I come from a family of lawyers.

My dad, two of my uncles and my older sister are all lawyers. I remember watching Dad do his thing in the courtroom when I was a little kid and told everyone I wanted to be a lawyer one day. Once I reached high school, I began working in his office during the summers.

It didn’t take me long to realize that it wouldn’t be a good fit in the long run. But I was proud of my dad and the difference he was making fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.

I’ve been called for jury duty three times in the five years that I’ve lived in Orlando. Seriously, lived in Ocala all my life and was NEVER called. I move here and keep getting those bleeping postcards in the mail.

I know I shouldn’t complain. It’s an honor, a privilege, my civic duty, blah, blah, blah. I know. But it’s still annoying. Especially when I know that they’ll never choose me to actually serve. Once they hear about my family tree in the legal arena, I’m immediately scratched off the list, but still not released until the end of the workday.

I’ve gotten the hang of the speech they give you while the attorneys are going through the jury selection process. You hear a lot about the ‘burden of proof.’ In our amazing country, all are considered innocent until proven guilty. Therefore, the burden of proof is on the prosecution. And if they can’t prove your guilt, you’re free.

Now as we all know, there’s a big difference in ‘innocent’ and ‘not guilty.’ When the verdict is read, it’s either ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’ ‘Innocent’ is not an option. The prosecution either proved you guilty or they didn’t.

If the defense can’t prove your innocence, they can just find enough holes in the prosecution’s case to raise reasonable doubt. As we saw with OJ Simpson and Casey Anthony, the verdict may not necessary reflect what actually happened. As Tom Cruise reminds his client in A Few Good Men, “It doesn’t matter what I believe. It only matters what I can prove.”

Proof is indeed a burden, isn’t it?

Sometimes I wish there were a mental/emotional version of FitBit to track where I expend the most mental/emotional energy during the day. I fear the results would show a ridiculous amount of preoccupation with proving myself. To anyone and everyone.

Proving to my husband that I can be equal parts his partner in logistics and the love of his life.

Proving to the kids that I’ve got their laundry, calendar and most meals under control.

Proving to my employers that I’m worth what they’re paying me.

Proving to my parents that I am, in fact, an adult and that I play the cards life has dealt me reasonably well.

Proving to my friends that I love them by making time for them.

Proving to people who are wrong about me that they’re wrong about me.

Proving to God that I’m doing my best for Him and that maybe I really was worth saving.

And the list goes on. What a burden.

And then there are those people who really, truly, down-to-their-toenails believe that they’ve got nothing to prove. That their value and worth were settled once and for all on a cross by the perfect God-man thousands of years ago. They live John 8:36, “So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.”

And they are. Free. It oozes from their pores. Their eyes sparkle. They breathe easy. They’re hard to rattle. Their presence calms and soothes those around them. They feel safe and dangerous at the same time. And I want it.

You know why? Because I was made for it too. Freedom.

Freedom from expectations, mine and others.

Freedom from competing and comparing.

Freedom from gathering the stuff and materials of this world that won’t mean jack in the next.

Freedom from time wasted on distractions, on anything less than my purpose.

Freedom from guilt from the past.

Freedom from fear of the unknown future.

Freedom from the burden of proof.

Jesus knew exactly who He was. And yet because of His inexplicable, immeasurable love for us, in His great mercy, He spent much of His time on earth proving His identity and fulfilling prophecies. The difference is, He wasn’t proving Himself to us to gain our approval or to stroke His own ego. He wasn’t proving Himself for HIM. He was doing it for US.

Because when our salvation was on the line in the courtroom of heaven, Satan the accuser, the prosecutor had more than enough evidence to prove our guilt. God, the righteous Judge, insisted the debt be paid. Justice must be done or the over holiness and perfection of God Himself would be compromised.

We had no defense, no holes could be poked in Satan’s airtight case. Our fate was sealed. Until our Advocate, Jesus Himself, picked up our burden, paid our wages of sin by dying the death that we deserved. Bought us for all time with His priceless blood.

Court dismissed. It is finished.

And yet somehow knowing that like I do, even teaching it to others, I still spend my days choosing to drag around my burden of proof that has long been settled. Satan didn’t win his case against us. But his next best option is to make us doubt the finality of what Jesus meant by ‘finished.’

There’s a powerful moment in the movie The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I avoided that movie for years because I knew it would freak me out. I know from personal experience that spiritual warfare is real. And it’s nothing to be trifled with. But there were multiple battles being fought in that story, which is loosely based on actual events.

The battle between the priest and the demons who had taken over Emily’s body.

The battle between her family and the doctors about what was actually causing her terrifying behavior.

The battle between the state and the priest, who was on trial for causing Emily’s death through his attempts to exorcise the demons.

