About one year ago, I arrived just beyond the border of my home state, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I was a Steelers fan in Browns country, a college graduate in a community of high school drop-outs, a Caucasian in a majority of African-Americans.
We dove right in, willing to serve uncomfortably, ready to obey without hesitation. Mister and I had prayed for this moment, for this mission, for this lifestyle we believed had been fashioned by God Himself.
My nerves and emotions hummed deafeningly with anticipation. Babies, college student tenants in a big new old house, church plants, working odd jobs to help with money — with unwavering confidence, we strapped on our parachutes and jumped.
You all know what happened next.
No church plant, no church family, no church.
We had lived within Ohio state borders for barely 6 months.
I often longingly remembered the seemingly carefree days of renting in Pennsylvania. There was still hope for a family, still a sense of knowing the spiritual roles God was calling us to within His Church.
I also often longingly thought of death. December and January brought dark, shrinking days. I was holed up, alone in my now temporary home, with no church family, no job to fit my talents or my passion, no hope of ever having my own children.
God seemed to be exactly nowhere. He abandoned me, my soul would wail. My mind would recall Psalms of hope and encouragement to no avail. I literally hated myself. I felt worthless. If God couldn’t use me, then why am I even here?
Many days would include a long, hard stare at the household weapon. Thank God, I don’t think I ever would’ve used it, but I somehow wished I could obtain what that gun represented. Death appealed to me. If I died, I could simply slip into God’s rest. If I continued to exist on this earth, I would continue to be tortured with no purpose.
I became the person I used to misunderstand: the depressed Christian.
But God did not leave me in the valley for long.
I got a job. Not just any job, but a technical writing job doing the one thing I love: writing and designing technical manuals.
My dog had puppies. Not just puppies, but nine wriggly, squeaky puppies who made me forget that I was infertile.
We started attending a nearby church. Not just any church, but a biblical, loving church body who embraced us like refugees.
I think I’ve finally realized why I’m here in this scarlet red Buckeye/Cavaliers state. God used Ohio to teach me joy.
And really, God could’ve taught me joy in Pennsylvania, if He wanted to.
But He didn’t. He plopped me right down in Ohio’s armpit and proceeded to cut me deep and bleed me dry until all of the temporary, earthly things I clung to as sources of joy drained out.
My joy is not in babies or the hope of babies.
My joy is not in work or the type of work I do.
My joy is not in the importance of my church mission or how much I serve.
My joy is in Jesus. Jesus who was first cut deep and bled dry so I could experience His joy.
I don’t think it’s anything necessarily spiritual so much as a personality type that dislikes confrontation and would rather just let things slide like water on a duck’s back.
My mistake is often equating “not holding grudges” with “forgiveness”.
And I do believe that when I think I’m a-OK in something (in this case, forgiveness; in other cases, trust in God), God takes no time to show me two things:
I’m really not good at that something.
Even if I am “good at something”, it’s not to my credit.
He’s used Lyme. He’s used moving to No-Jobs-Ever-Ville, PA and No-Money-No-More, OH. He’s used infertility.
Now He’s using you.
A deep-feeling, passionate human being who, perhaps unknowingly, broke my heart and wrecked my soul on the beaches of “Disillusionment about the Church”.
I’m learning forgiveness is not simply “de-friending” you on social media and forgetting we ever met.
I’m learning forgiveness isn’t conjured up through biblical counseling with mentors or a feeling of camaraderie with others you may have hurt.
I’m learning forgiveness isn’t fast and easy and doesn’t always stir up sweet emotions or warm fuzzies.
I’m learning forgiveness doesn’t immediately follow my ability to “see both sides” or “understand where you’re coming from”.
Because I did de-friend you. With full acknowledgment of how childish it may sound, I couldn’t see you on my news feed without instant bitterness.
Because I have sought counsel, biblical counsel, which is something you refused to give me.
Because I tried to brush my hands off and claim it was all forgiven. Really, though, I just was tired of thinking about you. About our imagined relationship. About the whole thing.
Because I do see your side. Or I’ve tried to see your side. Have you tried to see mine?
All this has shown me how far I am from forgiving you.
And this bothers me.
As proud as I am of my parents for raising me as a skeptic, I’m not entirely proud of the ungracious turd I turned out to be. My natural reaction is to bring down the hammer, or to write you off completely.
