Courtney LaShea

It was an important Valentine’s Day, the first one after my first big heartbreak. I was afraid it would hurt like crazy, so a friend and I organized a dinner for our single friends. We hung out and we laughed and we said a big ol’ NO THANKS to the holiday. And I was genuinely okay. Happy, even.

After dinner, we went to Wal-Mart and this cute little teddy bear caught my eye. “I think I’ll buy it,” I said out loud, feeling like volume would make my words more certain. For the first time in months, my smile didn’t ache. Maybe . . . maybe my happiness could be in my hands. It was just a teddy bear, just a token, but I liked it. And as far as I could tell, no Prince Charming was going to sweep in and hand it to me. If I wanted it, I needed to get it.

My friend heard me and looked over at me. She cocked her head to the side, her tone dipped in pity. “Oh, Courtney. You’re breaking my heart. Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just so sad, sweetie. You don’t buy your own Valentine’s Day stuff.”

I didn’t buy the teddy bear, but I bought the lie.

I’m not worth the investment until I’m loved.

***

I’m a tough cookie when it comes to being single. 89% of the time, I am genuinely okay with it. You won’t find me clamoring for attention, posting half-nakey selfies or throwing myself haphazardly into inboxes (I think the kids call it “sliding into the DMs”, which sounds gross to me). I am whole all by myself and I fought tooth and nail to get here.

But there are times when my heart is tender, when the remarks and jokes that don’t usually bother me reach a soft spot and sting like the dickens. There are times when a well-placed jab hits the right target and I spend the night staring at my ceiling, wondering if I’m doing all of this wrong.

You may not understand that. I hope you don’t. But I know there are some of you who do–who wince at the jokes before you laugh along, who pull yourselves together in the bathroom at the wedding receptions, who have learned to just smile and shrug when people grab your left hand and inspect your ring finger with obvious disappointment. (That happens to you, too, right?)

There are some of you who have your own memories of pity-soaked lies to contend with.

***

I wish you and I were sitting together on a front porch, facing each other in swings that swayed lazily in a nice summer breeze. I wish I could look you in the eye and smile gently as I told you this very crucial truth:

you’re worth the investment.

Somewhere in the beautiful and hard growth of the last few years, I’ve discovered that I am too old and too tired to deny myself any (good and moral) thing simply because I’m waiting for someone to love me first.

Life is happening right now. And I can waste it away, waiting on someone who may never show up, or I can glorify God in the wait and believe I’m worth the investment simply because I am His first and foremost.

I can hold the lonely and the lovely in the same hand. I’m able to acknowledge that being single at this age isn’t what I planned, but it’s not unkindness from God.

So buy the teddy bear or the flowers or the dinner. Whatever that thing is that you’ve told yourself you don’t deserve until someone else gives it to you, until someone else loves you. If you need a hype girl to tell you that you’re worth it, I’ve got you covered, boo.

You are single, but you are not unloved. There has not been a moment of your existence when your Heavenly Father looked at you and thought you weren’t worth His investment–the lifeblood of His own Son to guarantee an eternity spent in a love you could never earn. In a love you could never lose.

Most of the time, the words aren’t there.

I reach and reach, but they seem beyond my grasp. And when I can grab them, I struggle to shape them into anything coherent. Don’t get me wrong; there are beautiful moments when the words just pour from my fingertips, either through ink or across screen, and it feels like an extension of my heart.

But those moments are rare. For the most part, writing is work. It’s wrestling each word down, fighting for each sentence. It’s ignoring the liar in my head who says I’ve already written the last best thing I’ll ever write. It’s feeling like I’m just on the brink of what I’m really trying to say, but I somehow keep missing the mark. It’s typing and erasing, writing and scribbling out, ripping and crumpling paper.

If it’s really that hard, why do I keep doing it? Why do I keep giving this gift the opportunity to wreck my expectations and steal my time?

The short, uncomplicated answer is this: I’m inclined to believe that my words matter, that they make an impact, that they change things.

I think there are a lot of similarities between writing and praying.

Sometimes the prayers just pour from me, like an extension of my heart. I know exactly what to say to God and it feels like such utter kindness that we can be as close as we are.

