When I jog, part of my response to a difficult past is to be hypervigilant when I run alone, always mapping escape routes and making sure no one is following me. I hate to even type that, as it’s embarrassing to be internally panicked. But it’s the truth.

So when I pass another male runner or walker or construction or road worker, I make it a point to look them in the eyes and say hello. I’m sure none of them want to attack me, but it’s my way of helping them see my humanity, a little preventative measure to promote safety.

Recently I sent a picture to someone. It was of a defect I have on one of my fingers, asking for advice. In a way, I was hoping that my request would help them see my humanity, my vulnerability. In this instance, sadly, it did not work. And therein lies a pain I think many of us experience.

What happens when someone won’t see your humanity? When you try to show them your weakness, and they either ignore you or continue down a path of attack?

Patrick and I are watching a difficult series on Britbox Premiere right now entitled Rise of the Nazis. I’ve known a bit about the history of pre World War Two Germany, but this dives much, much deeper. I wondered had anyone stood up? Did anyone sound the alarm?

Enter Hans Litten, a lawyer who opposed Hitler’s policies before he came to power, even putting him on the witness stand. He paid dearly for it, with his life. And Joseph Hartinger, another lawyer who later investigated several Dachau murders (before other atrocities were discovered). Though his investigative work was ignored, later those papers became instrumental in parts of the Nuremburg trials. He immediately understood that, in that camp, the commandant and officers were actively dehumanizing the prisoners.

That’s how a society turns. When we begin dehumanizing each other.

When we believe that we are somehow better than that person, or when other groups of people no longer deserve to be treated humanely.

We see this in play today, where entire countries are vilified, or groups are solely blamed for a country’s problems.

Here’s where theology is important. Every human being is weighted with glory. We carry around in us the imago dei, the image of God. Therefore, to arbitrarily villainize another is to deny their belovedness.

We all know what it’s like to be devalued. That broken feeling should inform the way we choose to treat others. It should become a cautionary tale to us. If it hurt us so much, then why would we want another person to feel the same way?

So while we strive to be kindhearted to a world used to judgment and brutality, we also strive to help others see us as human too—like I did while I run, or sent a picture to someone.

Will others see us kindly? Not always. And when that happens to me, I run to the One who created me, remembering that I bear the weight of his beautiful glory, that he deeply understands what it’s like to be misunderstood and even maligned. He knows what it means to be betrayed or harmed. He knows exactly what it’s like to be dehumanized, naked, on a cross.

The simple lesson is this: don’t dehumanize. And if/when someone dehumanizes you, try to help them see your humanity. If they refuse, seek refuge in the One who understands.

This throne we approach is a throne of grace, not condemnation. If you’re particularly hurt by a condescending person, you can run to the One who understands and offers affectionate grace. You have complete access to God, and you have the power to pray at any moment, even quietly under your breath during an argument. Here are some of the prayers I’ve prayed when I’ve experienced betrayal:

Jesus, help me listen better and not react with a mean spirit. Keep me from retaliating in kind.

Jesus, I need to know You see me in the midst of this conflict. Am I going crazy?

Jesus, I choose to forgive again. Empower me.

Jesus, show me whether I should pull away or pursue reconciliation right now.

Jesus, I’m hurting. Can you bring new bits of healing to my heart?

Jesus, I don’t know what to say. Give the words I can say that will bring the most understanding.

Jesus, I’m confused. Bring clarity.

Jesus, help me to see the long view of this.

Jesus, help me to hold my tongue.

Jesus, help me to hear what is being said behind my friend’s emotion.

Praying puts the burden onto God’s capable shoulders. Your heart and mind aren’t meant to carry all that heartache around. I worry that many folks reading this are carrying something God never intended them to carry. Let go. Place your broken relationship in the hands of Jesus. This you CAN control.

…

Mind if I pray for you?

Jesus, I pray for my friend reading this that You would bring peace in a broken relationship today--and if not from both sides, at least from their side.

Help them to forgive for their sake, to be set free from bitterness.

Give them a listening heart and a willingness to own their own actions.

Give them an appropriate apology muscle--not to over-apologize but to rightly acknowledge their own sin, if there is sin.

Would You help them to find joy today, in this moment, reading this prayer, even when a relationship threatens to usurp that joy?