But that’s not God. And that’s not me, not the me with Jesus.
I definitely don’t like the bitter floods that well up on the off-chance that I think about you. About the clear message you gave me when you never contacted me again.
There’s an unforgiving side of me that prickles at the hurt. It heats my soul, my heart like rug-burn. I want to call you, to email you, to tell you just how much it hurts.
And then there’s the new, saved, Jesus-owned side of me that just wants to forgive you and move on. To someday think of you and pray more willingly for you and your family.
I truly want this.
I’m on my way, but I haven’t arrived. The burn is too tender still. I can’t see you as the believer I know Jesus graciously made you to be.
Pray for me, however unwillingly, because I, however unwillingly, pray for you.
Marriage is one of the most humbling, sanctifying journeys you will ever be a part of. It forces us to wrestle with our selfishness and pride. But it also gives us a platform to display love and commitment.
The first few months was a tumbleweed of arguments and fights revolving around the dumbest things. Mostly, it was two sinners acclimating to living in one small space together.
I was so mad that you left a pile of clothes on our bedroom floor. It was as if you expected me to pick it up for you. “You’re 27 and you can’t even put your own clothes away,” I remember sputtering through incredulous tears.
That was rough.
And then Lyme happened. You had to help me put on my clothes some mornings. You’d walk up the stairs behind me to make sure I didn’t fall. You’d wait outside the shower in case I couldn’t step out of the tub by the end of it.
I’d try to keep a stiff upper lip for our friends and family, but only you would see me immobile on the couch, arms stuck in T-Rex form or ankle swollen to the size of a cantaloupe, sobbing about not being the first-year wife either of us imagined.
That was our first trial together.
And then you were laid off. I continued working busily, writing manuals and filming video tutorials. That was when we both realized different seasons require different roles. I realized it was my job to bring home the bacon — work wasn’t just a fun hobby anymore. You realized it wasn’t fair to not do some housework during the workday.
Remember when you got the job in Hermitage? I was so proud of you! I still am…
I remember looking for apartments. We wanted so badly to find a living space between your job in Hermitage and my job in Pittsburgh. But Hermitage won out because we ran out of time and options. I drove three hours in a day, three days a week. That wasn’t fun at all.
You realized this, and told me to find another job.
That was my last technical writing job.
I don’t think either of us realized how much I love working, how much I love writing manuals and online help and web content and proposals. But we were hoping for a family together. We had started planning for baby Hunters after our first anniversary, and I eagerly awaited for something to do with my time besides job searching.
We found a church north of Youngstown — a gospel-preaching, Bible-believing church. We were so excited. Remember our first visit? How we felt we belonged? It was like a family reunion, the way church services should be.
I think you eased into friendships at church more quickly than I did. I was the odd woman out. It was as if the women in the church didn’t have time for a married introvert with no children, unless said married introvert with no children was willing to babysit their own brood. Perhaps it was all in my head. But you were the only one I told, and you were the only one who understood.
This church wanted to plant in downtown Youngstown. How convenient, you shared excitedly with me, because I’ve been looking at homes in the Youngstown area.
I found the Youngstown Business Incubator. I pursued interviews with small software companies and their CEOs. I even met the CEO of the Incubator himself. All he wanted was a software idea. Remember my idea? It was pretty great, we thought. He and his interns didn’t really think so. I shuffled home from that meeting with my imaginary tail between my legs. I remember really wanting a milkshake.
We eventually bought a house here in Youngstown. Remember how excited we were? Well, I was more excited than you. But we both loved this old house. We fell in love with it. We saw its potential. We were still hoping for children, 15 months after our pact to strive for a family, and could see ourselves filling the old home’s halls with pitter-pattering bare feet and family traditions.
Work In Progress
Remember all the wallpaper stripping? The carpet lifting? The gigantic dumpster we rented and filled to the brim with garbage the previous owners left behind? Remember how often I defended our purchase to you? I think you caught on quicker than I did. I was still holding out hope. I was still fighting for what we wanted.
That was the basis of most of our arguments. The house. The lack of jobs. The stress. The elbow grease. Actually, I think it was mostly the dog. You’re a cat person, but, first and foremost, a firm believer in no pets at all.
