Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of His might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil. For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.” (Ephesians 6:10-12, ESV)

Here is a sad confession. I typed those three verses (almost) entirely from memory, and it took me a pathetic amount of effort to achieve that. Since the 5^th grade when I struggled diligently to learn the Gettysburg Address for my beloved teacher Ms. Turner, I have known that I am not good at memorizing. Oh, I have a great memory—for events, for people, for the basic essence of a story or passage of scripture—but my word-for-word recall is seriously challenged. At age 48, I now feel compelled to change that—somehow. My motivation? Warfare.

Over the past few weeks, I realized that I have been walking around completely uncovered—spiritually naked and exposed. After Christmas—just when I started looking to the future with some dreams and some concrete plans; just as I settled into new semester routines designed to help me stay focused, caught up, and spiritually fed—in swooped the enemy to launch another assault, and immediately the grief and the despair and the fear rushed in and kidnapped my mind and heart.

I have watched Satan completely capture someone I dearly loved and so pervert that person’s thinking and behavior that I was unable to recognize him anymore. Of all people, I should know the stakes of the war and the incorrigible, unscrupulous character of the enemy.

But somehow, yet again, the enemy found the weak spot, found the buttons to push, found the place to strike. I was blindsighted yet again. Attacks were launched. Safe people and places became unsafe. And before I realized what was even happening, the enemy had my mind again. I do not know whether the attack hurt the most or the disappointment I felt for allowing the little punk to get to me again.

In the midst of that disappointment, I woke up to an early morning text from a friend with this word God had given her for me:

“Then the Lord will create over the whole site of Mount Zion and over her assemblies a cloud by day, and smoke and the shining of a flaming fire by night; for over all the glory there will be a canopy. There will be a booth for shade by day from the heat, and for a refuge and a shelter from the storm and rain.” (Isaiah 4:5-6, ESV)

With it, she added a word of encouragement: “Melissa, you know that place…keep going there!!!! One moment, one day at a time.”

Reading her message took me immediately back to the passage in Exodus that this same faithful friend had shared with me two months ago. That passage said, “Then the angel of God who was going before the host of Israel moved and went behind them, and the pillar of cloud moved from before them and stood behind them, coming between the host of Egypt and the host of Israel. And there was the cloud and the darkness. And it lit up the night without one coming near the other all night.” (Exodus 14:19-20, ESV)

How, in just two months, had I managed to slip out of His protective covering? As I pondered this over the course of the morning, God continued to speak truth to me until a picture emerged. I had allowed myself to become exposed—to live uncovered—outside of that canopy, right in the middle of the storm and rain.

Over the days that followed, God sent word after word:

Stand firm.

Walk THROUGH the valley…He is with you.

The enemy will twist the truth and speak his lies through anyone willing to be his vessel.

You have been in a long battle, and you are weary, but your endurance will not come from your own strength. It will come from His endurance in you. 

Put on the armor of God every single day and as you do, tell yourself WHY you need each individual piece.

You are covered and protected by grace. Jesus is strong in you! 

I had somehow forgotten the power of the enemy and his dirty tactics and shown up for the battle wearing nothing but my own strength. Self-talk is not enough to the win the battle for my mind. Self-disciplines will not sustain me when I experience betrayal or personal attacks. Emotions will prove weak companions in the dark of night when the enemy whispers his lies.

I do not know how long it will take me to memorize the rest of the Armor of God, but I am determined to own that word and every other passage of warfare scripture I can find. Next time the enemy comes after my mind, He will run straight into the Word of the Lord. Straight into truth. And it will send him scurrying back into the darkness with his little lies.

That is how I will stay covered. That is how I will endure. That is how I will claim the victory that is already won.

“Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm. Stand therefore, having fastened on the belt of truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness, and, as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace.  In all circumstances take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one; and take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God, praying at all times in the Spirit, with all prayer and supplication.” (Ephesians 6:13-18a, ESV)

President’s Day 2018. I parked my white Toyota Sequoia in front of the Hanbury Road Starbucks just as I had countless times before. I pushed the café door open with my shoulder, dropped my bags beside one of the small, round tables, and walked shakily to the counter to place an order. When the barista in front of me asked what I wanted to drink, my brain froze. “I don’t know,” I stammered, staring at the menu blankly. “I have no clue.” And then I started to cry.

