Deliver Us From Eva: Turns Out, I Needed Delivering Too

I woke up this morning thinking about friendship, which feels unnecessarily aggressive for a Monday.

I’m sleepy.

My coffee and I are still getting acquainted.

My eyes are technically open, but I would not testify under oath that I am fully awake.

And apparently God looked at all of that and said, “Perfect. Let’s talk about your relationships.”

Sir.

Could we not have discussed something lighter?

Manna?

Doves?

The lilies of the field?

No.

Friends.

And what started as me thinking about the people in my life very quickly became God making me look at how I have handled relationships throughout my life.

Which is annoying because I was completely prepared to discuss everybody else.

I had examples.

Evidence.

Supporting documentation.

Exhibits A through Q.

Then God basically slid my own file across the table.

Oh.

We’re talking about me too.

Fine.

The thought that started all of this was actually simple: the creator of a thing knows how to get the best out of that thing.

God created relationships.

Which means maybe I should stop asking my loneliness to tell me how relationships are supposed to work.

Oof.

Because loneliness has given me some terrible advice.

Loneliness has told me, “At least you have somebody.”

Loneliness has convinced me that history means intimacy.

Loneliness has made me mistake familiarity for safety.

Loneliness has made me hold onto people because losing them felt scarier than admitting that having them was hurting me.

And I wish I could say every friendship I maintained was maintained because I am just that loyal.

Girl.

Please.

Some of it was loyalty.

Some of it was love.

Some of it was history.

Some of it was me being absolutely terrified of being alone.

There were relationships I would leave feeling drained, sad, confused, insecure, irritated, or somehow lonelier than I felt before the conversation started.

Then I would go back.

And go back.

And go back.

Then ask God why I felt so depleted.

Ma’am.

At some point we have to discuss your participation in your own foolishness.

Because I knew.

That is the part I don’t particularly enjoy admitting.

There were times when I knew something was off.

I knew I was giving too much.

I knew the relationship required me to constantly explain, excuse, overlook, recover, accommodate, and emotionally contort myself.

Still, I stayed because having somebody felt better than having nobody.

Except…

I still felt lonely.

That should have told me something.

Maybe loneliness isn’t always the absence of people.

Sometimes loneliness is being surrounded by relationships that cannot meet me where I actually am.

And before I could get too comfortable examining everybody who has ever disappointed me, another thought came:

You know you haven’t always been the best friend either, right?

Excuse me?

We were doing so well.

Still…

yes.

Sometimes I am the bad friend.

Sometimes I get distant.

Sometimes I get overwhelmed and retreat so deeply into myself that I forget other people cannot hear the conversations happening inside my head.

I will be processing, exhausted, hurt, confused, overstimulated, or just trying to figure myself out, and instead of saying, “Hey, I need a little space,” I go quiet.

Then somewhere in my mind I expect the people who love me to understand that my silence means I am processing and not that I don’t care.

Girl.

They are your friends.

Not the Holy Spirit.

Communicate.

I have expected understanding for things I never explained.

I have wanted grace for inconsistencies that would have confused me if somebody else displayed them.

I have been hurt by silence while also using silence as a coping mechanism.

I have wanted people to check on me while simultaneously making myself difficult to reach.

So this cannot become one of those self-righteous journal entries where everybody around me is toxic and I am the innocent little lamb God is rescuing from a field full of narcissists.

No.

Sometimes I was hurt.

Sometimes I did the hurting.

Sometimes somebody else communicated poorly.

Sometimes I did.

Sometimes somebody else needed to grow.

Sometimes…

Hi.

It’s me.

I’m the problem.

Which is why Acts 15 got me so badly.

Paul and Barnabas had been doing ministry together, and Barnabas wanted to bring John Mark along again.

Except there was history.

Acts 13:13 tells us John Mark had left them during the previous assignment and returned to Jerusalem.

So when Barnabas wanted to bring him back in Acts 15:36–41, Paul said no.

Not because Paul woke up petty.

Not because John Mark forgot his birthday.

Not because Paul saw something suspicious on Facebook.

Paul had evidence.

John Mark had left mid-assignment.

Barnabas looked at John Mark and saw potential.