I got a job shortly after we moved. It seemed promising. They liked me a lot. I did my job well. And then, without any reason except I “wasn’t a good fit for the company”, they dropped me like a hot potato. Remember how I was at home, dog sick with a monstrous cold my coworkers had passed around like a plate of brownies, and they called me and told me not to return to the building for my belongings?
I still don’t have my black fleece jacket they promised to mail back to me.
So I scooped up a job at Burlington Coat Factory. I was happy to be doing something with my life. But before I even started on my first day hanging clothing and stocking shelves, we found out that our church plant wasn’t going through? Our pastor and his family were resigning and scooting out of town? I not only had a clogged Fallopian tube, but your tests didn’t come back so hot, either? That our doctors and nurses and midwife all sorrowfully related to us our extremely poor chances at having our own children?
You dealt with it like a champ. You were saddened. You weren’t unaffected. But, like the calm, steady, reliable man you are, you were immovable. Your faith and trust in God’s will was unshaken. You were and are like a tower, a strong pillar.
And my emotions beat heavily upon my strong pillar like a hurricane. In true Pinkerton form, I hid my emotions until I spiraled head-first into a kind of depression. I loathed myself, I despised my life, I preferred to be dead.
I think that hurt you more than it ever hurt me.
And here we are, knocking on the door of our third year anniversary. We’re ragged and worn. I get phantom Lyme seizures in my joints sometimes. You get chest pain from stressing about our bank accounts and the decisions we’ve made. We’re putting our house on the market in two months. We were going to move toward Pittsburgh again, but I have a job interview for technical writing just north of Youngstown and it’s the only response I’ve gotten so far, so we still have no clue where we’re going to live. We’re no longer members of any earthly church, but we’ve learned we have no desire to plant a church and will never again move away from job opportunities for the sake of a pastor’s dream. We’re alright with not having children because, frankly, our dog is in heat and we’re getting a glimpse of what hormonal teenagers are like.
We’ve fought tooth and nail, mostly as a result of my unhinged and unhindered emotions. I’ve sinned greatly against you, with seething words and overwhelming temper, and you’ve forgiven me unconditionally. We’ve both recalled with fondness the freedom and carefree life of singleness, and then found comfort and understanding in each other’s company.
It’s no wonder non-Christian couples call it quits after a few years. Marriage is no joke.
But I’ve found a Christ-like companion in you, my Mister, and I can’t imagine surviving the past three years with anyone else. So cliche, but it’s true.
I love you.
There is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship, communion or company than a good marriage.
Your diligent, prayerful watch over my soul’s travels offers more encouragement than you know.
Your wisdom and discernment, gained through experience and quietly, graciously, resolutely given in conversation shows me what God has shown you and what a blessing older Christian women are to young believers.
Your joy in my joy, my accomplishments, my moments of revelation assures me I have an earthly cheerleader, someone in my corner, another woman with feminine emotions and desires who keenly understands my heart’s experiences.
Know that I appreciate your sympathy — no, empathy — when I tell you I might not be able to have children. I know that you, as a woman, as a human wired with motherly instincts, you feel with deep sincerity the hopelessness I felt when I first heard.
Know that I see the lights in your eyes scramble, most likely praying as I speak for words to say. And that whatever words you do say, I know came from a kind, compassionate, hopeful, yearning heart.
Know that I feel your genuine hug, your comforting hand on my shoulder, your sweet disposition cringing, effortlessly feeling my emotion.
But know that I am a complete woman in Jesus.
I know you know this.
But sometimes, I think, Christian women tend to forget that our first priority as saved-by-grace souls is not to have a family.
It’s not even to get married to a saved-by-grace man.
This infertility, this possibility of childlessness that seems to grow as time goes on due to birth control complications, processed food diets, and the cultural push to refuse marriage and motherhood until your 30s — this epidemic is sneaking up on the Church and the Church doesn’t know how to handle it.
I need to hear that God has a magnificent plan for me with or without children.
Not that an acquaintance was told the same thing by the doctors and well, she has a circus of children now.
I need to hear that my satisfaction is Jesus Christ.
Not that there are alternatives and I could always foster or adopt if I can’t birth a brood of my own.
