So Long Insecurity

by Beth Moore

  The second thing I want to tell you is to seek face-to-face counsel from someone you know to be wise and discreet. No book can ever take the place of good, solid, sound-minded counseling, because it lacks the framework of individuality and accountability. I cannot emphasize strongly enough that you need to find a safe place to tell the secret, or you’ll never get your ankle out of that trap and neither will he. If the two of you could fix it by yourselves, you probably already would have. Get help for yourself whether or not your spouse or fiancé accompanies you.

  The third thing I beg you to hear is that you are not doing your man any favors by letting him continue to get away with something so destructive to him and to your relationship. So often when we women claim that we don’t know what to do, the truth is, we do know what we need to do. We’re just scared to do it. Again, I’m not minimizing the difficulty of facing a problem this serious and intimate head-on; if you don’t know how to go about it, seek good advice and assistance from someone you respect. Confronting someone is hard, and the risk of discovering something worse than you suspect can be enough to paralyze you until the whole relationship goes up in smoke. The alternative to practicing what Scripture calls “speaking the truth in love” is continuing to communicate a lie in fear (Ephesians 4:15). That’s no way to live.

  If you’re like me, you can’t imagine calmly or even civilly confronting something that feels so personally threatening and betraying. That’s where accountability comes into very important play. Knowing that we’re going to report back to an adviser or even a trustworthy friend helps us behave in a way that we might not otherwise.

  Here’s some advice from Rob Jackson, a licensed professional counselor who specializes in intimacy disorders like these:

  You confront because you care. Armed with knowledge that your spouse is acting out sexually, you have no other responsible option. Your information may be incomplete, but any verifiable evidence of illicit sex is enough. This could include but is not limited to viewing pornographic materials, visiting sexually explicit chat rooms, browsing adult bookstores or going to strip clubs, frequenting prostitutes, engaging in voyeurism, exhibitionism, or sexual behavior with others. Indecisiveness won’t do—not if you hope to save your marriage.

  When done correctly and motivated by love, confrontation becomes an act of profound compassion. Frankly, it’s easier in the short run to look the other way. If you intend, however, for your marriage to overcome adultery of any type, you must confront if your spouse fails to confess. To quote Dr. Dobson, “love must be tough”—and consistent.

  Further in the article he sets a vital balance:

  In addition to love, confrontation must be centered on principle. The dialogue should never degenerate into who is right, but should focus on what is right.15

  Confronting an offense and setting a boundary is never trickier than it is for a woman who is trying with all her might to be a godly wife. I know the struggle because I’ve felt the strain. We can misunderstand submission to be an invitation to oppression rather than order. When my man has taken enough leash in a particular area to nearly hang himself and I’m wrestling with whether or not to let him off the hook, I try to check my heart by giving serious thought to what is best for him. I’ll offer you a nice, benign example in the midst of this hard subject matter. Keith is an avid outdoorsman and spends a fair amount of time away from home. From October through January his schedule escalates and he’s gone for a week at a time, home a few days, and gone again. Until late December, I tend to remain congenial and cooperative. After all, he’s doing what he loves. About the time I start feeling like I could probably make it without him, however, I know it’s time to jerk that leash he’s on. At that point, when I call him on his cell and he answers with a chipper, “Hey, darling!” I might be overheard saying something like this: “Get your tail home, and boy, am I not kidding.”

  And he does. Do you want to know something else? He never fails to say, “Thank you for telling me to come home, baby. I knew I was getting out of control.” Keith and I have both said many times that if either of us had a spouse we could run over, we’d each be married to a flapjack. I’d like to share one major biblical element that, when I’m thinking clearly, helps me decide whether to let something go or reel it in. The Greek lexical term most commonly translated “love” in the New Testament is agape. It means all the things you would probably imagine, but it also involves an element that is crucial as we wrestle with our current subject matter. Agape is a kind of love that is in another person’s best interest. To stand back and watch a spouse spin further and further out of control without ever attempting to confront, set a boundary, or permit consequences is not in his (or your) best interest.

