Sometimes I look back on my life—all the unexpected twists & turns, the mysterious weaving together—and I wonder how in the world God pulled it all off.
Maybe more than any other year in my life, 26 was exactly that.
The absolute lowest point of my life, when I was convinced God had completely forgotten me, turned into the most beautiful picture of His redemption. "The Year I Learned to Keep Kleenex Beside My Bed" became "The Year I Moved to Birmingham, Got a Free Plane Ticket to India, and Met My Husband."
Who could have known that in the time I thought He was farthest from me, God was actually just setting the stage for the greatest display of His faithfulness towards me???
This is the record of that Faithfulness, which I wrote from India a few years ago. It's long and wordy, I suppose, but I simply can't rob the Author of His story. All praise be to Him.
The Indiana snow blew fiercely, relentlessly, and I relished the bitter cold that matched my grief. But as the winter melted, the grief did not. The months that followed were the darkest I’d known.
I waited for God to act, to speak, to reveal His great and glorious plan for my life. I waited with expectation–as if He owed me for my obedience– and all I received was silence.
I was like a little boy at a Little League baseball game, waiting for his dad to show up. First inning goes by, and he looks to the stands. His dad is not there. Second inning goes by, and the boy starts to make excuses, “I know he’s coming. He always comes! He’s probably just caught in traffic...” But inning after inning passes until finally the game ends, and the dad never comes. The little boy just hangs his head and kicks his cleats in the dirt. “I should have known...”
Where was God? I tried to reassure myself of His goodness, His faithfulness, His steadfast love. I memorized Scripture and repeated it over and over, hoping that if I said it enough times I would eventually believe it. But my words fell empty, and I grew sick of making excuses for a God who apparently wasn’t coming to my ball game.
I shook my fists, in anger, in arrogance, “I have been faithful! Where are You?” And in the darkness of night, I knelt by my bed and gave Him one last chance, “Just tell me that you love me!” Still, more silence. Crushing, piercing silence.
Tears stung my eyes, and the poison of disappointment dripped deep into my heart. And then, for the first time ever, I said, and really meant it, “I could walk away from You.”
I trembled at the words, knowing their honesty.
My faith was gone.
636 miles later, I found myself in Birmingham, Alabama, in the home of Anita Bucher– practically a stranger– taking her up on that "Southern-hospitality" invitation to visit Brook Hills and stay in her home. Surely she didn't expect me to actually drive down all the way from Elkhart...
I’d met this woman only once before– by accident, really– while passing through the Church at Brook Hills the previous summer with Hannah on our "vision trip" to Mexico. The “Radical” pastor was out with a surgery at the time, as I recall, and so instead of meeting him, we met Anita. She dropped her To-Do list to chat and pray with us, and soon after that, she even sent me an email to ask how God was working in my life.
Today I praise God for Anita Bucher, Brittnie Wilbanks, and the staff at Brook Hills. For Holly, Jess, and Melanie and the amazing community of friends God gifted us. For the Barger family, the Seibert family, and my small group "family"... all of whom were tangible expressions of God's love towards me when I needed it most.
Maybe more than any other year in my life, 26 was exactly that.
The absolute lowest point of my life, when I was convinced God had completely forgotten me, turned into the most beautiful picture of His redemption. "The Year I Learned to Keep Kleenex Beside My Bed" became "The Year I Moved to Birmingham, Got a Free Plane Ticket to India, and Met My Husband."
Who could have known that in the time I thought He was farthest from me, God was actually just setting the stage for the greatest display of His faithfulness towards me???
This is the record of that Faithfulness, which I wrote from India a few years ago. It's long and wordy, I suppose, but I simply can't rob the Author of His story. All praise be to Him.
—
The Indiana snow blew fiercely, relentlessly, and I relished the bitter cold that matched my grief. But as the winter melted, the grief did not. The months that followed were the darkest I’d known.
I waited for God to act, to speak, to reveal His great and glorious plan for my life. I waited with expectation–as if He owed me for my obedience– and all I received was silence.