I need to hear that God is teaching me something in this, that He is showing me contentment in His ultimate plan for my life.
Not that I shouldn’t give up trying to achieve my own desires for a family.
I shouldn’t feel like I need to defend God’s design for my future to anyone, especially a fellow sister in Christ.
I know you want me to experience your joy as a mother. I know you don’t understand why I’m not striving for medical procedures, why I’m trusting what my very careful and thorough doctor diagnosed, why I’m seemingly lying down in the dust and letting it all go.
I know you knew I was trying to have a family. You knew how much I wanted it.
I know how often you prayed I would receive it.
But now things are different. God is working to make me content in His decision. What good is it for me to dwell on whether God will change it up in the future? What harm will it do for me to rest in childlessness? Why do I need to hurry and foster or scurry and adopt? Can I not serve God as a married, childless woman? Can I not rejoice in the little things now, the Saturdays I’m able to sleep in, the Sundays where I only have to dress myself, the trips Mister and I can take without tiny humans interrupting?
Am I not whole in Christ? Was I not made complete in Him the very second He scooped my soul from the licking flames of hell?
Encourage me in what God has called me to do now, instead of stirring discontented hopefulness in things God has not promised to me.
I trust you to do this, because you are a beautiful, wise, kind, comforting, loving, godly, truthful woman of God.
Granted, he was an appointed prophet of God. He, most likely, was a true believer in God. He demonstrates God’s incomprehensible desire to work miracles through sinful human beings.
But he was ridiculous.
Remember when he not only ran from God — an impossible feat — but stormed furiously out of a town that God graciously, mercifully, wonderfully, amazingly transformed from evil, wicked, hell-bound sinners to joyous, repentant, humble, redeemed sinners?
Remember when Jonah was so eager for Nineveh’s demise that he set up camp a little ways off and waited for the sonic boom?
Remember when, even though he was being the most smug little brat ever, God promptly, in His sovereignty, grew a plant to shade Jonah’s head from sun and wind burn?
Remember when he was exceedingly happy about the plant?
Remember when God sent a little bug to eat said plant and destroy it, and then conducted the wind to blow it away, shooing all of Jonah’s makeshift shelter and temporary happiness away with it?
Remember when Jonah threw a legitimate tantrum, wailing that it was better for him to die than endure such horrible circumstances?
And God simply reprimanded Jonah’s ridiculousness, reminding him of His greatness and His grace, a note on which Jonah decides to end his brief account.
How silly, we smirk. What a fickle, ridiculous human. Is he even a believer? He couldn’t be… how on earth could a true believer behave like that to the God of the universe, the absolute Sovereign God? I wouldn’t dare…
My fellow Christians. I have been such a Jonah.
God calls me to a life I never expected, a life for which I hadn’t planned.
I didn’t dream of being infertile when Mister and I were dating.
I didn’t anticipate searching for property in Pennsylvania while moving to Youngstown for the mission of the gospel.
I didn’t craft and complete my education around the possibility of never being able to work in technical writing again.
And perhaps, at the time, I was a little bitter about it. But the women on my mother’s mother’s side of the family carry a similar trait: stoicism. We glance sideways at incoming emotions and make the quick decision to absorb them and deal with them later.
Ain’t nobody got time for emotions.
So I ran the opposite direction. Because to face the situation head-on would be to acknowledge and praise God’s goodness and grace.
I went about my business obediently, as Jonah did in chapter 2 and the beginning of chapter 3. I figured the cheerful attitude would follow eventually.
But first, the bitter tears and tantrums.
Perhaps I held out hope that ignoring the revelations in my life would rewind the clock or magically reverse the effects. Perhaps, if I just ignored the fact that I’m not getting what I want, I’ll get what I want in the end. Perhaps it’s just a test. Perhaps, actually, this month I’ll get pregnant. Perhaps, then, we won’t have to leave this house. Perhaps, this interview will turn into a technical writing job. Perhaps all the problems would go up in flames, like Jonah hoped Nineveh would.
But no. This month was just a fluke in the cycle, probably a product of stress. This house is still 4 bedrooms too big for two people and in a city without a church plant. This interview makes no difference at all because the office closed two days afterwards.
