Not My Proudest Moment
by Deb Moken
This morning’s prayer journal time started out like this:
You, O Lord, are good & kind & full of mercy!
You see me, know me, hear me & love me!
No one on Earth can take Your place!
No one on Earth can fill those needs!
No parent, spouse, child, friend, church, job, or hobby.
You alone, O God, are the provider of
my need to be known, heard, seen, and loved.
Valued. In You, I am valued.
Then a question wafted into my mind: Do you remember when that wasn’t the case?
Yes, Lord, I do—like it was yesterday, but it was 35 years ago. That’s when the Lord interrupted my life with a personalized version of the parable of the Good Samaritan.
I’d been married 10 years, blessed with 3 beautiful children, health, food to eat, a roof over our heads, friends, and family. But my focus was on the unmet expectations I had placed on others. Boy, howdy, were they missing the mark!
For years I’d labored under a sense of entitlement—that somehow I deserved to have my expectations met and catered to by the people in my life. Primarily my husband, Mike. Isn’t that his job? Meet my emotional needs? My list was long, and his skill set limited. Why was he blind to my need to be appreciated, seen, heard, cherished, understood, valued, and loved in the language I best understood? I slapped that laundry list on his plate, along with the expectation for him to check things off.
He failed miserably! Phooey, most days he didn’t even try!
So I did what I had always done—whine and complain, gripe and moan to anyone unfortunate enough to be within earshot. For goodness’ sake, I deserved to be appreciated, wasn’t that a husband’s job? Wasn’t he somehow duty-bound to fill and fix all my broken places? It’s in the fine print—of that, I was convinced!
But there I was—frustrated, ugly, and broken.
Marriage hadn’t healed me.
Motherhood hadn’t healed me.
Time hadn’t healed me.
Church hadn’t healed me.
Being a Spirit-filled Christian hadn’t healed me.
Faking it till making it wasn’t working either.
I was an ugly, broken, wounded mess of a human being. Everything I didn’t like about life was attributed to someone else. But the folks in my life were blind to their responsibility to rectify it. Whining complaints, noting the failure of others (Mike in particular) to meet my emotional needs, ran through my thoughts on constant repeat. Then one day, God bumped the needle enough to get my attention:
“Why don’t you pray for your marriage instead of complaining about it?”
Harummph!?! Ten years I’d devoted to griping, whining, and complaining—feeling wounded, slighted, unappreciated, and justified. Yeah, super stupid, I know. But that’s the power of deception fueled by victimized entitlement and ignorance.
I realized praying for my husband and our marriage had never even blipped on my radar. Somehow, I had labored under the delusion that grumbling, complaining, and manipulating was the path to peace, love, and satisfaction. Isn’t that an embarrassing confession?
I sat on the couch, dumbfounded at the realization. God’s interrupting question had jerked the slack out of my reins. Ten years—and I’d never consulted God about the situation! I didn’t even know how to begin and confessed as much. That’s when the Lord asked a second question:
“Do you want to know how I see Mike?”
Me, thinking I had a pretty good idea of where this was going, said yes.
I was wrong.
An image flashed in my mind. It was the parable of the Good Samaritan, except the actors in the image weren’t Middle Eastern, Bible-time characters.
The attacked, left-for-dead man along the side of the road was a bloodied, broken, unconscious Mike.
The priest(s) were a parade of pastors and leaders we had sat under.
The Levite(s) were folks who couldn’t be bothered to veer off their courses or change their plans.
The unwanted Samaritan was me.
The innkeeper was the Lord.
This was an invitation. Was I willing to use whatever resources at my disposal to help restore hope in a person who’d been ambushed by an enemy hell-bent on destroying this man’s life and the plans God had designed for him to walk in?
I should note that Mike is not a fan of this story. What man, worth his salt, wants to be the left-for-dead victim in any story? But we each get the chance to play every role at some time in life. For years I thought I was the wounded one, but in reality I had been one of the ambushers who contributed to the damage of a man walking the same road I found myself on. It’s by God’s (and Mike’s) grace I was given the chance to redeem my stupid actions.
That day changed forever the way I looked at life, my place in the journey, and how I view everyone and everything.
Sometimes I am the ambushed, broken, left-for-dead-in-need-of-help person. Sometimes I might not be too jazzed about the way or the person(s) willing to provide aid.
Sometimes I’m the religious person, so blinded by rules, laws, and ritual that I can’t find the grace to intervene.
Sometimes I’m the one whose work and job responsibilities dictate where my time and energies are spent.
Sometimes I’m the wicked, selfish attacker.
Sometimes I’m the less-than-desired, though willing, equipped, and able person used to help and transport an enemy’s victim to a place where they can receive ministry, healing, and restoration.
Sometimes I’m the innkeeper tasked with overseeing a wounded traveler.
Not my proudest moment. But God is so very good! This year we celebrate 46 years of marriage—and Mike, you are a saint and the hero in my life story. Thank you for all you are and all you do.
