Book Club: Stumbling Into Grace

Lisa Harper

Confessions of a Sometimes Spiritually Clumsy Woman

By Lisa Harper

“So, today I’ve been thinking about . . .” Scary things. Little, sweet things. Binding things. All kinds of things—each with a story to tell and a lesson to share.

With Stumbling Into Grace Lisa has penned a part diary/part devotional book that’s honest, funny, and poignant—much like Lisa herself. With a twinkle in her eye and a Bible in her hand, Lisa helps us find security in the arms of a Savior who not only notices us—he moves heaven and earth on our behalf.

Each chapter ends with a section called “Living in Light of His Story” that includes topics for discussion or personal reflection and a question to kick-start a personal journal entry. Stumbling Into Grace is a book for all of us who occasionally trip up along life’s journey.

A Conversation with Lisa Harper

WoF: The subtitle of Stumbling Into Grace is so great: “Confessions of a sometimes spiritually clumsy woman.” How do you define “spiritually clumsy”?
Lisa: When I think of being spiritually clumsy I think of someone who is prone to wander and prone to make mistakes―not one of those Christians who looks like they have it all together, fills in all their Bible study blanks, and bakes casseroles for the needy. It’s somebody who thinks bad words in traffic and sometimes forgets their Bible study because they got so preoccupied watching Shark Week. It’s a person much like Peter: he loved Jesus but he got distracted by life, so much so that he walked away from his Master. To me, Peter is the perfect biblical example of someone who stumbled.

Even in seasons when I am really ungrateful and stumbling the whole way I still want to be stumbling toward the cross. I may be rolling instead of striding, but I want to be heading toward Jesus.

WoF: You come right out of the gate in chapter one talking about “scary things.” Do you think it’s hard for “good Christian girls” to admit we’re scared?
Lisa: Absolutely. Admitting you’re scared reveals the fact that you’re weak and I think in Christian culture we have made “weak” synonymous with not being a good Christian. But the reality is God’s strength is illuminated in our weakness. I think it takes being aware of your own fears and your own weaknesses and your own inadequacies for us to really and truly lean on Jesus.

I think there’s a necessity of neediness―of weakness, if you will―even of confessing our fear as Christians for us to live in the reality that He’s our hope, He’s our hero. We are not the hero of our story, God is. I actually have gotten much more comfortable in my own frailty because it helps me rest in the strength of my Father’s arms.

WoF: Talk to us about what you call your “inner pet idol of deservedness.”
Lisa: Throughout history the Israelites were always whining. No matter how much God gave them, no matter how well He protected and provided for them they were always like, “We’re sick of this manna, can we have bbq grasshoppers?” They’re always asking for something different, for something more. The root of the problem was they thought they deserved more.

I have that same pet idol of entitlement. I think, “Dadgummit, God, here I am 48 and single. Could you at least give me a high metabolism or small pores?” I think there is something in all of us that believes “we deserve.” Instead of saying, “Thank you, Lord, for all you’ve given me.” I survey my surroundings and go, “I deserve more than this.” Or “I deserve better than this.” Or “I deserve different than this.”

I get spanked on regular occasions when the Lord reminds me “I know what’s best for you.” Sometimes He reminds me that what I deserve is actually not what I want. What I deserve is to be judged for all the mistakes I’ve made, but instead of giving me wrath and judgment, God gives me mercy.

WoF: There’s a chapter titled “Busyness isn’t a spiritual gift.” Are you sure about that?
Lisa: The most exhausted, jaded people I meet on a weekly basis are busy Christians. We kid ourselves in thinking when we’re busy for God we’re pleasing Him. In reality God rarely tells us to do stuff for Him; most of his declarations in Scripture are ‘come be with me.’ Obviously, there’s a healthy balance―but there are a whole lot more “be still and know” parts than there are “go out and do” parts. And you can’t “go out and do” the way God’s called us to if you haven’t spent a lot of time being still and knowing.