But most of the time? Most of the time, praying is work. And I’m not talking about the quick, constant chatter throughout the day. I’m talking about the investment of time in intentional prayer.

It’s wrestling each word down, fighting for each sentence. It’s ignoring the liar in my head who says I’ve seen the last answered prayer I’ll ever see. It’s feeling like I’m just on the brink of what I’m truly praying for, but I somehow keep missing the mark. It’s begging Him to tell me what the right words are, and Him gently (and sometimes not so gently) reminding me that it’s not about the right words. It’s about a right heart.

And I ask myself if it’s really this hard, why do I keep doing it? Why do I keep giving this discipline the opportunity to wreck my expectations and steal my time?

The short, uncomplicated answer is this: I’m inclined to believe that my prayers matter, that they make an impact, that they change things.

So I’ll keep showing up–to the words, to the prayers–and I’ll believe they’ll work together to tell my greatest story in the end.

My love of strawberry jam began in Lucille’s kitchen.

I wish I could share with you the intricacies of our friendship, how God had the kindness to mold a mentor out of my Sunday School teacher. There was a season in my life where I would sit at her kitchen table every Sunday morning, drinking in her wisdom with my hot chocolate.

And without fail, my breakfast included toast with the most delicious strawberry jam I’d ever tasted. I bragged about it so much that my family wanted to try it, so I asked Lucille where she bought her jar of sugary goodness.

I remember her pointing over her shoulder, to the yard beyond her kitchen window. She told me she grew her own strawberries and when the time was right, her family came over and made strawberry jam with her. She smiled warmly, the kind of smile that creases your face when the memories are sweet.

As a young teen with an old soul, I was fascinated by the idea that Lucille’s homemade strawberry jam was precious. It was likely a family recipe, which meant it was off limits to the nerdy girl trying to catch a ride to Sunday School after pathetic attempts at learning the piano.

I knew I wasn’t special enough to have the recipe for the good stuff . . .

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I cried on the way home from Wal-Mart today.

Not only did I cry, but I spoke to God in a very real way.

Here’s the thing: last Easter, God let me know I’d put Him on a shelf. For years, He and I were in one rough spot after another. It felt like a struggle was always going on–saying goodbye, standing still, listening to silence, having breakdowns every time the wind blew.

It was a hot mess and I was a hot mess. But we survived. Miraculously, God didn’t quit me. He changed my heart and gave me perspective and we aren’t in a perfect place at all, but we’re finally in a place where I don’t doubt we’ll make it.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been there with God. Honestly, it’s been the most exhausting, rewarding, frustrating, heartwarming relationship of my life. I feel like we have fought like crazy to get to where we are today.

And I honestly love Him so much more for it.

Which is why I put Him on a shelf, high above everything and out of reach. So our relationship would stay shiny and lovely and good. It wouldn’t fall and shatter. I wouldn’t have to piece my faith back together if I could keep it from ever being broken.

So regardless of how I’ve felt in the last year or so, I’ve always been sure to bookend my complaints and whines with, “I’m not mad at You, God.” Like we couldn’t handle it if I was, indeed, upset. Like we were so fragile, we couldn’t deal with my big emotions.

I denied myself the ability to be real with God. And in turn, I denied Him the ability to meet me where I truly was.

Until today, in my car, with nothing but my sniffling and sharp intakes of breath as a soundtrack. No words. No prayer. Just an overwhelmed heart pouring out in tears. And finally, I simply said, “I think I’m mad at You.”

It’s the most peace I’ve had in weeks. And ironically, just a few short hours later, God feels close. I think it’s because I’m no longer hiding from Him, holding Him at a safe distance so we can survive. I was real with Him. He can work with that.

A shiny faith is nice, but it isn’t enough. Not when I’m living this real life with a real heart that needs a real God to come through.

I put my real God on a shelf like a trophy and I refused to reach for Him. I wanted only to admire Him.

But faith isn’t meant to be admired. It’s meant to be lived–in all of its messy and scary glory.

So I cried on the way home from Wal-Mart today, but I’m crying now because I am well-loved despite my humanity, despite this terror at not understanding His plans.

