Crossing Your Jordan

“Hear, O Israel: you are to cross over the Jordan today, to go in to dispossess nations greater and mightier than you, cities great and fortified up to heaven, ² a people great and tall, the sons of the Anakim,whom you know, and of whom you have heard it said, ‘Who can stand before the sons of Anak?’ ³ Know therefore today that he who goes over before you as a consuming fire is the Lord your God. He will destroy them and subdue them before you. So you shall drive them out and make them perish quickly, as the Lord has promised you…⁶ “Know, therefore, that the Lord your God is not giving you this good land to possess because of your righteousness, for you are a stubborn people. ⁷ Remember and do not forget how you provoked the Lord your God to wrath in the wilderness. From the day you came out of the land of Egypt until you came to this place, you have been rebellious against the Lord”

Deuteronomy 9:1-3,6-7

We all have personal “Jordan Rivers”—pivotal moments where God calls us to move forward, to walk courageously. These  moments often come after wilderness—times of pain, confusion, desolation in our circumstances or hearts. Often we’re fearful to take the next step—to end the relationship, to change our habits. Just like Israel we forget that God goes before us—that it is His power that equips us to walk, to fight our battles, to take the land He’s calling us to. If you’re like me, you do start to think that it’s all on you to make the right decisions, to say the right things, to remain silent—forgetting that it is not by our works that we are even where we’re at today.
I think our wilderness seasons are so pivotal because they forever remind us just how much we need our Savior. When everything around you has crumbled you’re left with the essentials—what you really needed in the first place.

“God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn't. In this trial He makes us occupy the dock, the witness box, and the bench all at once. He always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down” (A Grief Observed C. S. Lewis).

It is often in our wilderness seasons that we are humbled and refined. It can feel like punishment but it’s actually the most loving thing to be reminded of what matters. The wilderness prepares us for crossing the Jordan.
 I don’t know what wilderness you’re in—where your heart is parched by pain—but I know that He will not waste it and that it won’t last forever. Our God is the one who made water pour forth from rocks—and he does that with our heart’s too.

Know that your Jordan will come—and that He goes before you, prepares you, is with you, wherever you go.

A Lesson in Grace from My Grandfather

Speeding down a sun-speckled Midwestern highway, a weathered hand pats my own “You keep writing, Elise. Write about your life, what happens to you. It’s your gift”. My eyes water at his affirmation, his love; his encouragement irrigating dry ground.

Earlier that day I peered through a cracked door to see him pouring over a book, pen poised to take notes. Upon entering the book-crammed study, I sigh and my heart echoes—so this this where I got it—the love for reading, studying, writing—it’s in my blood. As I settle into a well-worn chair, I can’t help but look around at the shelves spotted with photographs of family and friends. I know he prays for these people faithfully, daily; blood related by the cross.

Our roots lead to wings—sometimes to fly away from danger, sometimes to tether us to our calling. “You can’t pick your family”—some grin, many grimace.

“The place you start your journey is your anchor, the filter through which you process every single stop along the way…If, along the way, you realize you’ve been heading the wrong direction, you might change your trajectory, but you can’t change where you started” (Allison Fallon,Packing Light).

My eyes move from pages to photographs, glimpses of what matters to my grandfather. He is a man who has lived quite the journey. He’s the first to admit he’s not the man he once was, and his family echoes this. Grace is exemplified when a person knows they need it—when they, like David, from the heart say “against you only have I sinned” (Psalm 51).


Back on the cloud-shadow spotted road, my grandfather remarks “twenty years ago I never would have thought I would be ministering to sex offenders in prison, but the Lord has changed me”. We never know what events will change the course of our lives—when our hearts will be moved to speak or to be silent, when tragedy or triumph will mark our path. Yet, as I listened to my grandfather reminisce on life and change, I couldn’t help but be encouraged by grace—that sees our pride, our prejudice, our fear—the grace that knows our starting points, the families we’ve been placed into—and calls us to walk with Him. This grace doesn’t demand perfection—casting us away at the first inconvenience, mistake, or conflict—rather, it redeems in the most humble and humiliating way—by taking the punishment for our errors, our anger. The infinite entered time. His grace must be our starting point—it must be our anchor—He has adopted us as family—grace received leads to grace exemplified. Indeed, “His grace has brought us safe thus far, His grace will lead us home”