Perhaps the weight of putting all my hope in temporary thises is what shoved me face-first into mud and dragged me along by my ankles. But, for several days, to my own dismay, I heard my soul’s clamor harmonize with Jonah:
When the sun came up God appointed a scorching east wind, and the sun beat down on Jonah’s head so that he became faint and begged with all his soul to die, saying, “Death is better to me than life.”
And, until last night, I didn’t realize just how ridiculous.
Because last night, God asked me through my study of Jonah 4, “Do you have reason to be angry?”
Do you have reason to be angry about not having children?
Do you have reason to be angry about leaving this beautiful home?
Do you have reason to be angry about my dispersing your Youngstown church family?
Do you have reason to be angry about not having a job for which you studied and want so desperately?
Do you have reason to be angry about all your plans, hopes, dreams falling through at My almighty hand?
Do you have reason to be angry for losing the temporary “blessings” of this world in light of My goodness, in which you live, and My grace, by which you are saved?
No, I do not.
What a gracious God I serve. Praise the Lord who patiently deals with all of His Jonahs in love and mercy.
As the deer pants for the water brooks, So my soul pants for You, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God; When shall I come and appear before God?
It’s like God swooped in after weeks of silence just to break a carton of eggs on my head and swoop back out.
I hunger for His promises, so I chew on them in His word. I drink them in through sermons by wonderful, down-to-earth pastors. I gobble them in songs and hymns.
But my heart remains sunken. My prayers seem to fall with a dull thud. I lost my will to write anything, because how does one put any of this into words?
My tears have been my food day and night, While they say to me all day long, “Where is your God?” These things I remember and I pour out my soul within me. For I used to go along with the throng and lead them in procession to the house of God, With the voice of joy and thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival.
I have cried at length or forcefully at least once daily. An overwhelmingly sudden sadness has seized me, and I am, as Anne Shirley morosely put it, “in the depths of despair”.
Despite Marilla Cuthbert’s frank response lingering in the back of my mind — “to be in the depths of despair is to turn your back on God” — despite multiple passages and sermon lessons recalling God’s goodness and grace to mind, I can’t seem to shake it. And it haunts me.
I really did stride into this season of life in Youngstown, full of hope and excitement for “how God would use me”. I hoped for motherhood, I hoped for seeds planted to grow in a new church in the city, I hoped to live in this house forever, I hoped to find a job at a small software company someday. We soared in on the confidence of doing God’s will.
I’m not so sure anymore.
Where is He? He showed me His kindness in taking away the sting of strong desires — desires for good but temporary things. But He seemed to leave me shortly after in His radio silence once more, with unexpected bitterness reaching its fingers under the door of my soul.
Why are you in despair, O my soul? And why have you become disturbed within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him For the help of His presence.
O my God, my soul is in despair within me; Therefore I remember You from the land of the Jordan And the peaks of Hermon, from Mount Mizar. Deep calls to deep at the sound of Your waterfalls; All Your breakers and Your waves have rolled over me. The Lord will command His lovingkindness in the daytime; And His song will be with me in the night, A prayer to the God of my life.
I do not want to be in this space. In fact, I really don’t understand how I am in this space.
I am mentally aware and fully able to remember God’s truths. I have seen His goodness.
Then why do I feel as though I lost all belief? All hope? All confidence in the God of the universe?
Am I, like Martin Lloyd-Jones once illustrated, listening to my self speak? Listening to the deceitful whispers of my heart? Letting it hiss doubt into my rays of hope or mock my attempts at faith?
Have you realized that most of your unhappiness in life is due to the fact that you are listening to yourself instead of talking to yourself? Take those thoughts that come to you the moment you wake up in the morning. You have not originated them but they are talking to you, they bring back the problems of yesterday, etc. Somebody is talking. Who is talking to you? Your self is talking to you.
My soul, my saved but sinful, weak, little soul, is convincing me that I am a failure.
You can’t make babies, it says.
You won’t ever get another technical writing job, it sneers.
You can never do anything right, it cries, waving dramatically at the decisions I helped make within the past few months.
Look at this mess you call your life, it grins wickedly.
And all I do is listen.
I will say to God my rock, “Why have You forgotten me? Why do I go mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?” As a shattering of my bones, my adversaries revile me, While they say to me all day long, “Where is your God?”