That’s something I have to be very intentional about. I do not have the gift of being still and knowing, it’s definitely a discipline for me. I work with girls at a recovery ministry and I’ve gotten all of them to practice leaning into warm laundry. They said, “What do you mean, Lisa, ‘lean into Jesus?’” I said, “OK, here’s the deal. When y’all take the laundry out this week, just lean into it a little while. If you have even 90 seconds by yourself, lean against the laundry, close your eyes, and go, ‘Lord, teach me what it means that when I lean, you hold me.’” Now all my girls are like “I love leaning in my laundry!” It’s the practice in their lives of being intentional about being still with Jesus.

It’s not natural for the American culture and it’s even worse in evangelical culture because we’re taught that the busier you are, the more spiritual frequent flyer miles you’re adding up.

WoF: You said, “I am not the author of my own life. God is.” What does that look like in your day-to-day life?
Lisa: I love being able to see around the corner; I want to know what’s coming. It’s an issue of control: I don’t want to be hurt, surprised, or―worst of all―abandoned. God is teaching me to put down that pen, to quit trying to orchestrate everything and really trust Him when He says, “I’ll tell you when to turn left and when to turn right.”

Some things happened this last year I never would have signed up for—I wouldn’t have signed up for the pain of losing a dear friend, or walking through a bout with cancer, or losing my father in a horrible battle with Alzheimer’s—I wouldn’t have chosen any of those circumstances. If I was writing my story I would have skipped those parts. Yet now that I’m on other side of those chapters in my life, the lessons God has taught me, the intimacy I’ve found with Him in those stories . . . I wouldn’t change it for the world. I don’t want to write my story. I want to see what He has in store for me.

WoF: Talk to us about “the sanctity of scars.”
Lisa: In high school my best friend’s mom said to me one time when I was about sixteen years old, “Lisa, you will only grow through pain and anguish.” I thought What happened? Who took Charlotte and replaced her with this grumpy woman? I’ve thought about that so many times over the years. Charlotte was right. Pain strips us of pretense, pain strips us of entitlement. Difficult seasons tender our hearts so we can be soft toward other people who are walking through sadness.

Real compassion, I think, is forged in the kiln of ache. I don’t think you can have real compassion and empathy for other people who hurt unless you’ve been there, unless you’ve lived a similar story. God promises to be close to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34). There’s an intimacy we develop with God when we’re in painful seasons.

Pain is not our enemy. We spend so much energy trying to be comfortable and live pain-free lives, but actually suffering makes us beautiful. Nobody in their right mind is going to sign up for suffering, but when God in His severe mercy allows us to go through tough stuff it’s not because God is mad at us. It’s because God loves us so much that He wants us to be even more beautiful and compassionate―and He knows that’s the only way to grow us to that point.

I like who I am now with my friends who are walking through a suffering season so much more than who I was 20 years ago and the difference is I’ve had more bruises of my own.

WoF: What message do you hope readers will take away from Stumbling Into Grace?
Lisa: If I could distill it into one message, it’s what I always teach: that God thinks broken people are beautiful. It’s not about getting it right, it’s about running to Jesus. Through all the stuff of life, just keep running toward him. He knows you’re going to stumble.

This morning I had to drop my car off early to get the brakes done and they gave me a really cool, convertible loaner car that goes really fast. I was on this killer-curvy country road at the crack of dawn. I’m racing home and I get behind a “pokey.” I was like, “Really? Really? You’re ruining my cool zoom ride through the hills in my convertible!” I had to go “Lord, I’m so sorry. I’m not in a hurry; I don’t need to be grumpy at this slow driver in front of me.” I stumble every single day but I know God loves me―skinned knees and all.

Ewe Scared?

So, today I’ve been thinking about scary things.

It all started with a phone call from my doctor. Actually, I should probably back up a bit further in my story and explain that I was raised in a family where you pretty much had to slice an artery before going to the doctor. No missing school because of the sniffles for us, though coughing up blood might qualify for skipping homeroom. Much as parents lecture their unappreciative offspring with tales of hiking through snowdrifts and milking seventeen cows before eating breakfasts of gruel, I’m tempted to lecture some of my seemingly wimpy friends about the dangers of hypochondria, which is why I was really flustered by my response to this recent phone call from my dermatologist.