I can be real with Him. So can you, friend. Will you please take Him off the shelf?

On my 24th birthday, I sat at our family’s computer desk and cried. Not sobbing; it was far less dramatic than all that. Instead, the tears slipped quietly down my cheeks as I stared at the wall above the desk and quietly relieved my heart of the words I didn’t want to share.

“I’m afraid I’m always going to be alone.”

* * *

I’d tried my hardest to make it work with a guy who looked perfect on paper. I fasted and prayed, wanting a burning bush moment to tell me what was wrong. Why my heart wasn’t in it. When I finally quit fighting what my gut knew was true, I slipped to my little sister’s bed and cried on her shoulder.

I was afraid I was always going to be alone.

* * *

I went to a wedding and enjoyed every single moment of it, genuinely feeling joy for the couple as they embarked on a life together. But a moment of sadness snuck up during the reception and I leaned my head on my mother’s shoulder while my eyes watered.

What if I was always going to be alone?

* * *

I came home from that wedding, sat on my front porch, and wrote in my prayer journal. I cried and scribbled across the page, writing by the dim glow of a security light. The words weren’t pretty, but they were real. “I’m lonely, God. And it hurts. It aches. There’s a longing here that I can usually quiet, but not today.

But I’m giving it to You. Whatever that looks like. Whatever that means. I love You.”

* * *

It’s been a long road to get here, to this place where I allow myself to grieve the life I thought I’d have while also acknowledging that the life I have is so good. It doesn’t look the way I planned. It doesn’t feel the way I imagined. It doesn’t include a dude I’m absolutely crazy about who is absolutely crazy about me.

And yeah, there are some days where that’s hard and it hurts. And my Real Life People™ usually get to hear about those days. But that’s the reality of unmet desires and unanswered prayers, even when you trust the sovereignty of God. It’s messy, emotional business. I think we can be honest about that.

I’m finding that I have the capacity to hold lovely and lonely in the same hands.

I can trust God with the result even if the process hurts a little. (And in case you’re wondering, so can you.)

I can hope without being crushed by it. And God can strengthen my heart when it grows weary from the weight of longing, from the wait itself.

I still have brief moments of fear that I’m always going to be alone, that this foolish heart that loves until it’s all spent will never have anyone to call home. That I’m doing this all wrong and I’m not alone because I’m supposed to be, but because there’s something broken in me and I can’t quite get my act together.

But with God’s grace, I’m fearing less and trusting more.

A month after that wedding, in the midst of this incredible work God’s been doing in my heart, I wrote in my prayer journal again.

“Is it possible that You could use me here? Even now? That this life, as insignificant and small and so far from what I imagined it to be, could be exactly what You have called me into?

I look back on the things I’ve missed and I think You are wiser than me.“

Amen and amen.

It’s my new prayer, the soft addition before my “amen”. I bring Him my desires. I bring Him this heart that seems to beat for things always out of its reach. And then I ask Him not to give me something simply because I want it.

“Don’t give me kings, Lord.”

*****

Last January, I was working through Lysa Terkeurst’s Trustworthy Bible Study. I learned so much from it, but one of the lasting lessons was how the people asked for a king to rule them.

Like God wasn’t good enough.

You can read the encounter in 1 Samuel 8. You’ll see how the people no longer want to be ruled by God; they want to be like the other nations. They want a human being sitting on a throne, ruling in a tangible way that they can see. In a way they can understand.

In short, they’ve had it with this “being special” business. They want to be like everyone else.

And so the mess begins.

They have the most impressive King, the only One who isn’t restrained by human frailty or the limitations that come with wearing this skin of flesh, and somehow it isn’t enough. They want more.

*****

I don’t know about you, but I catch myself in that same place sometimes. I can’t help but feel so convicted over the things I’ve demanded from Heaven because I wanted them, because I wanted to be like others.

How many times have I broken God’s heart, forsaking Him and essentially telling Him I want someone or something other than Him to rule my life?

I’ve spent so much time being upset and scared that God wouldn’t give me what I wanted when I should have been terrified of getting what I asked for to the detriment of my relationship with Him.