Paul looked at John Mark and saw a pattern.

And that stopped me.

Because I have gotten myself into some raggedy situations by looking at potential while completely ignoring patterns.

“She has such a good heart.”

Okay.

What does her pattern say?

“He means well.”

Wonderful.

What does his pattern say?

“They’ve been through a lot.”

Girl.

YOU HAVE BEEN THROUGH A LOT.

And somehow you are still responsible for what your pain produces in other people’s lives.

That one hurt because I have used compassion to explain away things discernment was trying to get me to examine.

I understand trauma.

I understand grief.

I understand withdrawing.

I understand being overwhelmed.

I understand having seasons where you are barely holding yourself together.

I have lived enough life to have compassion for people having ugly seasons.

Still, somebody’s pain can explain their behavior without requiring me to continually expose myself to it.

Grace does not require blindness.

And maybe that is what Paul understood.

Paul wasn’t necessarily saying John Mark was a bad person.

He was saying, based on what I have seen, I do not trust him in this position.

Position.

There it is.

Because somewhere along the way I started thinking every person I love deserves the same level of access to me.

They don’t.

That doesn’t mean I love them less.

It means I have finally learned that love and access are not the same thing.

Some people are friends.

Some people are associates.

Some people are assignment relationships.

Some people are advisors.

And Lord knows I have given associate-level people advisor-level access.

I have let people whose lives I would never imitate influence decisions about mine.

Read that again, Jazmin.

You asked someone for directions to a destination they have never been to.

Then got confused when you ended up lost.

Girl.

Come ON.

Someone can be wonderful company and terrible counsel.

Someone can make me laugh until my stomach hurts and still not be someone I should tell my deepest business to.

Someone can genuinely love me and still lack the maturity to advise me.

Someone can be a good person and still be in the wrong position.

And suddenly I understood Deliver Us from Eva differently.

Because Eva?

Oh, Eva had standards.

Eva had policies.

Eva had procedures.

Eva had expectations.

Eva had opinions.

Eva had everybody’s life evaluated before breakfast and probably had a corrective action plan ready by lunch.

And unfortunately…

I understand her.

Eva wasn’t wrong about everything.

She loved hard.

She saw things.

She was protective.

She recognized patterns.

The problem was that somewhere along the way protection started flirting with control.

And that made me ask myself a question I did not appreciate:

Am I discerning people, or am I trying to manage them?

Because those are not the same thing.

Discernment says, “I see who you are, so I will respond accordingly.”

Control says, “I see who you are, and I need you to become who I think you should be.”

Whew.

Because I have done that too.

I have been disappointed with people for not becoming the version of them I saw potential for.

That isn’t fair.

I cannot build a relationship with somebody’s potential and then get mad at the actual person for showing up.

I have to deal with what is.

And what is requires standards.

I think standards are another area where I have had to grow because I used to have expectations I never communicated and then get upset when people failed them.

“You should’ve known.”

Should they?

Did you tell them?

…

No.

Then hush.

A standard I never communicate is just an expectation living privately in my head.

People cannot consistently meet standards they do not know exist.

So yes, I want consistency.

I want honesty.

I want accountability.

I want reciprocity.

I want friendships where hard conversations do not automatically become friendship-ending conversations.

I want friends who can correct me.

I want friends who allow me to correct them.

I want people who can celebrate me when my life is going well without secretly needing me to shrink so they feel better.

I want people who understand that my marriage, responsibilities, calling, work, family, and personal life exist outside of our friendship.

I want mature love.

John 15:13 says, “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

Love sacrifices.

Love can be inconvenienced.

Love requires humility.

Love has character.

And character cannot be determined simply because somebody has been around a long time.

Time doesn’t reveal character.

Seasons do.

Adversity does.

Success does.

Disappointment does.

Correction does.

Boundaries REALLY do.

Tell somebody no and sometimes you find out whether they loved you or loved their access to you.

And if I am going to say that, I have to turn it around.

How do I respond when somebody tells me no?

Can I handle their boundary without turning it into rejection?

Can I handle somebody needing space without making their space about me?

Can somebody correct me without me immediately assembling my defense team?

Because I cannot demand emotional maturity from people while giving myself a hall pass.