I wasn’t initially alarmed when her number appeared on my cell phone screen, not that she’d ever called before. I mean, we don’t play tennis or belong to the same book club or anything. Our interaction has been limited to her peering at suspicious moles and making soothing small talk while I perch awkwardly on a narrow steel table and try to keep a Kleenex-sized paper gown from exposing my other parts. But I was expecting a call from her office, because her nurse had informed me the previous week that they would call when they got the results of a biopsy she’d had done on a weird, bumpy “rash” that had been coming and going above my right ear for several years. I wasn’t expecting Dr. Vincent’s voice when I picked up. I assumed it was the receptionist or maybe some nurse who drew the short stick that day and had to make phone calls instead of doing cool stuff like stabbing people with syringes or freezing warts.

The moment I recognized the doctor’s voice, I knew the “rash” wasn’t the psoriasis my former dermatologist had diagnosed. (Frankly, that threw me off my game for a while, because he made me use prescription shampoo that caused me to smell like a mechanic. Plus, he performed a lot of liposuction in addition to mole gazing, and I was afraid every time he examined me he was going to suggest I get my cellulite sucked out.) and while Dr. Vincent spoke several reassuring sentences before saying the “C” word, all I heard was, “Waah, waah, waah, waah, waah, you have cancer!”

Then Dr. Vincent explained that, although they couldn’t know the extent of the growth until it was surgically removed, it was the best kind of skin cancer to have and was more than likely contained. What I heard was, “There is a disgusting mass upside your head that’s probably leaking poison into your brain right now!”
The doctor finally assured me that the surgical scar would be hidden underneath my hair. I heard, “You’re going to look like the bride of Frankenstein and a mob of angry citizens carrying pitchforks and lanterns is going to chase you out of your village in the middle of the night.”

Of course, I didn’t utter any of those crazy concerns out loud to Dr. Vincent. I was completely rational and very polite throughout the phone call. But after we said goodbye, I pulled over into a Walgreens parking lot and began to cry. A few minutes later, I called one of my closest friends and broke the news. She told me not to worry and reminded me that she’d had two carcinomas removed from her chest and was doing fine now. Then she said she loved me but had to go because she was in the middle of fixing dinner. Since I’ve been such a stoic patient in the past and preferred to hole up alone with Sprite and saltines during flu bouts, I was surprised by my sudden need for compassion. I realized, with an embarrassed start, that I had wanted Kim to gasp and dissolve into empathetic sobs. I became acutely aware that I was scared.

The truth is, I’ve struggled with fear my whole life. I’ve only recently begun to pull it out from under the rug of denial. As a child, I was afraid my parents’ divorce was at least partly my fault. Not too long after they split up, I became afraid of being permanently stained and unworthy after being sexually molested. I’ve been afraid of being abandoned by people who love me for as long as I can remember. I was afraid of disappointing my teacher in school, my professors in college, and my bosses at work. In my thirties, I began to be afraid of being single for the rest of my life. I really didn’t want to end up as the weird lady in the neighborhood who lived in squalor with only cats for company.

I’ve also burned up way too much emotional energy being afraid of not being good enough, sweet enough, thin enough, or spiritual enough. And I’ve been especially anxious about being perceived as afraid, because I always assumed being afraid was a bad thing. However, I’m discovering that being afraid is simply a people thing. Middle age and an increased awareness of my own frailty have teamed up to convince me that fear is an inexorable part of the human condition.

I’ve met performers who get shaky knees and dry mouths just prior to going onstage, young moms who worry about whether or not they can truly bond with their babies, brilliant CEOs who battle swarms of internal butterflies at the thought of being downsized, and more than a few preachers terrified to admit their own sins. I don’t think anyone is exempt from being at least momentarily frightened of something or someone. Whether based on an actual threat, such as a cancer diagnosis, or on some imaginary boogieman hiding in the basement, we all have fears. The good news is that we also have a Shepherd who is particularly tender with trembling sheep.

Jesus provides security during the scariest chapters of our stories.

Excerpted from Stumbling Into Grace: Confessions of a Spiritually Clumsy Woman Copyright © 2011 Lisa Harper. Published in Nashville, Tennessee by Thomas Nelson. Used with permission. All rights reserved.