I was like a little boy at a Little League baseball game, waiting for his dad to show up. First inning goes by, and he looks to the stands. His dad is not there. Second inning goes by, and the boy starts to make excuses, “I know he’s coming. He always comes! He’s probably just caught in traffic...” But inning after inning passes until finally the game ends, and the dad never comes. The little boy just hangs his head and kicks his cleats in the dirt. “I should have known...”
Where was God? I tried to reassure myself of His goodness, His faithfulness, His steadfast love. I memorized Scripture and repeated it over and over, hoping that if I said it enough times I would eventually believe it. But my words fell empty, and I grew sick of making excuses for a God who apparently wasn’t coming to my ball game.
I shook my fists, in anger, in arrogance, “I have been faithful! Where are You?” And in the darkness of night, I knelt by my bed and gave Him one last chance, “Just tell me that you love me!” Still, more silence. Crushing, piercing silence.
Tears stung my eyes, and the poison of disappointment dripped deep into my heart. And then, for the first time ever, I said, and really meant it, “I could walk away from You.”
I trembled at the words, knowing their honesty.
My faith was gone.
—
636 miles later, I found myself in Birmingham, Alabama, in the home of Anita Bucher– practically a stranger– taking her up on that "Southern-hospitality" invitation to visit Brook Hills and stay in her home. Surely she didn't expect me to actually drive down all the way from Elkhart...
I’d met this woman only once before– by accident, really– while passing through the Church at Brook Hills the previous summer with Hannah on our "vision trip" to Mexico. The “Radical” pastor was out with a surgery at the time, as I recall, and so instead of meeting him, we met Anita. She dropped her To-Do list to chat and pray with us, and soon after that, she even sent me an email to ask how God was working in my life.
Now, just one year later, I wasn’t sure God existed. If He did, He certainly wasn’t interested in my life. But desperate for any open door, I accepted the invitation. I wasn’t really sure why I was going. I only knew my faith was crumbling, and I could either walk away or get help. And so, I got in my car and turned the key.
In a time when God Himself seemed so distant, so unloving, I felt the tangible extension of His love through the body of Christ. A busy secretary who opened her home. A mother who insisted that I sit with her during the church service. Church staff, like Bob Flanders, Callie Priest, Noah Whitaker, and Paul Akin, who took time to meet and pray with me– a stranger. Each gesture reminded me of the truth I had forgotten:
God cared for me.
Then came the move only two weeks later. Never did I imagine living in Alabama, but God opened doors, and I was simply walking through...
Then came the move only two weeks later. Never did I imagine living in Alabama, but God opened doors, and I was simply walking through...
Roommates.
Jobs.
Friends.
Kindred Spirits.
Community like I had never known.
It was almost comical how things just seemed to work out– a big “bear hug from God,” as Leroy Case beautifully described it.
A bear hug when I least deserved it. If this had been a test– this leaving India and trusting God with an unknown future– certainly I had failed. A lousy, no-good, disappointing F. Amanda Lehman was not worthy of God’s favor. Maybe the missionary to India deserved His blessing, but not this pouting, pitiful child.
And yet, maybe this was exactly the point.
“When we are faithless, He is still faithful, for He cannot deny Himself.” (2 Tim. 2:13)
The truth of Scripture began to change my perspective. I wasn’t a boy at a baseball game, the victim of some unloving, forgetful father. I wasn’t the victim at all– I was the traitor! The doubting, demanding, foot-stomping toddler in the grocery store, grabbing for candy and screaming red-faced, “BUT YOU DON’T LOVE ME!” Yet through it all, my Heavenly Father held me bear-hug style and wouldn’t let go.
He had not forgotten. He had not forsaken. He’d only torn that He might heal.
It was late September in Birmingham when I got the phone call– it was Leslie Chalk from Brook Hills with a sudden mission-trip drop-out and only five hours to find a replacement or the trip would be canceled. It should be someone from the church, she explained, with an Indian visa, who could drop everything and go to India... for free... next week. I laughed. That ticket was meant for me– and I knew who had sent it.
