Learn from the way the wildflowers grow. They do not work or spin. But I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed like one of them. If God so clothes the grass of the field, which grows today and is thrown into the oven tomorrow, will he not much more provide for you, O you of little faith? So do not worry… -Matthew 6:28-31
Simplicity. Even the word itself is simple.
So, of course, I complicate it. Because that’s what I do.
“Keep it simple,” is the number one piece of advice my friends give me again and again and again, relating to everything from friendships to guys to work to school to God. Every time this piece of advice is bestowed upon me, I vow with renewed vigor to “keep it simple”. But what is simple? I start thinking about all the ways that something can be kept simple– what I need to think about, what I need to not think about, what I need to say, what I need to not say, what I need to do, not do– but what if I don’t do x, and then y happens and then what if I do actually have to say this and I don’t so then–
Complexity. It’s been an addiction of mine. It masks a much bigger addiction: control. Which hides an infinitely bigger reality of my heart: fear.
I have had a fear of resting and just being. I have had a fear of letting things just stand as they are and admitting that I do not have control over anything.
But I liked to deceive myself into thinking I have control. And so I tried to piece together and I tried to force and I tried to stretch and I tried to come to conclusions and have my life wrapped in a pretty little clean box, tied up shut. Because even though I complicate everything, I’ve been afraid of complexity, too.
This fear, though. We’re all afraid. We’ve all bought into lies. What is it though, really? What is this fear that drives us? What are we truly afraid of?
We’re afraid that we’re not enough. We’re afraid that we’ll never be enough.
We’re filled with fear that everyone will leave us, that we’ll be totally abandoned. We’re consumed by fear that we will live in our brokenness forever, unhealed and unrestored. We’re living in the fear that even if we really let go and give everything to God, we’ll still be left unsatisfied. We’re crippled by the fear of being seen and being seen as not enough.
We project how we have experienced love onto how we view God’s love. We’ve been abandoned, abused, used, rejected, misunderstood. We have serious trust issues, understandably so. We’re locked up in fear, living in our brokenness, having convinced ourselves that it’s how we’re supposed to be. We don’t even admit wounds are there anymore, because there is no point. We talk around real issues because we’re afraid of the cost of being honest. “It’s fine” has become our chorus.
“Fine” is the worst word.
Learn from the way the wildflowers grow.
Okay, Jesus, that’s cute but what does that actually mean? What does that mean to a heart that is so alone and is never enough? What does that mean to a heart that’s been bruised and rejected? Nice little wildflowers blowing in the wind. Simple and pure and perfect. None of those words describe me. What do I have in common with wildflowers?
They do not work or spin.
We work a lot, don’t we, y’all? I know I’m not alone in this. We work to be seen, we work to matter, we work to be significant. Actually, let me rephrase that: we work to be seen as we want to be seen. We work to be identified as we want to be identified. Not as we truly are.
Here’s how the wildflowers grow.
They just do.
Simply, they exist. They don’t try to be what they’re not. They don’t hide from the sun. No, they turn and they face that sun with all that they are. And when they don’t see the sun, they’re still facing the sky, demanding a reappearance because they know that it is up there.
Brothers and sisters, I am SICK of hiding from the sun. I am sick of hiding the reality of the fear that has gripped my heart under a mask of complexity and control. I am not in control. I don’t know what is going in my life most days, what is going on in my heart. I don’t have it together. I have days where I feel so lost and abandoned.
Surrendering to God means this scary admission: I am not enough.
I am not enough.
But I am not going to dive back into the dirt. I’m not hiding from the Son. He came to seek and save the lost. He didn’t come to the healthy, but for the sick. I am going to stand here and let Him see me as I am.
For Lent (and forever), I’m giving up the fear of the reality that I am not enough. If I was, I wouldn’t need a Savior.
We need to cry out to Him in our poverty. We need to stop hiding our brokenness from Him, our wounds. We need to stop hiding the fact that rejection and loneliness has scarred our fragile hearts.
Y’all. Jesus desperately wants to satisfy you. He wants to fill you, He wants to restore you. He wants to be enough for you. It’s not just a passive desire. It’s a radical desire that lead Him to leave Heaven and walk where you walk and feel your hearts and be crucified and come back. There is nothing that He wouldn’t do for you.
Maybe you’re like me and you’ve heard these things your whole life. But how much do you believe them?
When we cry out to Him from the most broken parts of our hearts, He does not turn away. When we keep calling and calling and open ourselves to allow Him to work in an uncontrollable way, in a way He wants to work…He works. He heals. He restores.
You are precious. You are priceless. You are loved. There is no fear that He cannot conquer and no heart that He cannot restore.
I’m praying for you.