Steve Harvey and Me

Well, despite our differences on immigration policy, the definition of marriage, and the legitimacy of Donald Trump's hair, one thing all Americans can rally around is the fact that Steve Harvey blew it. Watching him misread that card and call the wrong woman's name in front of millions in a contest only 17 people on the planet care about....painful.  How his misstep caused that poor lady to have to muster all the energy she had in her 98 pound body to keep smiling while they removed that crown and sash....pitiful.

Though I don't care one iota about the Miss Universe title, I can't help but be intrigued with those few moments that transpired on that stage.  I'm mesmerized by all their expressions.  Mr. Harvey's shame, Miss Colombia's mugging, Miss Philippines' disbelief.  It's all so tragic.  Adele most assuredly should write a song about it.

This is my best friend, Adele.  She is fabulous and wonderful.  She encourages me in my Steve Harvey moments.  

But as much as people are laughing and pointing fingers, I can't help but sympathize with this guy.
Because here's the thing.

I am Steve Harvey.

I say the wrong things.  I sing the wrong notes.  I miss my cue.  When the pressure is on and the expectations are large, I've blown it.  On the big screen of my small life I have wrecked quite a few scenes with my sharp words or runny mashed potatoes or hair perms gone wrong.

I have spent way too many sleepless nights reliving some of these lower moments of my life.  I cringe thinking of the offensive joke I told, or the day I wore my dress backwards to church, or the years I spent screaming at my kids.

When you start thinking of it, my list of offensive fashion glitches, obnoxious stories, parenting fails, bladder control problems, and marital mishaps begins to add up quickly.  And if I start stewing on those for very long I can begin to feel defeated and unworthy.

Shame.

It is a dreadful thing. It is the monster hiding in the recesses of our hearts that haunts us.  It loves to whisper humiliating reminders of how imperfect we are.  It cripples us with the fear that we'll never live up.  That we'll never be able to hold our tongue, lose those 20 pounds, or clear up that back acne.

But there's a secret that you, me, and Steve Harvey need to learn real fast and forever.

IT IS FINISHED

All our shame and humiliation and unworthiness we're juggling have already been cast upon Jesus.  He didn't just carry it for us. He became it.  He became our shame. He embraced our humiliation.  He bore the wrath of our unworthiness. And in return what do we get?  A guilt trip?  A judgmental finger wagging in our face?  Hardly.

God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.

2 Corinthians 5:21

I mean....have you ever?  In our culture of condemnation and judgement and mocking, this seems so foreign to us.  But in Jesus, there is no condemnation, no mocking.  Simply this....grace.  

His grace makes us worthy.  His beauty makes us lovely.  His love makes us lovable.  Jesus made the great exchange for our sake:  our sin for his righteousness.  

So the next 700 times we pull a Steve Harvey, let's remind shame of its place.  It can take us only as far as the cross of Christ.  At the feet of Jesus, all of our striving is ceased.  It is finished.

To The Boy Behind The Wheel

To the Boy Behind the Wheel That Night:

I can't seem to get you off my mind.

I know we've never met and probably never will.  But we share a similar story.   Young kids in our prime.  Big dreams, little worries.

And then life interrupts.

I was The One Behind The Wheel, too.   And, I'm heartbroken to say, my circumstance resulted in a funeral as well.

Right now I hope you are surrounded by family and friends.  I am thankful for the ones that surrounded me during that time.  I am.  Their presence created a soothing balm to my wounded soul and helped alleviate some of the horror of those days.  But there were no cliches or comforting words that made it better.  And time doesn't heal every wound.  

I relived those moments leading up to and following my wreck a million times over the days and weeks and months that followed.  There were moments I thought I was going crazy because I COULD NOT think about anything else.  When I closed my eyes, every scene would replay in the theater of my memories.  When I opened my eyes I had to deal with the reality of this life and death I was living.

Because the reality was these were dark days.  I had to wrestle with incredibly heavy questions.  Like why I lived and this man died?  Why wasn't it the other way around?  Why didn't I try to give him CPR instead of standing there screaming?  What if I had swerved the other way or just left a few minutes earlier? And why did he have to die this way...so suddenly?  Why couldn't he have had a chance to tell his family goodbye?

Mr. Davidson, the man I hit that day.....the man that died....he was just going out for a gallon of milk.  I wonder if he got to kiss his wife goodbye that day.  Or if he got to bounce his grand babies on his knee one last time.  I hope he got to look his children in the eyes and tell them he loved them.  I hope he was able to pray with a member of the church he preached at.  I think about him all the time.

I wish I had answers to all these questions that swirl around my mind.   I don't.  Thirteen years later and I am still wrestling with the same Whys and What Ifs.  But there are somethings I do know.

I know I have lived two different lives.  My life before July 5, 2002, and my life after.  Everything I see and do and experience is now seen through the prism of that day.

Every intersection I approach, I tighten my grip on the wheel.  Every time someone slams on their breaks, my heart skips 5 beats.  I sometimes feel paralyzed by the What Ifs.  Thirteen years later, I am still paranoid when someone else is driving my kids around or when my husband is late from work.

But there is something about this second life of mine that is......better.  Not necessarily happier (though I am happy now). But truer, more authentic.  The emotions I feel now are more genuine.  The love I feel for my family and friends isn't as shallow as it once was.  I am keenly aware that encounters with people could be my last.   So I say 'I love you' more. I give more generously.  I pray.  I pray a lot more.

And that is what I want to leave you with now.  For you to know that I pray for you.  I pray to the God who has all the answers to all the Whys that He will comfort you with His love.  That as you lay on your bed on your sleepless nights you will be convinced of God's perfect love for you.  That in Jesus, all of your What Ifs are chased away because He has conquered them all.  That you can rest in His perfect, good plan for your life. Because that is what awaits you.  In all of the uncertainties and turmoil right now you can hold fast to this:  Nothing can separate you from His love for you.

 And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.  No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. 

Rom 8:38-39