Stories of Women in the Bible are Anchors of Truth About Women’s Dignity and Worth

As a woman, the news is depressing. Actually, it often is. Reminders that no matter how far we’ve advanced as a society, it remains fact that women just are not as valued or protected as men. You can argue if you want, but current headlines and people in power serve as evidence.

Sometimes, as a woman, the church is depressing. Actually, it often is.  Reminders that no matter how much it is claimed that, “all are made in the image of God” women just aren’t as valued or protected as men. You can argue all you want, but get in a room full of women and ask how many have felt like second class citizens inside a local church. 🙋🏻‍♀️

I’ve been reading a book with a group of women, about women in the Bible and their place in the salvation story that is Jesus.  We meet Tuesday nights and chat about Genesis and ask deep questions and silly questions and hope out loud that we will get to keep eating our favorite foods in the New Earth. Our conversations have felt like thinly-veiled places of hope and healing and light. Because we are being reminded that despite what the news or even the church says about women and our place in the world – God reveals how truly loved and wanted we are to Him, and how needed we are to his Kingdom work.

As a woman, these stories of how women are woven into Yahweh’s story of redemption, renewal, and love are essential.  Not just essential to the coming of Jesus on Earth and furthering his message in the years after his death and resurrection, but essential to us now. These stories are anchors of truth countering the darkness of lies about women’s dignity and worth in the world.

As a woman, I will ground myself in these stories of truth and hope.  I will study Eve in the Old Testament, see how she was known and loved by Yahweh, and was used in the full circle promise as “Mother of all living.”  I will return to the gospels over and over and be reminded that Jesus demonstrated to his group of 12 men (and probably several women) followers that women are worth healing, listening to, and sending out as messengers of his love.  Jesus put himself between women and harm, both physical and emotional, over and over and over. Standing up to bullies with rocks, to Pharisees with judgment in their hearts, to cultural norms at a well, and even to his own disciple who scoffed at an act of sacrificial love in the form of spilled perfume he could never begin to fathom. Jesus valued women and saw them as God intended, co-regents, commissioned to usher in His Kingdom here on Earth.

The creator of all things known and unknown entrusted a woman to birth, nurture, empower, and send this very Savior into the world to start his Earthly mission of restoring all things. The lies of the world, and the actions of sinful humans will not convince me that He has stopped trusting women to continue His work now. As a woman, these stories and truths are the hope I cling to and in which I can rejoice. Knowing with full confidence that I, my daughters, and all the other women of God’s great world are looked upon with the utmost respect, valued beyond measure, and loved without bounds by the One who fashioned us in His image. Not just as daughters of the king, but as co-heirs and faith filled hands and feet helping to usher in the Kingdom. 

In the face of empire worship, we turn ours to Jesus.

Lately I’ve been wondering,
What do we do?

As we sit and watch little self-appointed kings perch upon their thrones of power.
Adorned in molten crowns, traces of the golden calves thrown at their feet still visible to those who have eyes to see.
Calves erected by the very ones who taught us to be on guard against false prophets and heed warnings of old.

Those who have ears… let him hear. 

Hear the little kings spout hate with the promise of destruction.
Death and decay celebrated in the name of empire.
Juxtaposing our call to celebrate Renewal and Resurrection – The Living Promise – made possible by self-sacrificial love.

So.much.opposition.
To The Humble King’s way.

So what do we do?

When there are lunches to pack and permission slips to sign.
Dogs to walk and dinners to make.

How do we rage?

We, who do not subscribe to this idea that power is king.
We, who are not used to the feeling of wanting to rage?

We are told to abide in Him…
So, we’ll try. 

To abide in Him who is reflected in the faces of all. 

We decorate tambourines before the Red Sea parts,
believing in the promise of an already and not yet Kingdom of rejoicing.

We laugh hard with neighbors around the table,
the Imageo Dei in us, communing with the Imageo Dei in them. 

We fill up the home and paint each other’s nails,
recalling how He washed their feet all those years ago.

We snuggle our babies and love them lavishly,
doing our best to model how to invite in, and love freely.

We marvel, with wonder and awe, at the moon put in the vast vast sky.
Collectively feeling the childlike hope and joy of being a part of something good, something big, something cosmic.

We turn our eyes and ears to what is pure, what is lovely, what is true.
And do our best to point others that way as well.

The way of the One who is continuously creating new life,
to point His beloveds back to Him.
Because of love. 
For Love. 

It’s what we can strive to do in the face of empire worship – 
Fix our eyes on Jesus.

And love His people so well,
they might see Him in us too. 

Soul Breath

With the sea, my soul breathes.

In tune with the Earth,
He has said is good.

Breath of Creator made tangibly known
in salt and water, in wind and waves.

Stillness of constant motion,
powerfully calming depths of unknown.

Erosion of old,
while creating anew.

We glimpse a small bit of the Infinite
as we gaze out in wonder and awe.

And so we are drawn to return,
again and again,
to the thinly veiled place
where our soul breathes
in and out with the sea.