God help me. God help us. May our desires never rise above our love for the Father. May we not forsake or neglect Him in heart or choice.

May He be the reigning King in our lives, now and forevermore.

And may all other desires bow in submission to Him.

At the end of last year, I felt like God wanted me to read my Bible. As a disclaimer, I do read my Bible, but I’d never read it completely through. Some of those Old Testament books are incredibly hard to get through and I would always skip over them to get to the “story” books, like Esther or Exodus or Jeremiah.

I wanted to read through the Bible chronologically in a year. So I found a reading plan and hoped I could stick it out.

It hasn’t been easy. I’ve wanted to quit several times. In fact, it’s a miracle that I haven’t.

But we’re just a few days away from the end of this dumpster fire of a year . . . and I’m just a few days away from reading the final words of the Bible.

I’m not bragging about this. There’s nothing to brag about. There were days I was so far behind in my reading, I wondered if I’d ever catch up. If it was even worth trying. But I’m glad I stuck it out. Even more so, I’m glad that God showed me what can happen when you give Him an effort.

I’ve been in church most of my life and I’ve been in ministry for most of that time. But I didn’t realize how little I knew of God until I read His Word.

It became so clear that we could spend our whole lives about the Father’s business and have very little knowledge of the Father we’re trying to love and serve. And how heartbreaking is that? To be on the outskirts of such love and kindness and faithfulness and power and glory and not even take the time to know it for ourselves?

When He’s all we’ve known, or all we think we’ve known, we can take Him for granted. When we know all the Sunday School answers, covered all our basics, we can stop there and feel like it’s enough.

But good heavens, the truth in all of its glory is nuanced and rich and upsetting and surprising and awe-inspiring. Our God is not two-dimensional. He is not easily molded to our ideals and standards. He’s the beginning and the end, existing long before us and remaining into eternity.

He is not small enough to be manipulated by our imaginations. God is. That’s it. That’s the sentence. He is. In all of His glory. And though we’ll never scratch the surface of that glory, we come infinitely closer when we read His Word and come to know Him in a more real way than ever before.

It feels like a big thing to say, but reading the Bible changed my life. It changed my faith. And it very well may have saved my faith in this crazy year from Jumanji.

As we head into this next year and people begin thinking about resolutions, about the things they want to change or do more or less of in the upcoming span of time, I’m asking you to commit to reading your Bible. I’m begging you to get to know God better.

He is everything. Don’t miss it.

“But Naaman was wroth, and went away, and said, Behold, I thought, He will surely come out to me, and stand, and call on the name of the Lord his God, and strike his hand over the place, and recover the leper. Are not Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? may I not wash in them, and be clean? So he turned and went away in a rage.” (2 Kings 5:11-12, KJV)

When I read this, I shook my head and laughed. Naaman is ridiculous. A man of God–the prophet Elisha–has just given him clear direction. All he has to do is follow it.

Obey and get the healing, the restoration.

But Naaman throws a fit because this isn’t the way it was supposed to happen. Elisha just wants him to waltz over to the river Jordan and wash seven times? That’s it? Where’s the glitz and glamour of an almighty God in that?

His healing doesn’t look the way he thought it would, the way he thought it should. And so he does what any grown man would do after they’ve just been given the key to completely healing their lesion-ridden body: he storms off.

And it’s all fun and games until I realize that Naaman and I have a lot in common.

I’m not a leper, but I’m plagued with all kinds of heart sickness–the result of sin and my own clumsy humanity. And just like Naaman, I bring my expectations and feel completely disoriented when God takes a detour from my imagination.

Too often, I feel like I’m laying across an operating table with the assumption that God will simply scan my heart with His all-knowingness and fix it. Fix me. I want it complete and whole and as painless as possible, but I want it big.

I believe the lie that bigger really is better, that simplicity is boring and slow and nothing to write home about. And don’t I deserve something to write home about?

Pride is ugly. Naaman and I have it in spades, tucked into our plagued hearts. We want God to show up with fireworks and megaphones. Instead, He’s starlight and whispers–lasting and intimate and powerful still.