Right there in the middle of Starbucks, the stress of the day leaked out all over the register display of gift cards and packaged sweets. My shoulders shook as the silent tears increased and all the bottled-up tension finally escaped.

I had made a mistake that morning—did something I thought would be helpful and would definitely make life a little safer for me—and it was not well-received. By any stretch. I had paid. Over and over again—all day long.

I had been coming to this Starbucks for years, but during the hellacious fifteen months in which my marriage went from bad to dangerously toxic, I practically lived there. Mostly I worked—developing curriculum and grading papers for online English courses. I started to recognize other regulars and knew many of the baristas by name. It was a friendly, comfortable place—my “third place” as defined by sociologist Ray Oldenburg.[1] But as the months went on, it became so much more.

I took my dinner there every night so I could eat it in peace. Each evening, I watched out the front window of our home, so I could perfectly time my exit and guarantee sparing the children exposure to another uncensored encounter.

Seven minutes later, I opened another door where my heart rate returned to normal and the tension I carried could dissipate—for a few hours at least.  My “third place” became my safe space. A space free from caustic words and actions that were eating away at my soul.

It eventually became a place to plan my escape. A place to meet the realtor who would help me find a peaceful home for myself and my kids. A place to talk freely to my parents and brother who made it financially possible for me to even consider doing that. A place to meet friends who would help me bolster the strength it would take to walk away from all that I had known for the past twenty-six years.

On President’s Night when Sarah and Levi decided that a Black and White Mocha seemed the appropriate drink for someone in my condition, walked the drink over to my table, and asked if there was anything they could do to help me, I stammered an apology and mumbled that I was in a marriage that had become “kind of abusive” and had just had a really bad day.

Sarah offered to pray for me. Said she hoped I didn’t mind if she said that. I told her I didn’t mind at all. I would really appreciate that.

In the coming months, I got to know Sarah. And Ryan, one of the other regulars. And Sam and Stephanie and Mateo and Jake and Sing and Rehoboth. And then Dakotah and Liz and Mackenzie and Hayley. They knew my drinks. They knew my kids. They knew my story. And I started to know theirs. They were part of God’s provision in an unimaginable tempest.

Some of them helped me move my belongings—one carload at a time—into my new, peaceful home. Some of them spent their tens and thirties encouraging me through the hardest days—giving advice or just listening. They wrote messages on my cups—“We love you, Mom! You’ve got this!” They gave me rides, helped with my kids, watched our dog, visited our home. They became family.

There is a void in the system for people who experience invisible abuse—the kind that leaves internal scars. And when you have multiple kids with special needs, you aren’t exactly portable or welcome to crash indefinitely in a friend’s guest room. And in your search for safety and peace, the most unlikely place—an icon of pop culture, a chain, a place like thousands of others around the country—steps up to provide what nothing and no one else could.

I have been to a lot of coffee shops over the years. They are great places to work, meet friends, and get a sugar or caffeine fix. And I have met some friendly, kind baristas over the years—Marcus and Paco and Taylor and Nick, among others. But there is something special about “my Starbucks.” An atmosphere of community and warmth created by the people who work there—people who do more than craft beverages. They go beyond their job description to really see people and care about them. And sometimes, without even knowing it, they throw a lifeline to a drowning person.

When Sarai and Abram took matters in their own hands and “helped” God fulfill His promise of a child by having Abraham sleep with Sarai’s servant Hagar, the two women understandably lashed out at one another. Hagar fled to the wilderness. It’s easy to imagine how alone she felt there—pregnant with her mistress’s husband’s child, guilty for treating Sarah “with contempt,” battered by Sarai’s “harsh” treatment of her, alone, afraid, worthless? But then “the angel of the Lord found her by a spring in the wilderness” and asked where she was going. When she said she was fleeing from her mistress, the angel told her to return and submit to her and then made incredible promises to her about the power of the son she would bear. And Hagar “called the name of the Lord who spoke to her,” saying, “You are a God of seeing…Truly here I have seen him who looks after me.” And she named the well “Beer-lahai-roi,” which means “well of the Living One who sees me.” (from Genesis 16:1-14, ESV)

I used to go to Starbucks for the drinks. For the workspace. To meet with others. I guess I still do those things. But last year I went for protection—a safe space where I could breathe and eat and not be afraid. And in that space, God saw me and provided for me.  My Beer-lahai-roi.