That isn’t a standard.

That’s hypocrisy with a cute journal.

Maybe that is why Paul’s decision fascinates me.

He wasn’t operating from offense.

He was evaluating evidence.

There is a difference.

Offense asks, “Did this hurt me?”

Evidence asks, “What has this consistently shown me?”

Offense says, “They disappointed me.”

Evidence asks, “Was this a moment or is this a pattern?”

Because everybody deserves room for a bad moment.

I need room for bad moments.

Good grief, I need an entire parking lot.

Still, patterns matter.

And apparently fruit matters too.

Which brings me to something I have become increasingly comfortable saying:

Someone telling me they are a Christian means absolutely nothing to me now.

There.

I said it.

“I’m a Christian.”

Okay.

What kind?

Because sharing the same faith does not automatically mean we share the same values.

You say Jesus.

Wonderful.

What does following Jesus look like when you are angry?

What does it look like when somebody corrects you?

How do you talk about your friends when they leave the room?

Can you apologize without attaching seventeen explanations to it?

Can you celebrate somebody while you are still waiting for your own breakthrough?

Can you keep confidential things confidential?

Can you honor boundaries?

Are you teachable?

Are you accountable?

What happens when loyalty becomes inconvenient?

What fruit grows around you?

Jesus said in Matthew 7:16, “You will recognize them by their fruits.”

Fruit.

Not their church attendance.

Not their worship playlist.

Not how loudly they say “Amen.”

Not the scripture in their Instagram bio.

Not how many times they can say, “God told me,” in a single conversation.

Fruit.

Because I know the tree by the fruit it bears.

So maybe wisdom means I place people in the soil their roots belong in.

That does not mean I hate them.

It does not mean they are evil.

It does not mean I have to dramatically announce their demotion.

Actually, please don’t let me do that.

Imagine me calling somebody:

“Hello. After prayerful consideration and an internal review, your access level has been adjusted from Close Friend to Associate effective immediately.”

Eva, put the clipboard DOWN.

Sometimes repositioning is quiet.

I just adjust my expectations.

I stop asking someone for depth when they have consistently demonstrated that they only have capacity for surface.

I stop handing vulnerable information to somebody who has shown me they cannot steward it.

I stop asking somebody for advice when their fruit tells me their voice should not shape my decisions.

I stop demanding that a relationship become something it has repeatedly shown me it is not.

Not angrily.

Accurately.

Because people will sometimes want my world to change without wanting their position in it to change.

Yet growth changes things.

Healing changes things.

Marriage changes things.

Responsibility changes things.

Calling changes things.

Maturity changes things.

The version of me who accepted something five years ago does not obligate the healed version of me to continue accepting it today.

That does not mean everybody gets cut off.

Maybe some people just need a different seat.

And what makes Acts 15 even more beautiful is that it was not the end of John Mark’s story.

Years later, Paul says in 2 Timothy 4:11, “Get Mark and bring him with you, because he is helpful to me in my ministry.”

Wait.

THE Mark?

Mr. Left-Mid-Assignment?

Yes.

And that may be one of my favorite parts of this entire thing.

Paul could recognize a pattern without permanently defining a person by it.

He could say no in one season and yes in another.

He could change John Mark’s position when the evidence required it and change it again when new fruit appeared.

That is discernment.

Not punishment.

Not revenge.

Not keeping somebody chained to the worst thing they ever did.

Because people grow.

I have.

Thank God nobody is still requiring me to be who I was in my worst seasons.

So I cannot demand that everybody else remain frozen in theirs.

Maybe some relationships need to be released.

Maybe some need to be repositioned.

Maybe some need an honest conversation.

Maybe some need space.

Maybe some can be re-engaged when circumstances change.

Maybe some doors should reopen when fruit proves growth.

Grace and standards can exist in the same room.

That feels important for me to learn.

Because I have spent too much of my life thinking boundaries meant I was being mean.

Especially with Christians.

Forgive them.

Absolutely.

Love them.

Absolutely.

Pray for them.

Absolutely.

Give them unlimited access to my inner life despite repeated evidence that they cannot responsibly steward it?

Show me the verse.

Jesus loved everybody.

Jesus did not give everybody the same access.

