Beyond the Smiles (Part II)

(For Part I, click here.) 

I remember him laying there. The bare white mattress in the Emergency Ward. The blanket stained with sweat and dirt wrapped around his waist. His ribs protruding from his thin, malnourished frame.

I remember him turning onto his side, obviously in pain. I remember his mother standing at the bedside, anxiety and fear written clearly across her face.

A group of American healthcare workers, part of a medical mission team I was working with, flocked around him and hooked up an ancient ECG machine to confirm a diagnosis of pericarditis—a diagnosis for which nothing more could be done in this rural Cambodian hospital. 

As they gathered around the bed adjusting ECG leads and talking among themselves, I stood in the back. Listening, observing, and praying.

I took in a deep breath, and I let it out. This young man was dying. There was nothing we could do about it. With all our knowledge, with all our experience, with all our compassion and good intentions, there was nothing we could do to prevent this man’s suffering and death. 

There was a time when seeing a patient like this young man broke me. It led me on a journey of desperate brokenness and incredible healing. It led me to face truths concerning what I believed about God and myself. Ultimately, it led me to rest in knowing I don’t have to be enough.

This time, as I stood near the patient's bed, everything was different. Outwardly, I was surrounded by Americans, and I was grateful to be with so many whose education and experience exceeded mine. Things had shifted inwardly, too; I found I had courage to reach out to this patient in a way I was too timid to do before but was incredibly important.

When I close my eyes, I am back in the hot, humid, Cambodian Emergency Ward. I breathe in deep, and I choose to rest in this truth: I don’t have to be enough, for Christ is enough. When I stop worrying about how much I can’t do because I am not enough, I hear Jesus’ quiet invitation to sit in His presence, even in the midst of such deep suffering. And I accept. 

I sit in His presence and bring this young man to Him, praying he would know the peace of Jesus’ presence, too. I sit in His presence and bring myself and my broken heart to Him, finding space to grieve and freedom to be sad because when I’m with Jesus, the lie that “I have to be the strong one” crumbles. Jesus is the strong one. I never have to act like I have it all together—because I don’t. Jesus knows this. He's okay with this.

The Americans clear out, and it’s just my dad and me left. With the help of our friend and translator, Dad explains why the American team is there, to teach and work with the local doctors. The patient’s mother looks up tearfully and asks if her son will live.

All our knowledge, all our diagnostic powers, all our education and good intentions—it means nothing in this moment. We have nothing to offer this woman and her son. Nothing except Jesus. So we ask if we can pray, and I reach out my hand to touch this patient’s dirt-smeared blanket and lift him up to Jesus.

And I know in all our heartbreak, in all their heartbreak, Jesus is enough, and He is with us. 

His presence is so strong. It always is, if we'll just acknowledge it. If we'll just accept His invitation and stop our striving to be everything, fix everything, and know everything. Perhaps this is the most important thing I’ve learned about poverty in the past few years. Poverty and suffering highlight our sense of helplessness, and so often our response is to push this uncomfortable feeling down and ignore it or to grit our teeth and take it upon ourselves to eliminate disparities. Yet I’ve found no freedom there. 

No, freedom is found in Jesus' presence, in trust. It's found in trusting God is enough, trusting He cares and is big enough for all the hurts in the world and my grief over poverty and suffering and death, and trusting God is, indeed, good.

He is good. Even when everything around us seems to be wrong and impossible and heart-wrenching and clouded with evil. He is, indeed, good, and He is enough.

Sometimes...the Bed Breaks

It was several years ago on a typical hot Cambodian day when the conversation happened. I was helping lead an Awe Star Ministries team of students, and it was "promotion day," which basically meant our team's Country Coordinators (aka commanders-in-chief) were stepping down and select students were being promoted to leadership positions for the day. Jesse, one of our two trusty Country Coordinators, announced the promotions to the team and then told them:

"Today I'm just an ordinary student. Don't treat me like your Country Coordinator! Treat me like a student, talk to me like a student, do everything like I'm a student because today, I am one."

Then our 6 foot plus leader proceeded to climb into the back seat of our van, which was quite a humble move considering the leg space and limited reach of the a/c. My sister, one of the team members that year, ended up sitting beside him. She took into consideration what he'd announced and decided to capitalize on it. She had a confession, and since he was a student that day he couldn't get angry!

 "You wanna know something?" she asked.

"Yeah!" Jesse replied.

"Remember you're a student today..." she reminded him. Then she whispered, "We broke our hotel bed." 

"WHAT?!?" came the incredulous first response before he caught himself, followed by a much softer, "I mean, what??"

My sister proceeded to explain how the bed had broken for no apparent reason. Later, Jesse fixed it, and the problem simply ended up being a dislodged supportive slat under the bed. However, the bed was overall unstable, and any time there was too much weight on it or the weight wasn't distributed evenly, the bed "broke."

Later the same week, we had a team meeting in my sister's room, and she had to tell people one by one as they came in that they couldn't sit on her sleeping space because "Sometimes...the bed breaks." 