Naaman eventually got over himself and obeyed. And miracle of miracles, God healed him. No parades. No media. Just a man and God, doing the simple and beautiful and incredibly tough work of healing what is broken and learning to trust the Healer.

May the same be said of me. May the cracks of my soul and the wounds of my spirit be made whole in the hands of my Redeemer. And may I have the faith to trust Him when the healing doesn’t look the way I want it to.

I shifted in the seat, easing the ache of my lower back. We were already a few hours into the trip–my car trailing behind the truck my dad was driving–and I was beginning to feel the effects of the journey. Music blared from the radio and my sisters and I sang along, lyrics twisting with laughter as the miles passed.

And then the rain hit.

Our gorgeous day was momentarily wiped out with sheets of angry rain. Everything went gray. Cars were pulling off the side of the road with blinking flashers because seeing two feet in front of your car felt impossible.

To be clear, I’m never particularly calm in this circumstance. When I’m operating tons of moving metal, I like being able to see. It’s important to me. But I was especially frantic in this moment because I didn’t know where I was. I had no idea where I was going. I was following my dad and I couldn’t see him.

My sister called him on the phone and he calmly talked me through the chaos until the weather passed, giving me direction and reassuring me that this was a mess but it would be fine.

He was right.

*****

That moment happened weeks ago, but I can’t stop thinking about it. If my father was unkind, he could have left me. He could have been frustrated with me for not staying closer. He could have easily made me feel like it wasn’t worth worrying about, that I was silly for even letting it affect me.

But I have a good father. A kind father. A father that doesn’t let distance or storms change the way he speaks to me, the way he cares for me.

On the rest of the drive, I teared up several times thinking about the moments I’ve let distance or storms come between me and God. I thought about how easy it was to reach for my earthly father when I was scared, how much concern I felt when I could no longer see him.

I thought about how God is even closer than a phone call away, but my instinct is to find my own way before calling for His help. And if I can no longer see Him or catch His guiding hand, it takes a hot second to notice because I’m often caught up in my own path.

But I have a good Father. A kind Father. A Father that doesn’t let distance or storms change the way He speaks to me, the way He cares for me.

And I want to follow Him.

I want to listen to His calm voice talking me through the chaos, giving me direction and reassuring me that this world–this life–is a mess but I will be fine.

And because He is a Father worth following, He will be right.

I am a mess who is too hard on herself. So the struggle to believe I am loved and worth something to God and others has been an uphill battle for a decade or more.

It feels like I’ve pieced together this confidence, in God and in myself, like a tattered blanket; I’ve fought for each stitch and the wear shows, with frayed edges decorating the borders.

Occasionally, a word or a moment snags one of those frayed edges and I have a brief cosmetic unraveling. No real harm done, but some work is slightly undone and I find myself going to God and asking Him to stitch me up again.

The other night was one of those moments. A friendly comment–it meant nothing–and yet it latched onto the ache of unmet desires. Before I knew it, I was wiping tears away.

The enemy of my soul said all kinds of things that weren’t kind towards me or true of God and I felt the pull to believe him. But I’ve learned the importance of the agreements I make, so I put the phone away and I sat with God. I gathered tattered threads of faith and said, “I trust You.”

And I do.

But I think I can still mourn and grieve while trusting. I think I can still trust Him in the process, not just after the progress is evident.

I am learning that trusting God is messier and harder and easier and more freeing than I ever imagined.

He is all things and everything and I haven’t even scratched the surface of His goodness.

And that can be true even when I long for things that feel forever out of my reach.

That can be true even when my nerves feel like they are literally going to be the end of me.

That can be true even when my heart breaks and I can’t see myself the way He does.

God’s goodness is not dependent on my understanding of Him. It isn’t dependent on my grasp of His will. And it certainly isn’t dependent on whether I get what I want or not.

My faith is not a Yelp review. I don’t get to rate God on my scale of satisfaction. He is the scale.

He has always been–and will always be–good and trustworthy and infinitely more than I could ever deserve.

I tell Him to watch for the frayed edges as He stitches me back together.

He reminds me that He’s the One who stitched me together in the first place.

And so these threads of faith and threads of trust are stitched together again . . . not painlessly, but with the signature of a Creator who makes all things new.