Legacy of Love

The doctors said you weren’t going to come home.

1 in 10 chance, they said.

Lungs are just too full, body is just too frail.

Is your will updated?

Have you said all you need to your sweetheart of 65+ years?

My mom had to ask you, had to be sure.

Your daughter, wondering if her dad would be around for Christmas.

 

Why are you crying, Mama? 

My kids wanted to know.

I told them I probably wouldn’t get to see my Grandad again.

They prayed for you to get better and for Grandmom to not be too sad.

We facetimed to say goodbye after the kids went to bed.

You joked about how you were doing, and asked about our lives in the Lonestar state.

We hung up and said hopefully to each other, He seems ok?

 

I woke up throughout the night to check my phone.

Would we be going to Colorado earlier than we planned?

Wearing black instead of festive red and green?

Christmas is your favorite, I think.

Always has been.

The family all gathered to celebrate His birth.

 

Skits and stockings.

Cookies and chaos.

Sometimes snow, and sometimes sun.

Always games and always laughter.

Legacy of love strengthening year after year.

Would you be here to see it this time?

We didn’t know. 

 

Lungs are clear!

Surgery went well!

He’s going home on Monday!

Christmas is on Thursday!

 

You beat the odds.

Stubborn will and onery genes keeping you this side of the now and not yet.

Would it have been the same if Christmas wasn’t so close?

If you hadn’t had a trove full of memories and a quiver full of people bolstering you afloat?

Science says, maybe not.

We weren’t meant to be alone, our bodies know as well as our minds.

You sat in your worn in brown recliner, watching us tear into gifts you and grandmom painstakingly wrapped.

We filled your living room with laughter and chaos once again.

Our kids bringing to mind the years we were young.

Throwing stuff down the laundry chute.

Banging too loud on the organ.

Four generations under your roof.

 

You smiled with tears in your eyes as you told us going to your grandparents’ house for Christmas held some of your favorite memories.

Keep gathering, kids – you said, as we sat round.

Families like ours are rare, you stressed.

We nodded because we know.

 

We know because some of our favorite childhood memories were made in your house at Christmas.

Not because the food was so good (although it was).

Not because the presents were plentiful (even though they were).

Not because California kids loved the snow (but we sure did).

It’s because your house and the people in it were familiar.

Familiar in the way that allows for belly laughs and goofy pictures to abound.

Familiar in the way that brought forth long nights around dominoes and basement shenanigans.

Familiar in the way that let us know we were part of something that exceeded state lines and time passed.

 

Warmth infused with care.

Laughs infused with love.

Family.

Not perfect by any means but tied together by knowledge that we are loved.

You and grandmom built this legacy of love, founded on Love Himself.

And boy, am I glad you were around this Christmas to see how we are all trying to continue that legacy.

Run.Fight.Hide.

Run

My baby is fast.

So fast, she beats all the kids in all the races. 

Her body moves quick, with strength and speed. 

My baby is so fast.

But she can’t outrun a bullet.

Fight

My baby is tough.

She stands up to school bullies.

Looks them in the eye and loudly yells, “Stop that!

My baby is so tough.

But, please God, dont let her stand up to a bully who has been given a gun.

She’s not tougher than a bullet.

Hide

My baby is sneaky.

She finds the best spots during family hide and seek.

Squeezes her body into tight, dark places.

My baby is so sneaky.

But…would she stay hidden if her friends were getting shot?

We’ve taught her to be a helper… so would she stay hidden from a bullet?

Oh, God, my baby.

All of our babies.

Let Us Lament

Sometimes – like these times – I don’t feel like raising a hallelujah. 

I don’t feel like singing of thankfulness and peace. 

I don’t want to sing about glory and goodness or beauty and gifts.

Sometimes – I don’t feel like singing the Psalmist’s praises in the church pew.

In these time. 

I want to utter a cry of lament.

I want to 

whisper tear filled whys

shout an anger filled how could you-

not save them…

let it pass…

allow this…

hide your face…

I want to add to the Psalmist’s anguished pleas while donning sack cloth to wallow in despair – in tune with the mamas wailing beside their daughters’ empty beds.

And so… I lament.

I cry out to the One who can hear.

And ask for

intervention

comfort

remembrance 

Hope.

Because although I don’t understand, I still believe our God is a God who can handle our raging, and holds us as we weep.

Investing time in our kids now will change their whole world

We try to be intentional about spending 1:1 time with each of our three kiddos. Special dates with Mama and Dada.

Because it doesn’t cost much to make a kid’s day.

To focus your sole attention on their little eyes, listen with your whole brain to the vast worlds inside theirs.

Maybe while some ice cream dribbles down their chin, and markers smudge their fingers.

They giggle and smile and whisper, “this is so fun, right Mama?”

They stand a little taller as they march to the car, asking to push the cart since big sis and little brother aren’t there to squabble for attention. They smirk a little while saying, “I wonder what dada is doing with them at home while we have all the fun.”