  Throughout this chapter, we’ve talked about the power of choice. Nowhere is the concept more challenging, vital, and emotionally lifesaving than when a mate is caught up in a sexually illicit activity or relationship. By human nature, women tend to take that kind of offense at the deepest personal level. Even though experts continue to tell us that a man’s sexual problem is not about us (and I believe them), it still affects us. We feel betrayed, replaced, rejected, and inadequate. We picture the women in those perfectly lit images, or we romanticize the one who has stolen his gaze, and we lose heart that we can’t compete. After all, the other women aren’t the ones doing laundry and spraying Lysol in the bathroom. But this is the news flash: we don’t have to compete. In fact, we must refuse to compete. God’s Word tells us:

  The LORD gives his people strength; the LORD grants his people security.

  Psalm 29:11, NET

  This is the very moment we must head straight to the throne of an all-powerful God and Father, rehearsing over and over who He says we are and what He says we’re worth. We must call on Him to fight our battles for us and through us and to stand us on steady feet in a confidence only He can supply. We must ask Him to bring forth the women in us that we didn’t even know we were—women of substance and confidence with whom an image or adulteress cannot compete. We don’t have to compete with them. Let them compete with us if anyone must. After all, “if God is for us, who can be against us?” (Romans 8:31). This is exactly the crisis point when we must say over and over in our thoughts toward our mate:

  You may have broken my heart and shaken me up, but you cannot have my security. I will not give it up to you or to anyone else. I am a woman of God, clothed in strength and dignity, and no one gets to take those things from me.

  Then say it again:

  I am clothed with strength and dignity!

  And again:

  In Jesus’ name, I am clothed with strength and dignity!

  Don’t just repeat these kinds of thoughts first thing in the morning when you are in crisis. Say them all day long and as often as you must in order to set your mind on truth. You may think this is a battle of the body, but it’s not. This war will be won or lost on the battlefield of your mind. Write those truths on index cards if necessary and take them with you everywhere you go. For crying out loud, write “Proverbs 31:25” with a Sharpie on your hand if you have to. Get yourself immediately surrounded by supportive people of sound faith. Dive into a group Bible study that requires homework so you’re forced to fix your mind on soul-patching truth. This is no time for indecisiveness. This is no time for doing the same old thing the same old way. Determine with the divine power invested in you that you will not give up your security and your dignity no matter what transpires.

  Even if your mate doesn’t end up choosing you, God has chosen you, girlfriend. Believe it. Invest that truth in your emotional bank, and it will earn interest for the rest of your life. Your confidence will either draw your man back to you or hold you steady if he heads the other direction. In Christ, you are so much stronger than you think you are. Second Corinthians 12 says that even in our weakness we are strong and that His power is made perfect. Wear your God-given strength. Throw on your God-given dignity. Walk with your head up in your God-given security.


  Then humbly duck so God can lovingly, compassionately, and redemptively hit your husband—for his own good.

  Listen, if melting into a puddle of spinelessness or flying into a fit of hysteria would save our relationships and honor God, I’d recommend nothing faster. The fact is, they do neither. Flee from arrogance, but whatever you do:

  Do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded. You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised.

  Hebrews 10:35-36

  I think you should know that I just wrote that Scripture from memory. It has lived in my head for the last eighteen months so that I could call it from the back of my mind to the front of my conscious thinking at any time. Rest assured, you’re not being asked to consider something this author is not willing to practice. I have a low tolerance for hypocrisy, especially in myself. There are certain parts of my story that I choose to keep private out of respect to my beloved family, but you can know that I don’t shoot untested principles at you. I might not have experienced your exact set of circumstances, but I promise you the devil has tried on countless occasions to steal, kill, and destroy my family and everything we stand for (John 10:10). Those of us who are still intact under the Moore roof testify to the power of God and the victory of truth.