So here I am. Back in India, bursting with gladness and feeling anything but forgotten.
A bear hug when I least deserved it. If this had been a test– this leaving India and trusting God with an unknown future– certainly I had failed. A lousy, no-good, disappointing F. Amanda Lehman was not worthy of God’s favor. Maybe the missionary to India deserved His blessing, but not this pouting, pitiful child.
And yet, maybe this was exactly the point.
“When we are faithless, He is still faithful, for He cannot deny Himself.” (2 Tim. 2:13)
The truth of Scripture began to change my perspective. I wasn’t a boy at a baseball game, the victim of some unloving, forgetful father. I wasn’t the victim at all– I was the traitor! The doubting, demanding, foot-stomping toddler in the grocery store, grabbing for candy and screaming red-faced, “BUT YOU DON’T LOVE ME!” Yet through it all, my Heavenly Father held me bear-hug style and wouldn’t let go.
He had not forgotten. He had not forsaken. He’d only torn that He might heal.
—
It was late September in Birmingham when I got the phone call– it was Leslie Chalk from Brook Hills with a sudden mission-trip drop-out and only five hours to find a replacement or the trip would be canceled. It should be someone from the church, she explained, with an Indian visa, who could drop everything and go to India... for free... next week. I laughed. That ticket was meant for me– and I knew who had sent it.
So here I am. Back in India, bursting with gladness and feeling anything but forgotten.
As I type from this remote farm just outside of Dehradun, the sun is setting and the boys here are finishing up their daily chores and heading to the fields for play. I will join them soon for cricket or stick-hockey or their most recent favorite, “American football” (thanks to my Brook Hills small group and the nerf-balls they sent in my suitcase). Then we will have family devotions and dinner–maybe even a dance party– and I’ll tuck them into bed with songs and prayers and goodnight kisses. I smile and think, “I must be the luckiest girl alive.”
I would love to promise that I will never doubt again– that this trip is all the proof I need. And yet, I know my heart too well. I know I am but an Israelite, feasting on manna from heaven and still grumbling for meat. When will it be ENOUGH? When will HE be enough?
Surely I will fail. Surely I will forget. I return to Birmingham in January, and I will probably question again if God has a plan for my life. And yet, as I recline on my bed in this little room, yellow paint chipping off the concrete walls and a friendly lizard staring at me from up in the corner, I pull out my Bible and read, “You, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.” (Psalm 86:15) Oh, the sweetness of those words! Steadfast love– better than life. Deep in my heart, I know it! I reach over and turn off the light, then lay back on my bed under the silver light of the moon. For tonight, at least, there are no tears.
I would love to promise that I will never doubt again– that this trip is all the proof I need. And yet, I know my heart too well. I know I am but an Israelite, feasting on manna from heaven and still grumbling for meat. When will it be ENOUGH? When will HE be enough?
Surely I will fail. Surely I will forget. I return to Birmingham in January, and I will probably question again if God has a plan for my life. And yet, as I recline on my bed in this little room, yellow paint chipping off the concrete walls and a friendly lizard staring at me from up in the corner, I pull out my Bible and read, “You, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.” (Psalm 86:15) Oh, the sweetness of those words! Steadfast love– better than life. Deep in my heart, I know it! I reach over and turn off the light, then lay back on my bed under the silver light of the moon. For tonight, at least, there are no tears.
—
Today I praise God for Anita Bucher, Brittnie Wilbanks, and the staff at Brook Hills. For Holly, Jess, and Melanie and the amazing community of friends God gifted us. For the Barger family, the Seibert family, and my small group "family"... all of whom were tangible expressions of God's love towards me when I needed it most.
I recently heard an expression from my cousin, Liza– "we're just skin around God's presence." In a time I doubted God's existence, I am grateful to each one of YOU for being the "skin" that I could feel, touch, and be sure of His love for me.
May He receive the praise for your kindness towards me.
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