Schedules might get disrupted a bit to make that special time. Bedtime starting a little later, making your adult time that night a little shorter. But really, what a small cost to pay.

To remind your baby they are worthy of your time, deserving of your attention, and the object of your love. Just for being them. Just for being yours.

It doesn’t cost much to make a kid’s day.

But it makes all the difference in the world.

And those babies of ours, they are worth it. Oh goodness, are they worth it.

It’s the little moments that bring big feels as a Mama.

You never know what’s going to get you as a parent. What’s going to hit you right in the feels. There are the things you expect – their first birthday, when they can say “I love you,” first day of daycare or school, etc. These things you expect and can sort of prepare for, but those random things? Those weird things that just happen and all of a sudden you are tearing up at a stop light on a Friday morning on the routine drive to daycare? You can’t prepare your heart for those things.

This past week, my baby boy started singing along to the song I’ve been singing to him since he was born. And let me tell you, apparently that’s one of those things.

I heard his quiet little voice pipe up from his car seat behind me, “blues…dreams….sweet baby James”. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw his little face was lit up with half a grin, like he understood this song was for him. Granted, it has his name in it, so it’s sort of a giveaway, but still. It was a shy little smile, like, “oh, mama’s been singing this song about me, to me.” He’s two, so I know the thoughts in his little brain aren’t that complex, but I still think he got it.

We made eye contact in the mirror and his smile widened as he said, “mo’! Mo’ sweet baby James?”

Of course, my boy. Always. Always more.

Maybe it was because there was this song playing on the CD that I’d been softly singing to him since that first night in the hospital, when he fit in Mama’s arms and instinctively knew they were his safe place. And now, he’s a toddler the size of a five year old, who tries his best to fit in Mama’s arms and has learned that they are still his safe place to run. Where there is always more room, more snuggles, more love. Always more.

Or perhaps, it was because it was so quiet with only him in the car because his older sisters were off on a “starting kindergarten and second grade” adventure with Daddy; making me realize this would be the commute the next couple of years. Just him and me on the way to daycare because my other two babies had outgrown yet another stage of childhood. My baby of babies, the last for my mama heart to plead for more memories, more snuggles, more time. Always more.

Probably, it was becuase I pictured, right there in the van, him and I dancing to Sweet Baby James at his wedding. Him towering over me in his man body, whispering in my ear as we slowly twirl, “More? More sweet baby James, mama?.”

I’ll look up into those dark brown eyes I’ve been drinking in for years and years and say, “Of course, my boy. Always. Always more, my sweet sweet baby James.”

Always and forever, more.

Stay close to me, my love.

Stay close, my love.

Right now it comes natural, as you totter and play. You take a few steps, then turn back around, checking that Mama hasn’t wandered away. So natural in fact, that sometimes I might say, “Can’t you ask someone else?” as you claw at my leg for the hundredth time today.

Stay close, my love.

When you start to drift just a little bit further and you no longer need Mama’s hand on your shoulder. You’ll climb and you’ll jump and you’ll get that much taller. While I’m watching on, my arms feeling just a bit colder.

Stay close, my love.

When you and your friends stay out late in the night, having gone to the game out under the lights. You’ll forget to call home to say it’s run late, and I’ll be pacing the floor trying not to worry with all of my might. The door will ease open and you’ll head up the stairs, anger melting away as I hear, “Love you Mom, Goodnight.”

Stay close, my love.

When you pack up your car and family of your own, waving out the window as you make your way home. Home to a place that is miles away, where the fastest way to reach you is to pick up the phone. I hope that you’ll call when you’re feeling alone, call your Mama for help, even once you are grown.

Stay close, my love.

No matter how tall you may get, or how far you go, Our hearts are connected, and I want you to know:

My love for you baby boy, will forever continue to grow.

Childbirth is the Magical Undoing

There is magic to be witnessed if you visit someone who has just given birth. A deep primal magic.

Indescribable power and strength marrying brokenness and unmatched vulnerability. It thickens the air, new mama drenched in the union. You can’t help but stare, in awe, at her. Sitting on a throne of bloody pads and swollen body parts, she is regal. She is breathtaking.

Animalistic energy sweats off her, adrenaline retreating to make way for the fiercer chemical etching new pathways in cortices that cannot be unmade.  Disheveled, in pain, exhausted – radiant. Beauty like nothing you’ve seen before.

She may resemble the person you had lunch with a few days prior, chatting excitedly about how she hopes her baby comes soon…but she is not the same. You feel it. She feels it. Something has shifted.

She has been undone.

And it is in the undoing that she’s become.

The unraveling of what and who she used to be, has spun a new being into existence. Nine months in the making, coming to a beautiful completion in the matter of hours.

The juxtaposing experiences of every muscle of the body being strained and pushed to their limits, intense pain, possibly even trauma, giving way to life and a new form of love impossible to describe.

Terrifying. Beautifully soul wrenching. Glorious. Sacred.

The every day event of giving birth is inexplicably miraculous. And the birth giver… that new Mama you are visiting?

She is pure magic.