So maybe love can be unconditional while access is conditional.

And whew…

that will preach.

Unfortunately, before I preach it, I have to live it.

Which brings me right back to myself.

Because before I start rearranging everybody else’s chair, I need to ask whether my own patterns have made me trustworthy enough for the seat I expect in somebody else’s life.

Am I consistent?

Can I be corrected?

Do I communicate?

Do I disappear?

Do I celebrate people well?

Do I honor their responsibilities outside of our friendship?

Can somebody tell me I hurt them without me immediately explaining why I did it?

Do I apologize well?

Do I keep what they tell me safe?

Do I respect their boundaries?

Do I show up?

Am I the kind of friend I keep praying God sends me?

…

Well.

This was supposed to be about them.

Somehow I ended up in the defendant’s chair.

Again.

Because I cannot ask for communication while romanticizing my own silence.

I cannot require consistency while expecting everyone to understand my inconsistency.

I cannot ask for friends who are emotionally safe without examining whether I am emotionally safe.

I cannot demand standards from everybody around me and exemptions for myself.

And maybe the deepest part of all of this is admitting that there were seasons when I did not lack discernment.

I lacked the courage to obey what I discerned.

I knew.

I knew some relationships were unhealthy.

I knew certain people had too much access.

I knew I kept walking away drained.

I knew I was explaining the same behavior over and over.

I knew I was holding onto relationships because I was afraid of what my life would feel like without them.

I knew.

I just didn’t want to be alone.

And desperation will make me negotiate things discernment already settled.

That is why I cannot have high standards and low self-esteem.

Eventually one of them is going to win.

If I do not believe I am worthy of healthy friendship, I will accept proximity simply because someone is willing to stand near me.

I will call attachment loyalty.

I will call dysfunction grace.

I will call avoidance peace.

I will call history covenant.

I will keep giving someone a position their fruit has repeatedly shown they cannot handle because changing their position means I have to face the loneliness I was using them to avoid.

There it is.

That’s the bloody part.

Sometimes I wasn’t holding onto the friendship because it was healthy.

I was holding onto it because it existed.

Having somebody felt safer than having nobody.

Then I kept wondering why I still felt lonely.

Girl.

You invited chaos over because you were afraid of quiet.

And maybe God is teaching me that quiet is not always loneliness.

Sometimes quiet is where He recalibrates my standards.

Sometimes quiet is where I learn what peace actually feels like so I stop mistaking familiar dysfunction for connection.

Sometimes quiet gives me enough distance to finally see the fruit.

So no.

I don’t think this morning was God telling me to cut everybody off.

Thank God, because Eva was already warming up the laminator.

I think He is teaching me something much more mature than that.

See people accurately.

Love them honestly.

Communicate clearly.

Forgive freely.

Watch the fruit.

Pay attention to patterns.

Establish the standard.

Give grace for humanity.

Leave room for growth.

Stop trying to turn people into villains just because they no longer belong in the same position.

And stop trying to force people into positions their character cannot carry simply because I am afraid to lose them.

Some people need to be released.

Some need to be restored.

Some need to be re-engaged.

Some simply need to be repositioned.

No announcement.

No smear campaign.

No dramatic season finale.

No “God is removing people from my life” Facebook post over a picture of clouds.

Just wisdom.

Because Paul taught me something this morning.

I can acknowledge somebody’s potential without ignoring their pattern.

I can recognize a pattern without permanently condemning the person.

I can love somebody without giving them unlimited access.

I can change their position without changing them into a villain.

And if the fruit changes?

I can reconsider the position.

That is not weakness.

That is discernment.

So maybe the question isn’t, “Are they a good person?”

Maybe it isn’t even, “Are they a Christian?”

My questions have changed.

What fruit do they produce?

What patterns have I observed?

What have I excused because I was afraid of loneliness?

What standard have I actually communicated?

What access have I given that their character cannot responsibly carry?

And before I get too comfortable inspecting everybody else’s fruit…

What kind of fruit does friendship with me produce?

Yeah.

That one.

Because apparently God did not wake me up this Monday morning to hand me a pair of scissors.

He handed me a seating chart.

And before I start moving everybody else around…

I probably need to check my own seat too.