We all laughed and said, "Oh, Cambodia..." too many times to count. The whole scenario was ridiculous and hilarious, and it led to a catchphrase my sister and I still use today:

"Sometimes...the bed breaks." 

We use it when situations unexpectedly happen that are out of our control, just like the first time her bed broke. We use it when bad, hard, worst-case or most-awkward-case scenarios occur. 

Sometimes, these things happen. They affect us and those around us. They're out of our control. Often they make a direct and disruptive impact on an unavoidable, everyday part of our lives, like our beds or our families or our hearts.

Sometimes...the bed breaks. 

Today, I find comfort in remembering this, remembering it's a part of life that's uncomfortable, even terrible, but normal. Some days it happens in the mental or emotional realm. Some days our happiness gives way without explanation, letting us crash down into depression or grief. Some days anxiety shows up and we duke it out, and sometimes anxiety wins.

Some days it happens in the spiritual realm. Doubts about our calling, our purpose, or our faith plague us. Spiritually dry seasons come and last much longer than we think we can endure.

Some days it happens in the physical realm. We get sick, we're involved in a vehicle accident, we catch the punishment for someone else's crime, or we're simply physically exhausted. In these times, the flight of stairs we climb every day seems a little bit longer and steeper. The alarm clock seems to ring hours earlier than it used to. We're worn out.

Sometimes it happens in a combination of these realms. Some days, the rack we hang our clothes and hopes and dreams on snaps, and everything ends up soiled on the ground, t-shirts and self esteem included.

True story. Photo taken after clothes were re-washed.

Yet everyone faces these things, these unexpected, unwelcome events or seasons, the broken hearts or shattered dreams or lost relationships. They're a present albeit unwanted part of life, just like power lines in a picture.

In these seasons, I often forget the days exist when everything seems a little bit brighter. The days colors seem to pop more, when the view we see every day on our way home stops us in our tracks because we notice again how breathtaking it is. The sips of cold water and the company of friends and laughter over lunch fill our hearts up till they're overflowing. 

Some days, the small is enough to make the whole world seem wrong, and some days, the small is enough to make it all seem right. Everything comes in seasons, and perhaps the light from the bright times is meant not only for a single day but to last into the dark times, too.

I love these words by author and blogger Sarita Hartz in a wonderful post about suffering:

I cannot escape the beauty that often comes from suffering, any more than I can escape the laws of physics. But I believe, healthy self care doesn’t mean the avoidance of suffering, it means that we have the reservoir of hope and joy to offer when it’s needed.

Sometimes...the bed breaks.

We can't change it or fix it or go back in time to prevent it. But there are two things we can do. First, on the days the bed is intact, we can rejoice and treasure our happiness and appreciate the beauty in life. We can value the good times and practice gratitude while it comes easily. Second, we can offer our presence to those around us, whether we are in a "broken bed" season or others are or we all are. Something beautiful is created when we sit with others through the storm, even if (maybe especially when!) it's on an old, broken bed in the middle of Cambodia.

The Half Truth Trap

I used to play "two truths and a lie" a lot. It was one of the most popular youth group icebreakers when I was a teenager. The goal was to tell the group two truths and one lie, but in such a way others couldn't guess which was the truth and which was the lie. It didn't take long to discover the fastest way to trick others was to slip a hint of truth into the lie (I know, this church youth group game taught me how to deceive people more effectively. Ironic.). Yet I think most of us know this principle about deception from other realms aside from the game: the most believable lies have a thread of truth in them. That's what makes them so believable. We learn this from experience, from weaving lies or from falling prey to them a few too many times. Slide some truth in with deception, and the lie just became much more convincing. And another game of "two truths" is won.

However, there's a much weightier issue with half truths than winning an icebreaker game.

A while back I came up against a mental block I just couldn't seem to get past. Logically, I knew this belief I held about myself was false, but for some reason I couldn't move past it. My heart wouldn't accept truth. In moments of quiet, accusations would start piling up in my head about why I wouldn't ever be able to embrace truth and move past this false belief. And unlike other instances where I could easily shoot down lies with logical facts, I had no defenses against these accusations.

When I was a child, I remember going to Target with my family. My mom would point to the big, red concrete balls outside the store and joke with us, "If you can pick up one of those balls, I'll give you $100!" (Or maybe it was $20, which is basically $100 when you're 9.) My siblings and I would always try, straining with every ounce of our tiny bodies to lift that concrete ball. I never could pick it up, no matter how hard I tried. And boy did I try!

That struggle to pick up a concrete ball is exactly what it felt like when I was trying to let go of my false belief and embrace truth. It felt like I was putting everything I had - all my mental energy and strength and effort - into the task, but it just wouldn't budge. No matter how hard I tried, it didn't lift or move or roll or shift. Not even a millimeter.

To get past this false belief - this felt like an impossible task.

I was worn out. Discouraged and frustrated, I alternated between feverishly scheming some new plan to convince my heart to believe the truth and feeling utterly defeated, sitting down with my back against the concrete ball and hanging my head low.

Shout out to my sister Christina & her friend Liz for the picture!

Eventually, someone had to help me break the belief down into two parts. Someone had to help me recognize the thread of truth mixed into the false belief I couldn't seem to let go of. The result was resounding freedom.