And the battle for the faith of the lawyer representing the priest in the case. She believed in nothing, yet she had to create enough of a case for the possibility of the supernatural to free her client. And it turns out, THAT is the main battle in the movie, despite the title.

[SPOILER ALERT]

The jury returns with the verdict and the judge reads it aloud.

“In the case of the people vs. Father Richard Moore, we, the jury, find the defendant guilty of negligent homicide.”

The judge announces the sentencing date. Attempting to maintain her composure, the priest’s attorney addresses the judge. “Your Honor, if it pleases the court, Father Moore requested at the beginning of the trial that, if found guilty, he would be sentenced immediately.”

The prosecution had no objections, so the judge questions the priest. “Father Richard Moore, do you understand this verdict that has been found against you?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And do you understand that—given the gravity of this crime—that you may, under the law, be sentenced to a term of up to ten years?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are there any statements you would like to make before I impose this sentence?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Very well.”

The jury foreperson jumps in. “Excuse me, Your Honor, but the jury would like to make a recommendation regarding the sentence.”

Prosecution objects, judge overrules. The foreperson continues, “We recommend a sentence of time served.”

After a long pause, the judge responds, “I’ll accept that. You are guilty, Father Moore, and you are free to go. This court is dismissed.”

Guilty and free to go.

GUILTY. And FREE.

Court dismissed. It is finished.

In my clearer moments, I remind myself that I truly have nothing to prove. I was trying to solve a problem by playing out different scenarios to my wise and wonderful therapist. I was afraid if I did such-and-such, it would send the wrong message. But the other option presented an equal opportunity for misinterpretation.

She chuckled and temporarily knocked the burden of proof of my aching shoulders with, “I wouldn’t worry too much about possibly sending the wrong message. They’re going to get it wrong anyway. So just do what you want.”

For a moment, I breathed the sweet air of freedom from the opinions and expectations of others. And you know what? If I lived that way, I could cover some serious ground for the Kingdom.

The burden of proof is no longer mine to carry. God only knows why I keep pulling it back out of His mighty crucified hands and repositioning it on my weary shoulders. It’s too big. I can’t move with it attached to me. I must learn to put it down and walk in the freedom that my Jesus paid dearly for. I have nothing to prove.

People who have nothing to prove are dangerous, in the most delicious way. Fearless. Dare I say, even reckless with their faith. They live without constraint, without the internal tugs-of-war that paralyze those of us who still think we have something to prove.

In moments of hesitancy and second guessing, maybe someday I’ll be able to open my heart to the whispers of the One who carried my heavy cross up a dark hill and died on it for my eternal release. From everything.

You have nothing to prove, My child. Be free indeed.

Court dismissed. It is finished.

I lay in bed next to my sister at my grandmother’s house in Kentucky. We were both reading, trying to quiet our minds so we could stand a chance at falling asleep.

It was the evening after my grandfather’s funeral and I was, of course, emotionally spent. I found myself rereading the same words over and over on the page, trying to make sense of them. But it wasn’t working.

I put my book down and stared at the ceiling. “The world feels different now, you know?”

“Yeah,” Ali replied, not looking up from her book. “I know.”

“It’s like those times when something happens in your life and you know nothing will ever be the same because it just changed everything.”

“I know what you mean.” And I knew she did.

I had said for years that when my D-Daddy dies, part of me would never be the same. I was right.

I thought of my grandmother, who was downstairs trying to fall asleep alone. And this aloneness wasn’t temporary, like the times D-Daddy was in the hospital and would be home soon. This alone was the new normal, a life-altering turning point.

We have all had turning points in our lives. Moments or events that just change everything. Graduations. Weddings. Divorces. Moves. Job changes. Births. Deaths. All things that can force our lives to change course.

I’ve had a number of jobs since graduating college. Some I liked more than others. But one thing that has consistently bothered me about new jobs is that annoying learning curve.

You show up for your first day and you spend the next week or two doing nothing but asking questions. I always feel fairly useless to the company and burdensome to my new coworkers during that time. I’m always thankful when I hit my groove and am finally able to do the job I was hired to do.

There is a learning curve with life’s turning points as well. You feel completely lost and out of your element as you take your first few awkward steps in the dance of the new normal. Sometimes you’re anxious to get the hang of the new rhythm. Other times you would just give anything to go back to the dance before, the dance you knew and loved.

One of the most traumatic turning points of my life revealed an uncanny capacity to live in denial. I’m talking IMPRESSIVE, people. And I didn’t realize I was in denial until I was knocked out of it by the second blow of a one-two punch. Looking back, I am amazed at how I refused to admit to myself that everything had changed forever and furiously tried to hold onto what I couldn’t see was already long gone.

