best for us–exactly what will guard our hearts, what we can place our faith in and rely on, what will lead us in the way we should go. But we have a culture coaxing us to close that book, to muffle that Truth, and to instead worship our own bodies and minds whenever, however, and with whoever we choose.

We have the Word telling us: Be careful! “The human heart is the most deceitful of all things, and desperately sick. Who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9)

And we have the world telling us: No no, the heart wants what it wants. Follow your heart, trust your feelings, put all your stock in your own emotions.

We have the Word telling us: “No temptation has overtaken you that is uncommon to man. God is faithful, and He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with temptation He will also provide a way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.” (1 Corinthians 10:13)

And we have the world telling us: The temptation and the tease is a part of the pleasure. You can’t help what you’re attracted to and you can’t help giving in to the physical desires. It’s sexual attraction. Clearly your body wants it, so why not give in to it? It’s your life.

We have the Word telling us what will lead us in the way we should go: “For this is the will of God, your sanctification: that you abstain from sexual immorality; that each one of you know how to control his own body in holiness and honor, not in the passion of lust like those who do not know God…” (1 Thessalonians 4:3-5)

And we have the world telling us: Sexual immorality is subjective to opinion. You’re going to abstain? To remain a virgin? What are you going to wait until you’re married and never try anything sexually first? Good luck keeping a boyfriend or girlfriend if you’re not going to be physical with them along the way.

For every unchanging word of truth, we have an opinion of the world. For every call to worship God first, we have a temptation to not forget about ourselves. For every secure and loving command from God, we have an insecure world, frantic and failing, proclaiming CHOOSE FOR YOURSELF! You are your own.

And so we sit in our sin. And we desperately worship the wreckage–trying to force it to feel like enough.

God’s own people. Who somewhere along the line chose, instead, to become our own people. The world’s people.

And the sexual desires placed within us became the sexual fixation of our rebellious hearts.

Because we chose to choose for ourselves.

So what are we worshiping? Sex is a beautiful and powerful gift, in the proper context of its intent. But I wonder, today, how many of us have never known it was meant in that way? I wonder how many of us have chosen to choose for ourselves, and have recklessly given pieces of ourselves away?

I know that was my story. Never with the intent to be bad. Never with the intent to rebel. But simply with the intent to keep up with the world and what it coaxed out of me. With the intent to explore my body and allow it to be explored by others in hopes of someone praising my beauty. With the intent to pacify the urges of pleasure and lust and desire inside of me.

Not overtly, at first. Not to any great extreme. But my curiosity called me to choose for myself, and that welcomed me down a path of sexual wandering…

CONTINUE READING // Part 4: Virginity, Purity & the Gray Area In-between

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