The little thread of truth - the half truth in a bag of lies - is the big, red concrete ball we cannot move. It's what makes the accusations in our heads impossible to deny. Yet when we dissect our false beliefs and identify the thread of truth in them, we gain freedom. We are able to treat the thread of truth as truth (as the big concrete sphere we can't possibly move) and the rest of the bag of lies as lies (which are much easier to stop believing when we can separate them from the half truths tripping our brains up). 

Half truths come in many forms, such as:

I am not lovable because I am...

• imperfect
• not an outgoing person
• not a quiet person

Or, I am inadequate because I...

• am not good at public speaking
• have to ask for help frequently
• learn/read/talk/etc at a slower pace than the person next to me

Or, my circumstances are difficult because...

• everyone in my life hates me
• I have no natural gifts/talents
• God doesn't love me

The list goes on and on. But when we can separate truth from deception in these false beliefs, the lies lose their persuasive power. The truth may be that we are not outgoing people or are quiet, and it's certainly true we are imperfect. We may not be good at public speaking, and our circumstances may indeed be overwhelming. We cannot change those things, and that's okay. These truths do not mean the rest of the sentence is true; we are not unlovable or inadequate or defined by our circumstances.

When we recognize the slivers of truth as the big, red concrete balls we cannot move, we are free to stop trying to do the impossible and change the facts. We are free to step around the immovable, keeping the truth and letting go of the lies. We are free to move past the concrete balls of truth into the rest of life which, just like a great big retail store, has so many wonderful things to offer us.

Are there mental blocks you've faced that seemed impossible to move past?
How did you end up moving past them?
Are there half truths are you believing? About yourself, your circumstances?

Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear from you in the comments or an email!

Scarcity and the Spiritual

Scarcity is a topic just making its way into the public conversation arena. It can be summed up as the belief there’s “not enough:" not enough time, not enough happiness to go around for everyone, not enough money, and the list continues. It can manifest as “I am not enough”—not pretty enough, good enough, nice enough, productive enough—a lie I faced head-on after an experience in a Cambodian hospital left me painfully aware of my inadequacies.

The scarcity mindset is rampant and often leaks unnoticed into all realms of our lives, including the spiritual. I’m sure scarcity manifests itself in different ways for different people, but here are three ways I’ve noticed the “not enough” mantra invading my spiritual life.

1) I’m afraid there’s not enough grace and mercy to cover my sins.

As someone who grew up in church, the gravity of sin was hammered into me from a young age. Add perfectionism to church legalism, and it’s easy to understand why it’s such a struggle to believe Jesus’ mercy is enough to cover me every time I sin. Time after time after time, I stumble and fall, and sometimes it just seems plain impossible that Christ has any mercy left. Questions such as “How can God forgive me even though I’ve fallen into this sin so many times?” and “How can God still love me after all I’ve done?” are birthed. Yet the Word clearly says His love endures forever, and His mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22). Viewing this lie as a scarcity issue has helped me understand where these fear-based doubts come from and freed me to rejoice in the abundance of the Lord’s mercy.

2) I start believing there’s not enough encouragement for all the times I feel down.

Every time I serve overseas, my mom has this wonderful tradition of collecting notes from my friends and family and sending them with me for days when I need a little extra encouragement. It’s a great resource—except for several years I convinced myself the number of moments of discouragement I'd have would exceed the number of notes to read. I stockpiled the letters for times when I “really needed” them. I tried to muscle through the hard days because I was so afraid a harder time would come and no encouragement would be left. At the end of several summer trips, I had a dozen unread notes to read on the plane home. They were still fun to open, but I found I’d robbed myself of the encouragement God had provided for the hard times.

These days I push past my fears and reach out to others when I'm having a rough day, either by sending a text or opening a note (though I try to be careful I’m seeking hope first from the Lord and not from other people’s words). It’s been a source of encouragement and strength, and on days I have no letters and no signal, the Lord continues to provide. The interactions I find most encouraging are, after all, the ones pointing me back to find strength in the Lord Himself.

3) I’m afraid God’s gifts are limited.

Even when I pray, I fall prey to the scarcity mindset. I’m hesitant to ask the Lord for hope, encouragement, or a boost in mood. I act as though there’s a quota for the gifts He gives each of His children, and we must be wise about when and why we ask for them. However, when I look at the life of Jesus in the Gospels, His generosity cannot be measured, and Paul refers to the riches of Christ as unfathomable (Ephesians 3:18). I must ask myself, “Am I robbing myself of asking for and enjoying His gifts because of a scarcity mindset?”


The root of it all, I suppose, is a belief that God is not enough. It’s a lie that creeps into my heart and makes subtle but significant changes in the way I view God and myself. When I start believing God is not enough, I search for “enough” in other places: in myself, in others’ approval, in “success,” or in knowledge. Yet Jesus is enough is a fundamental part of the Gospel. There is no scarcity in His Kingdom. I have to remind myself of this every day. He’s enough to hold my fears, my failures, my future, my down days. He's enough for my scarcity mindset and all it entails!