I remember within hours of the bomb dropping I prayed in fervent naiveté, Lord, don’t let this change me. I didn’t want to become angry, bitter and resentful, which was a common response to someone in my shoes.

But if I had opened my eyes, taken my fingers out of my ears and stopped humming loudly to block out the heartbreaking truth in front of me, I might have heard, It has to, My child. It has to.

Turning points HAVE to change you. You can’t be your old self in a new normal.

I’ve rarely had the presence of mind to decide how I would ride out my storms. I typically go into survival mode, holding on for dear life, frantically scrambling to pick up the pieces.

But here at 36 years old, I’ve got a handful of turning points behind me and many more ahead of me. And one of these days, maybe I’ll be able to handle life’s turning points with more grace and less grasping.

I am embarrassed to confess that ‘normal’ has always been held at a high premium for me. When I was a kid, I didn’t dream of writing the great American novel, ending world hunger, composing the greatest rock’n’roll song of all time or winning any Oscars.

No, my highest, loftiest goal was normal. And my immediate knee-jerk response to life’s disruptions was to just try to get back to normal or find the new normal.

I love the movie Tombstone and can quote it warmly and accurately. (That’s what I did on my first date with Brad. We’ve been married five years now. Just sayin’.) Val Kilmer gives a brilliant performance as Doc Holliday and the movie is full of his unforgettable one-liners.

But one of his most poignant quotes is not one to be repeated at parties for a laugh, but shoots me straight in the heart every time.

Doc is lying in bed, dying of tuberculosis. His best (and probably only) friend Wyatt Earp comes to visit and play cards. Doc tells Wyatt about a girl he was in love with once and how she was all he ever wanted.

Doc: What did you want?
Wyatt: Just to live a normal life.
Doc: There’s no normal life, Wyatt. It’s just life. Get on with it.

What? ‘No normal life,’ you say? Are you saying NOBODY lives a normal life? That there is, in fact, no such thing? Are you telling me that I’ve been trying to accomplish something that doesn’t exist? (Cue the mid-life crisis.)

Get on with it, indeed. Get on with what exactly? To me, that used to mean constructing a new comfort zone in unfamiliar territory. But these days, I’m starting to wonder.

God has been working on me in this area for a long time. Not the shoulder-shaking, butt-kicking confrontations I’m used to when it comes to strongholds in my soul. But whispered invitations that have been stirring a deeply hidden part of my heart that knows I was created for something more. And whatever it is, I’m starting to want it.

In the Old Testament, the God-followers would regularly give Him a new nickname on the other side of a turning point:

Hagar called Him God Who Sees when He found her alone and pregnant in the desert (Genesis 16).

Abraham called Him God Who Provides after He provided an alternate sacrifice and spared his son, Isaac (Genesis 22).

Gideon called Him God Our Peace when He comforted Gideon who feared for his life after a close encounter with the Lord (Judges 6).

David called Him God Our Shepherd after seeing his dependent and trusting relationship with God was the same as the sheep’s dependence on him, their shepherd (Psalm 23).

Another tradition was to build an altar at a turning point where God had shown Himself in a mighty way. My first blog was called Stones from the Jordan, based on Joshua instructing the Hebrews to pull out twelve stones from the dry riverbed of the Jordan when God held back the waters so the Hebrew people could cross into the Promised Land.

Another favorite of mine is the Ebenezer stone Samuel set up after God saved the Israelites from the Philistines, saying, “Thus far has the Lord helped us.” Amen.

Turning points shape our identity. They also shape our view of God and His involvement in our lives. Here are some nicknames I’ve come up with for my King, based on some turning points:

The God of Blessings when Caroline was born.

The God Who Holds Me Up when life knocked me down.

The God Who Stays when I pulled away in excruciating pain.

The God Who Waits Up For Me when I made terrible decisions out of grief.

The God Who Never Gives Up when I came crawling back to His welcoming arms.

The God Who Does New Things when I married Brad and moved to Orlando.

I could go on and on and I am moved to tears thinking about all He has been to me in my life. Who has He been to you? Give Him names. Write them down. It’s a powerful exercise. Save a rock, a key, a hospital bracelet, an Ebenezer of a turning point when He was right next to you, showing yet another characteristic of Himself.

As I look ahead and consider the coming turning points, I’m tempted to get anxious and rehearse and plan for any possible outcome. I have no idea what’s coming. I may not hit another turning point for a while. Or the world could be turned upside down before the day is out. Who knows?

God does. And my idealized view of normal fades a little more each day. Before long, there will be another turning point, a new dance to learn. I will trip, I will mess up, I will step on His toes. Yet His strong arms will still hold me as He leads. I’ll look up apologetically, He’ll look down at me with an encouraging smile, tighten His grip and whisper,

Follow Me.

Thus far the Lord has helped me. Amen.