  The enemy of your soul will never have to worry about what kind of damage you could do the kingdom of darkness if he can get you to buy the lie that you are incompetent, weak, and inadequate. But you’re not. Neither are the men in your life. You may be “struck down, but [you are] not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:9). As we wrap up the segment of this book dealing with men-related strongholds, let’s pray for our husbands, sons, brothers, nephews, friends, and fathers. Thank God for each one of them by name, and ask Him to make them courageous and mighty in His strength in their spheres of influence. Ask Him to be a shield around them, to be their glory and the lifter of their heads (Psalm 3:3). While we’re at it, let’s ask Him to make us the kind of women with whom they can be His kind of men. Let’s stop kidding ourselves. This culture is as brutal on a man as it is on a woman.

  We all need God.

  Chapter 14

  Can We Do It for Them?

  Five months ago today, my man and I huddled over the hospital bed of our older daughter and whispered a quivery hello to her brand-new baby girl. Weighing in at a whopping six pounds and six ounces, she established a position that no future progeny can displace. She is the first granddaughter on both sides. With her inky eyes squinting in the unwelcomed light, Baby Girl couldn’t make heads or tails of us that day. These days she recognizes us all the way from the front door to the den, and she lights up like the dawn at the sound of our voices. Just moments ago I rocked her in my arms, sang her to sleep with made-up songs, tucked her in her crib, and stared at her with wonder. I wasn’t planning to write today, but suddenly I’m feeling inspired.

  I am a blessed woman indeed. I have the tremendous joy of living only fifteen minutes from my daughter Amanda and her family of four. She and her husband, Curtis, are also mom and dad to the other star of our extended tribe, my three-year-old grandson, Jackson.

  Jackson is the biggest ham bone flavoring our family stew, and until five months ago, the uncontested center of copious attention. When Amanda and Curtis announced they were expecting their first baby, I wanted a man-child in the worst way. After raising daughters, I thought it was high time for a healthy dose of testosterone. We certainly got it. He could make car sounds by the time he could sit up and could say “monster truck” almost before he could say “Mommy.” Born competitive, when he was first potty trained, every time he tinkled in the potty, he would pump his fist in the air and say, “I win!”

  To Jackson, I am Bibby. We were going for Bee-Bee, but he chose a short i over those long e’s, and who were we to argue? If we’re together, he says my name every other minute, even if his head is dropped down toward a two-inch car on a bright orange track. Much of the time he doesn’t need anything in particular. He’s just taking roll to make sure I’m close by in case he should need me to top off his juice or race a couple of Hot Wheels (and lose). A month or so before his tiny sister was born, Jackson spent the weekend with me while his parents were on a “babymoon” and Keith was out of town. He had outgrown the crib at my house, so I tried tucking him in one of the twin beds in the kids’ room while I slept on the other. At some point during the early hours long before dawn, he sat up disoriented in that enormous bed, slid down the side, and whined to get in the one with me. “Of course, baby. Come on up here.” I lifted him onto the mattress and laid him down right beside me.

  Over and over in the remaining hours before daylight, I felt his little plump hands patting me on the underside of my arm to make sure I was there. We both finally fell asleep for the better part of an hour, and when I awoke, I had the sweetest cherub face an inch from mine. Blue eyes puffy and cheeks bright pink, he chirped, “Bibby! It’s time to say good morning to Mr. Sun!” So we did our usual routine. I picked him up, held him at the bedroom window, and opened the blinds. He was so warm and cuddly. It was one of those perfect moments in life when you are so happy, your heart aches. There’s just nothing more adorable than a toddler in his jammies, especially one who happens to love you. With great enthusiasm we both looked through the blinds and voiced our greeting in perfect unison, “Good morning, Mr. Sun!”

  Then we headed downstairs, where Bibby made pancakes and turned on cartoons. Don’t start with me about kids and too much TV. One of us needed a quiet moment with some strong coffee while the other one was happily distracted. As I sipped liquid consciousness from my favorite cup, I watched that darling man-child and wondered how many times in the course of my life my heart had been so thoroughly slain. Only his mother and his aunt Melissa had ever left me so defenseless.

