“ I always win. I go in there knowing I am going to win. I know I have the county of Indiana behind me, and probably the whole state of Pennsylvania. I always win,” my husband said to me the other day as we were talking about his job at the county jail. “When an inmate tells me ‘hey, wadda you doin in my cell?’ I tell them, ‘Heck no, bud, you’re in my cell. I’m just lettin’ you use it for a while.’ I always win.” He stayed quiet for a few minutes, then continued. “And you know what? If 40 of them wanted to gang up on me and kick my butt, I know I can’t beat ‘em all, but I’m gonna take the first one down with me…So either way, I’d still win. I never lose.”

I used to think that way, a long time ago. There was something incredibly exhilarating in “going for it,” knowing I would bring it to the end, no matter what. Like when I ran my marathon. I was going to cross the finish line—even if it meant crawling at the end. I simply wasn’t going to not finish. It was that simple.
I don’t think that way anymore… Life happened, and I became a little callous, less full of expectations. I find myself having more of a “que sera sera” attitude these days: I’ll try my best, but it’s very possible that it just won’t turn out. That’s just how it goes. If I don’t set my sights too high, I won’t be disappointed. And honestly, it’s no big deal if I lose since I don’t really expect to win. So realistically, I don’t try very hard–what’s the point?

But listening to my husband made me realize that life doesn’t taste as good anymore. “Que sera sera” just doesn’t lend itself to fullness.
And I miss life’s deliciousness.

Something deep within my soul woke up as I clearly saw that I somehow had stepped away from being the fighter that I was born to be. And you know what? I think I may just be too young for settling this way. There is a whole life out there for me to live, there are adventures to experience, challenges to take on. And I am hungry for the sweet taste of victory.

“I always win.” Somehow I needed to hear those words on that day.

It was never, ever personal. I have read headlines after headlines online and in the paper about suicide bombers in countries far away from my little protected life, and I never gave them another thought. Just one more. Oh well… so, what’s for dinner?
Until yesterday. Two suicide bombers targeted public places in Kampala, Uganda while people were watching the soccer world cup, and 64 people died. I know I would not even have read past the headline if it wasn’t for my Daniel.
In Kempala, right now.
The same age as the American who was killed.
And he loves watching sporting events.

And the entire world stopped.

Daniel did not die; another young man did. I get to hug him when he finally comes home from his world travel; the other family gets to plan a funeral.

I kept my emotions in check until it was all over and I knew he was safe. But then rivers of tears started to flow–thankfulness for divine protection at all times, a sense of how fragile life is, relief from deep within my gut. The tears would not stop. And the anger grew. How does such a heinous act make sense? What purpose does it have? How could sin be this ugly?

For the first time ever, I grieve for victims of horrible crime. I somehow feel deeply connected to these 64 lost lives. It could have been my Daniel. And to the loved ones they leave behind. It could have been me. I pray that the almighty, kind, compassionate and wonderful God I serve would comfort them at the core of their hearts and give them the answers that they need. I pray the world wakes up to the evil of war, the horrible deaths and the devastated lives it costs us.

It has become very personal.

I blew it again. For the kazillionth time. And I felt horrible–I know better, that’s for sure. At 51 years old, shouldn’t I have it together? What’s wrong with me? The guilt soaked my heart like oil upon a bird, and my movements became slow, entangled, encased in darkness. My breath became heavy, and my joy disappeared.
I wore my guilt like a backwards badge. And a few days later, I walked out of it. But the wound remained, not quite scared.

I blew it again. For the kazillionth time. And I felt horrible–I know better, that’s for sure. At 51 years old, shouldn’t I have it together? What’s wrong with me? The guilt soaked my heart like oil upon a bird, and my movements became slow, entangled, encased in more darkness. My breath became painful, and my joy disappeared.
I wore my guilt like a backwards badge. And a few weeks later, I hobbled out of it. And the wound got deeper, not scared at all.

And the vicious circle kept on going, round and around and around… My walk resembled that of an old woman, bent over with the weight of my backwards badge–guilt held onto with all of my ridiculous weakness. And the wound wouldn’t close any longer.

“How much is enough?” I heard Him ask me one day.
“It will never be enough,” my despairing heart answered.
“I know,” God answered.
The silence felt uncomfortable, like an unfinished conversation that did not go well.

“Well, then what?” I finally asked.
He pointed to the marks on His Son’s hands and feet. “He only is enough. Enough is enough.”

I let His words sink in deep into my very sick heart. “Help me, Holy Spirit,” I whispered. “I want to win this battle.” As I sat in His presence, grace to receive truth entered me. I began to see reality as it is rather than as I perceived it. I can never ever pay for my sins. I can never ever make atonement. My guilt-ridden body wasn’t helping; even death would not do it. He only is the law fulfiller and the giver of grace. Both met at the cross and set me free. A life for a life– His death for my freedom, His punishment for my release.

Liberated from the net of condemnation that had captivated me unto death, joy filled my heart and I felt as a bird freed out of his cage.

“Oh God of heaven and earth, how can I thank You?”
“By embracing my message, dear One, by believing my Word.
Live as the free,
Act as the loved,
Sing as the released,
and let your whole being reflect the victory of My Son.”

I say YES.