Give them a holy gumption to do the work You have for them, even if heartache stings the background and foreground of their life.

I pray that You would show them how to be a person of the fruits.

May love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, faithfulness and self control be the oxygen of their relationships.

We choose right now to give You our grief associated with a broken relationship. We cannot carry the pain any more. We cannot keep living joylessly because the action or inaction of others.

Take the burden, please. Heal our hearts. Heal our hurts. Restore and restory our relationships today, Jesus. We need You.

Amen.

I’m not sure why I do this.

It must be that I have a wrong belief that to be worthy and loved, I must prove my perfection. Have you ever felt that way? It’s goofy and wrong and impossible, but still I fall back to that. I must perform. Must do better. Must have perfect habits. Must check off all the lists–even spiritual ones.

So during one of those “happy” periods of introspection of late, the thought came: Jesus loved me when I was sixteen years old–a mess of a girl, wholly confused, longing for acceptance, pining for a boyfriend, trying to get all As. And yet? He loved me then.

Jesus loved me when I was in college when my heart fell under the weight of my own story. When I cried-cried-cried so many times, asking questions no one could answer, praying prayers that bordered more on desperate than holy.

Jesus loved me when I lost my first baby to an ectopic pregnancy, when I shook an angry fist heavenward, declaring Him unloving.

Jesus loved me when my first daughter reached the milestone year of five years old, the year of my own sexual exploitation, when all those carefully stuffed down memories came raging back to the surface and I could barely breathe. I felt like I was swimming through darkness, and would the light ever come?

Jesus loved me as we moved across the country to a town I pronounced wrong, where all that was familiar to me had flown away. I mothered my children there, in loneliness. I wrote unpublished words in a sort of exiled obscurity. As our marriage rollicked and bent, Jesus loved me then.

Jesus loved me as we moved to Dallas so Patrick could enter seminary, be trained for ministry, when I had aspirations of writing full time, but very little time to do so. Money was tight, and I worried far too much (I’m ashamed to say), but still He loved me then, frailty and all.

Jesus loved me when we picked up and moved to France, all bright eyed and naive. He loved me as I dismantled, and my personality melted into the Mediterranean. He loved me as I questioned him, sunk into depression, and wasn’t the attentive in-the-moment mom I should’ve been. He loved me as I led worship in France, in another tongue, with unskilled guitar hands. He loved me as round after round after round of spiritual warfare pummeled me and my family. He loved me when we flew home for good, and I felt the weight of failure.

Jesus loved me through my first book contract–again I was wide eyed and naive and the world looked rosy with promise. And He continues to love me as I persevere and write more books. When I’ve battled jealousy and envy (oh I hate that I have, Jesus forgive me), He lovingly exposed me, and taught me more than I can write about in this space by sending trials my way. He taught me that success is an illusion, that the kingdom matters far more than my rank, and that gurus and techniques were not things for me to pursue. I fell flat on my face so many times in this journey, and yet, Jesus has loved me.

He loved me when I was naive and broken and young. And He loves me now as I face that cynicism that comes with life and age.

So I’m suddenly aware that His love has nothing to do with my perfection. In fact, I seemed to have understood it far more when my perfection fell into dust. All the trials. All the brokenness. All the painful relational strife. All the losses. In all those places of grief, He has loved me. And He has taught me resilience and grit and joy.

I’m fighting to change the way I view me. I’m choosing to believe that Jesus’ love for me has nothing to do with my perfection and everything to do with His sacrifice. His death on the cross nailed my worth. It secured my fortune. It empowered this broken girl. It’s constant. It’s true. It’s rock-like. It’s real. It cannot be shaken.

I will be shaken.

I will fall.

I will bend under the weight of my expectations and the expectations of others.

But Jesus? He is not bound by my insecurity. He is bound by love.

And He loved me when . . .

For so many years, I wore the word victim as a badge, an identity. After so much complex trauma, it made a lot of sense. I had been victimized. And to be honest, when I was younger living in that state, it felt good to tell a story villainizing those who harmed me and living firmly in the narrative as the victim. It got me the attention I so desperately longed for. Being a victim felt comfortable for me. There were good guys, bad guys, and a clean, neat storyline. I knew where I fit.

But eventually I realized something frustrating. The longer I lived with the victim badge, the longer I stayed bitter and stuck. And angry. So, so angry. I remember a counseling session over twenty years ago where my counselor stopped me and said, “Your heart is bitter.”