My poor husband probably thinks I am spiraling out of control. I sob uncontrollably and stare bleakly. I pull a poker face while tears stream down my throat. I have a sudden urge to ask a passerby to punch me in the face, because crying from physical pain seems more productive.
Most people will think I’m overreacting.
But those who have felt completely hopeless while knowing God’s promises…
All I can do is, with David, speak truth to my soul. Tell it to shut up and listen, because the Holy God who died for me says something different.
Yeah, okay, soul, so I don’t feel, emotionally, this way right now. But God assures me in His word that I am valuable to Him. Simply because He values me. Not because of me.
And I will never lose my value to Him because of me, either, because Jesus paid for me with His blood. It’s fixed. My value has been fixed. It will never waver.
Why are you in despair, O my soul? And why have you become disturbed within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him, The help of my countenance and my God.
Now this man’s treatment [in Psalm 42] was this: instead of allowing this self to talk to him, he starts talking to himself. “Why art thou cast down, O my soul?” he asks. His soul had been depressing him, crushing him. So he stands up and says, “Self, listen for moment, I will speak to you.”
Thoughts after hearing a good word from my brother in Christ, Andrew Randall of Grace Church in Larbert, Scotland.
Before the foundation of the world, God planned.
He would create a perfect world, devoid of sin, communicating openly with the Triune God and His heavenly beings, lush with the most excellent fruit and vegetables, and where lions and lambs, wolves and rabbits lived harmoniously together. A garden in which two humans could live content and happy in God’s presence forever.
A world where no one would dream of disobeying their Lord. No one would be tempted. No one would have to die.
He made a world that could have been perfect forever, if He wanted it.
But, for His own glory, for some supernatural and loving and benevolent reason, He allowed sin into the world.
He gave opportunity for the devil to possess a snake’s body, to slither it along to Eve and hiss sweet lies into her ear. He watched and allowed Eve to heed the snake. He let her summon Adam, whom He saw fit to make passive, and let her share the forbidden fruit with him. He waited as they hid themselves from Him when He called to them, knowing they were guilty and ashamed and terrified to be in the presence of their perfect God.
Because before the foundation of the world, He planned.
He would create a world that would be overridden with sin so that He could save the men and women He predestined to be saved.
He created the world so that He could save it.
He created the world with the cross in mind.
He created the world, fully intending to send His Son to earth as fully man, fully God, where He would be persecuted and prosecuted, brutally tortured and finally brutally murdered.
Not because He needs us.
Or because we’re worth saving.
Before Christ, did you think once about the Lord? About His precepts? About His sacrifice? About His pleasure?
So why did He create a beautiful world, simply to let sin destroy it and drive it all into the pit of hell? Simply to watch as mankind spins further away from Him? Simply to make His Son and all who believe in Him the laughing stock of society? Why would He die for even one? Why would He even allow one to believe?
Because He planned to do it.
If such a God, who thought of me before speaking into the dark and commanding the light to come forth, if such a God planned the creation of an entire universe for His own glory, to show His power in salvation, to beckon me to His mercy seat and let me sing His praises…
If such a God loves me, what can man do to me?
What could the devil possibly do to bring me low?
Mister and I are infertile — the Almighty God loves me!
Mister and I have no idea where we are to live or serve — the Creator of the universe loves me!
I have a minimum wage job that pays for the trip to and from work — the Ruler of the world thought of me, saved me, and loves me!
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ,just as He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world, that we would be holy and blameless before Him. In loveHe predestined us to adoption as sons through Jesus Christ to Himself, according to the kind intention of His will, to the praise of the glory of His grace, which He freely bestowed on us in the Beloved. In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of His gracewhich He lavished on[i]us. In all wisdom and insightHe made known to us the mystery of His will,according to His kind intention which He purposed in Himwith a view to an administration suitable to the fullness of the times, that is, the summing up of all things in Christ, things in the heavens and things on the earth. In Himalso we have obtained an inheritance, having been predestined according to His purpose who works all things after the counsel of His will,to the end that we who were the first to hope in Christ would be to the praise of His glory.In Him, you also, after listening to the message of truth, the gospel of your salvation—having also believed, you were sealed in Him with the Holy Spirit of promise,who is given as a pledge of our inheritance, with a view to the redemption of God’s own possession, to the praise of His glory.