I still visit the Hanbury Road Starbucks almost every day—I’m primarily a drive-thru customer now because single motherhood doesn’t lend itself to hours in a coffee shop. But that’s just fine by me. I recognize their voices on the intercom, and they know my drinks—usually a “Venti Blonde Latte, add Chai” and “two tall, iced Decaf waters” for my constant companions.

I no longer need a safe space. God provided me a beautiful home where I can eat and breathe and sleep in peace. But I still have hard days, and one of my first instincts is to go to my “third place.” Because I am guaranteed to see a friend there, to get a smile and a word of encouragement. To remember that God sees me and provides. Always.

And the drinks aren’t bad either.

“I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping. My eye wastes away because of grief; it grows weak because of all my foes. Depart from me, all you workers of evil, for the Lord has heard the sound of my weeping. The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord accepts my prayer.” (Psalm 6:6-9, ESV)

[1] https://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2014/04/13/the-pros-and-cons-of-gentrification/every-community-deserves-a-third-place

I recently went to the Chesapeake Courthouse to file a petition. This is the second time in my life that I have done this. The first time, I was there as a terrified mom, small child in hand, seeking justice and escape from a situation I desperately wished would prove to be a very, very bad dream. This time, I went freely and with great purpose. I went to get my name back.

In a week or so, I will receive an order signed by a judge that officially changes my name to Melissa Delayne Dean—the name on my birth certificate from 1970. The name I grew up with, graduated from college with, and left at the wedding altar almost twenty-seven years ago. A name I never expected or wanted to use again.

Aside from the logistics that await me when I receive that court order—think DMV, Social Security and military ID offices, banking, insurance, mortgage, and on and on and on—this act has prompted a lot of self-reflection about identity. I didn’t want to change my name. I have edited and taught and published articles under my name for just under three decades. I gave birth to five and adopted three children who share what will soon be my former name. I speak it easily, sign it comfortably (albeit it unrecognizably), and am known by it in every circle of my life.

In some ways, returning to my birth name feels like going backwards. Who wants to return to their 22-year-old self? Not me! I was so very clueless then—insecure and foolish in so many ways. I found my self-worth in others and was willing to be used and deceived in exchange for “love” and security.

But as I began to lament that aspect of my decision to return to the courthouse, the Lord reminded me of this passage of Scripture:

“Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that the Son of Man is?’ And they said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, others say Elijah, and others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’ He said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ Simon Peter replied, ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God’ And Jesus answered him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven.’” (Matthew 16:13-17, ESV)

I have always focused on the obvious message of this incident—Peter’s affirmation of Christ’s deity and Jesus’s subsequent blessing and declaration a few verses later that Peter would be the rock on which Christ’s church would be built. And of course, that message is true and powerful and very important.

But the Word is living and active, and God uses it to speak truth into our current situations as well. And what He said as I read this word afresh was that I should ask Him the same question He asked Peter: Who do you say that I am?

How many other places do we turn for the answer to that question? Social media, our careers, our bank account balances, our reputations, our public image, the approval of our family or friends, the titles that accompany or don’t accompany our names.

Over the past year and a half, I have experienced an enormous amount of spiritual warfare. The enemy never plays fair and always goes after the things you value most. He is the father of lies, and he binds people up so tightly they cannot even feel their own oppression. As he has waged his war, I have at times unknowingly cooperated with him. But the more I have been forced into the arms of Jesus—the one who comforts me, fights for me, avenges wrongs on my behalf, understands the pain of betrayal, cries with me, sings over me, instructs me, shields me, holds me, and simply loves me—the more I have begun to recognize when the enemy is trying to distract me, bait me, and suck me into his game.

Identity is one of those battlegrounds. Satan wants us to look to the world, to each other, to ourselves, and to our circumstances for definition. And he loves to whisper his own suggestions if we will listen–“not enough, replaceable, unworthy, condemned.” How willingly we cooperate with his game, defining one another by external characteristics like age, gender, race, sexual orientation, economic status.  But the Lord wants us to look to Him, the One who made us–each and every one of us–in His perfect image. The One who knows every hair on our head, who put the very breath in our lungs. The One who sees us when no one else does.  The One who knows our heart–and loves us anyway. Jesus’s response to Peter’s accurate proclamation of His deity shows us exactly where to look for our own identity: “Blessed are you…For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven.”