I didn’t want to hear it. Her words made me irate, to be honest. Didn’t I have every right in the world to be angry? Wasn’t I right to villainize those who had harmed me? Where was the justice if I let go of my anger? Wouldn’t that mean the perpetrators got away with their crimes?

Initially I pushed back. “No,” I said, “I am not bitter,” I spat.

But her words had a ring of truth to them.

I viewed the entire world through the lens of my bitterness, and it was preventing me from moving forward.

I shudder to think how long I stayed in that state (and I truly need to offer myself grace as I look back on me at that time).

Eventually, as I recognized the state of my heart, I began to heal from needing to call myself victim.

Problem was, I leapt from victim to hero probably too fast.

Because, by golly, if it wasn’t good for me to be the victim, then what better thing to pursue than to be heroic? Maybe helping others would dull the pain that screamed inside.

I’m not saying it’s wrong to be heroic, just that the pursuit of it may backfire. We are not black and white like that—only heroes, only victims, only villains. And people who are villainous aren’t 100% that way. We are all a mixture of it all, in desperate need of healing.

I am still tempted to run back to, “Look at me; look how I was a victim.” I still jump headlong into trying to be heroic without first thinking through what that might mean for me (sometimes burnout, sometimes pain). I also look back on my life with deep regrets when I played the villain in another’s story. And I desperately want to rewind and change history.

Truth is, I am all three. Hero. Victim. Villain. And the only way I can not let any of those roles permeate my identity, embittering me to my core, is to simply be honest about it, asking Jesus to please help me heal.

Jesus, I have been victimized. Help me to heal from that pain, but please don’t let me linger in the land of bitterness.

Jesus, I have jumped headlong far too much trying to rescue others in my own strength. Help me to step back and seek you before I do that. Please don’t let my identity rest on being heroic. (You are the hero).

Jesus, I have been a villain. I don’t know how to process my regrets without internally tormenting myself, plunging myself toward the earth, and wallowing in my sins and mistakes and regrets. Please carry my past, too.

I am grateful my counselor helped me face my own bitterness. I realized I didn’t like myself in that state. And staying bitter meant I wouldn't grow beyond the past pain. It took me years of hard work, coupled with God’s kindhearted healing, to move from bitter victim toward a person who saw the world as it was: nuanced.

Here’s a little snapshot of life, lately to bring you up to speed.

I’ve been battling a pretty debilitating neck, shoulder issue for three months now. I’ve jumped through all the hoops (medicine, PT, massage, prayer, needles, doctor visits, diagnostic tools) but there seems to be no reason and no alleviation. Prayers appreciated that I’ll be better at managing my pain, especially as I fly overseas this week to teach for two weeks in August. My hunch is that this injury began with stress (severe muscle spasms) that has been unrelenting for the past quarter. I’m weary.

I’m walking through a season of dismantling, not of my faith, but of what I thought was true about myself, particularly in a relationship. It’s complicated and feels a lot like spiritual warfare. I have asked for prayer a lot in this season, and my dear friends have been amazing and consistent to check in on me. Suffice to say this battle has made me ask questions like, “Should I continue in ministry?” and “How can I possibly make it through this season with joy? Or is that even possible, given the situation?”

Sorry to be a bit vague, but the situation calls for it.

I have felt distant from Jesus, not because he is far, but because I’m overwhelmed and feeling numbed. Have you ever been there? I think when we encounter a piling on of pain and spiritual attack, we tend to retreat inside ourselves, trying desperately to find quiet. I am happy to report that I finally cried last week, something necessary. I had been a good little soldier up to that point, but the release felt helpful.

I have handed in a big, long book, and I’m grateful to say my editor likes it. So much relief there. I’m currently writing a novel set in Washington state and Normandy, France. When I’m in Normandy, I’ll be able to do on site research. I’m looking forward to that.

Our home’s downstairs has undergone a fairly economical but lovely re-do. We have new French herringbone floors, new wall color, and tall baseboards. It has helped my mood tremendously, particularly in this season of cocooning.

I am deeply grateful for my church and the friends we’ve made there. It has truly shored me up during this part of my journey. Although I am hurting, I simultaneously feel giddy elation over my dear, dear friends.