  And now this: a granddaughter. A woman-child born into a family called to serve women. I didn’t know if I could take it. I had also babysat Jackson two months earlier when Amanda and Curtis went to the doctor’s appointment where they learned the sex of their second child. It was right after a hurricane ripped the Gulf Coast to shreds and left most of Houston without power. Since babies don’t keep, their OB clinic was up and running well before most area businesses, enabling Amanda and Curtis to keep their appointment. None of the traffic lights worked, however, so it took an eternity for them to get to the doctor’s office and back. I walked to the front door to look for their white Jeep Cherokee at least one hundred times. Amanda had convinced herself she was having another boy, and goodness knows we would have been happy, but Keith and I thought it would be so fun to have pink this time around. We knew that our firstborn secretly hoped the same.

  After nearly four hours, Amanda and Curtis sauntered through the front door like they’d been on a leisurely Sunday afternoon stroll. I was ready to strangle them. I couldn’t tell a solitary thing from their expressions, but thankfully they determined to put me out of my misery quickly. Amanda handed me a genderless lemon yellow and lime green gift bag stuffed with matching tissue. I wasted no time, digging right down the middle of it until my head was awash in lemon-lime. Then there it was. Pink, pink, glorious pink! “They are 100 percent sure,” she quickly added. We squealed like schoolgirls and as my grandmother would have said, haven’t been worth killing since. Curtis doesn’t yet know what hit him. All he knows is that their cost of living has escalated considerably.

  Keith was beside himself. Being a father of daughters, he loved the idea of a little girl, which had nothing but pure, unadulterated gladness attached to it. The whole family was ecstatic. A few days after the big news, Amanda, Curtis, and Jackson stopped by the house. The boy went straight for his box of monster trucks, and our daughter and son-in-law asked us to sit down so they could tell us something.

  “We’ve chosen her name.”

  “You have? What in the world is it?”

  For a split second time stood still, and I poised my
self, shifting in the chair, to learn the name of someone who would soon become one of the most important people in my entire life. How many times, after all, would I call this name in the course of my days?

  “Annabeth. Her name will be Annabeth.”

  There’s something about a name. Instantly, the baby has an identity. Instantly, it’s no longer a pregnancy. Nor even just a baby. It’s a person. A person with a name. A person you’d now miss should anything, God help you, happen to her. You don’t really give your heart away to something until you know its name. You can feel affection and anticipation, but created in the image of God, you simply cannot surrender to something nameless. In fact, sometimes I’ve been known to make up a name for someone I’ve seen but not met just to ease the craving for intimacy. Even in the introduction of two adults, learning what to call each other is the first step to getting to know a real, live God-stamped individual. Identity as the introduction to intimacy is the whole idea behind God telling Moses in Exodus 33 that He knew him by name. The same was true when Christ called Himself the Good Shepherd in John 10 and told His disciples that “he calls his own sheep by name” (emphasis mine).

  Then, as if learning a baby’s name isn’t big enough, there’s that titanic something about hearing your own name tossed in the middle of it. I could hardly sleep that night for one word rolling around in my head like a tricycle tire. Annabeth. Annabeth. Annabeth. Annabeth. Occasionally my own tormented soul broke in with questions like, “How much power does a name have?” And “Does the redemption of God diffuse the bad things attached to a name and leave only the good?” Boy, am I ever hoping so. I can’t say I’ve ever hated my name, but I have wasted considerable time hating myself. Those days are mostly behind me now, but having someone named after you makes a soul think a lot about legacies: what you want someone to inherit with a name and what you decidedly do not. You’ll never find anyone who has loved being a woman more than me. You’ll find people who have done a better job at it but never a single one who has enjoyed it more. Furthermore, I love hanging out with a bunch of women better than most activities under heaven. But to tell you the road to womanhood has been rocky for me is like calling Mount Everest an anthill. I have such mixed thoughts about my childhood. The emotional toll of the sexual abuse I sustained early in life marred many memories of regular childhood experiences that in themselves weren’t even bad. When I replay some of the good memories of that time of my life, feelings of sadness still force an unwelcome invasion. At least in my mental replays, it is strikingly clear that something had happened to me. I was anxious and afraid of some undisclosed thing all the time. Why couldn’t someone figure it out and help me?