When that court order arrives in my mailbox, I may have a lot of headaches awaiting me as I unravel 27-years of life as Melissa Dean Barnes and reinstate myself as Melissa Delayne Dean, but I am not going back to an inferior version of myself when I return to my birth name. I am reclaiming my identity from someone who did not cherish it and returning it to the only One who ever will—the only One to whom I should be asking, “Who do you say that I am?” And the only One capable of revealing that identity to me.

“For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.” (Psalm 139:13-16, ESV)

“Dear Jesus,  Please help Mommy’s broken heart get better.  Amen.”

Today I sat in my special chair overlooking my beautiful creek holding my precious son with tears streaming down my face, and he prayed this prayer for me.

Some days everything goes wrong. You cry yourself to sleep the night before because you just crash and need to let out a stockpile of emotions that you had been holding in to get through the holidays. A bad dream about a fire brings one child into your tear-stained bed at 5am. You stumble out of bed shortly after to find that another child disconnected her feeding tube and has Pediasure and stomach acid literally pooling on the floor under her mattress. You strip the sheets and gather them into a bundle, trying not to let the formula drip all over the floor between her bed and the washing machine, only to forget to remove her wet overnight diaper. A few hours later, your washing machine is broken from whatever the contents of diapers do to washing machine pipes. You get some really bad news from the insurance company. Your bank account balance does not look ready for the mortgage payment that is about to be auto-withdrawn from it. You hurt the feelings of someone you adore, and your apology is woefully inadequate. You mess up a few other million little things in your day. And eventually, the tears just pour out all over everything.

And then your son prays for your broken heart and tells you he really hopes God will make it better. And you promise him that Jesus is a miracle worker and is amazing at healing broken hearts and that you are sure He will fix yours. And your son says, “Like the way He stopped the storm?” And you say, “Yes, just like that. Only sometimes He doesn’t stop the storm; He just makes you safe in it.” And then your son says, “Like Noah?” And you stop and stare in amazement. Because how can a five-year-old boy who struggles to remember the names of the colors and the numbers understand such a profound truth about God? “Yes,” you mutter. “Just like Noah.”

I have missed writing since Advent ended and have been praying about how and whether to continue writing regularly. I decided to commit to write weekly on my blog…no set day, no set topic, no set agenda. All I know is that I want to chronicle this journey God has me on and to write my way through it so that I can hear Him over the noise of my everyday life. So I can know where He is taking me and how He wants me to get there.

I chose my word for 2019 (http://myoneword.org): FORWARD. I want to focus forward, think forward, move forward. That doesn’t mean I am living with my eye on the future. It just means I am headed in the right direction.

My friend Beth constantly reminds me not to look at the past unless I do it through Jesus’s eyes. It’s a tough challenge. I try to go back there so many times. What if…? If only…? Why…? Why not…? Remember when…?

I also get overwhelmed at the uncertainty ahead. How will I…? What will I…? What should I…? What am I meant to…?

I keep little reminders all around me.  A picture above my bed with a C.S. Lewis quote:  “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”  A John Piper quote above my computer:  “Occasionally, weep deeply over the life you hoped for.  Grieve the losses.  Feel the pain.  Then wash your face, trust God, and embrace the life you have.”  A screensaver on my phone that says:  “Don’t look back.  You aren’t going that way.”  Sometimes they work; sometimes they don’t.

One of the things I value most in all the world is transparency. I love genuine, real people who aren’t afraid to share their hurts and mistakes and flaws and are willing to hear and accept mine but also encourage me to overcome them.

So in honor of transparency, I am writing my first 2019 entry on a truly pathetic day. A day filled with tears. A day filled with failure. A day filled with screw-ups.

But also a day filled with friends reaching into the muck to give me a hand, a word, a prayer, a smile, and some sound advice. Because He doesn’t always stop the storm, but He does teach us to build arks to keep us safe in them. And once we build them, He gently shuts the door with His very own hands. And closes us in where the rain and the wind and the lightning cannot touch us. And He moves us forward—the only direction worth going.

And when we forget, He uses little five-year-old boys to remind us.

“They went into the ark with Noah, two and two of all flesh in which there was the breath of life. And those that entered, male and female of all flesh, went in as God had commanded him. And the Lord shut him in.” (Genesis 7:15-16, ESV)

(Photo cred:  Ashlyn Hockman)