Whispers from God: Writing my story, as written for me by God

By Janaé Kristen Werner

ONE WHISPER FROM THE LORD CAN CHANGE EVERYTHING...

Thirteen years ago, Jesus asked me, "Are you willing to give up everything to follow Me?" After years of hesitation, I finally answered yes. It wasn't the moment I gave my life to Christ for salvation, but it was the moment I gave my life in sacrifice.

Whispers from God are the stories of what began happening to me the moment, I believe, the Lord knew I was serious about saying yes. The kind of serious that means living life on my knees at the foot of the cross. One thing I have learned on this journey is that truly following Jesus isn't for the faint of heart. But it is for those who long to give all of their heart and it is absolutely worth it.

From the uncomfortable to the unexpected, these are some of the stories throughout my life, of times the Lord whispered to me...stories of learning and understanding how to function in the prophetic and what it means to continually seek His face, sit in His presence, hear His voice and act on it.

My instructions from the Lord have been to "go light your world" and these are some of the ways I believe He's asked me to do it.

My prayer is that He speaks to your heart through the stories that have deeply impacted my life and they begin for you, a journey of seeking the Lord--listening earnestly for the quiet whispers of His voice. He's waiting...are you listening?

And so, here is my heart...

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098072346

Book preview

The Beginning of the Story

Okay. Here it is. I’m just going to start writing things and pray that God makes sense of it all, both on paper and in the reader’s eyes.

If we acknowledge Jesus as our savior, we have the Holy Spirit. That’s a period you see at the end of that sentence. That’s it. Really I don’t need to write anything else, because that’s all we honestly need to know. The problem is that I don’t think we all either (a) believe that statement to be true or (b) pay any attention to the fact that the statement is true. What’s going to follow in these stories…is my journey—the journey that God has me on, to figuring out what the Holy Spirit is saying to me. Everyone’s journey is going to look different—but the core is the same. Do you believe you have the Holy Spirit? Are you listening?

About four years ago, I felt like God was asking me to write my story. The problem was, in my eyes, there really wasn’t a story. I didn’t have the earth-shattering testimony that would change someone’s life forever. I lived a relatively boring life. All my dad had to do when I was younger was to look at me with a disappointed glance and I straightened my path. So what on earth do I have to offer? That was my continuous argument back to God. As is typical of God, however, He persisted. He kept calling me to write. I can’t tell you how many times, while in prayer, the song Write Your Story would come on. Or how many times I opened my Bible to a verse about recording your story.

Francis Chan, in his book You and Me Forever says, Life is about Jesus. We are not here to tell our story, but His. We are here to live His story, not ours. Well, thank goodness—the pressure is now officially off. So here it is: God’s story, through my life, my journey to discovering the presence and the voice of the Holy Spirit. Can I just say how much this excites me?! What I’m going to share isn’t something new or totally off the wall (although I would guess some will argue that point)—but it’s the very thing Jesus talked about in John 14:16–17, I will ask the Father, and He will give you another Helper, that He may be with you forever; that is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it does not see Him or know Him, but you know Him because He abides with you and will be in you. It’s what completely rocked my world and gave me this whole new love for God that I never really knew existed.

To be very honest with you, I want this to change your life. I want you to open this story and not be able to stop reading. Not because I’m such a good writer, but because God is in this. And because there is a message that He wants us to hear. My prayer is that it’s not my words, but words that He has given me that I believe we all need to hear. Trust me, it changes lives. Mine was one of them.

So I sat down at my computer and started writing. That is until I got overwhelmed or something better came along. I kept trying and I kept failing. I mean really, who wants to hear about the Christian girl who grew up in a great family, going to church every time the doors were open, got good grades, married an amazing man, had three beautiful kids and worked in a job she loved? (Wow, that does sound kind of awesome!) Sure, there were mess-ups along the way, choices I definitely would have made differently if I could do it over, but nothing that would drastically change the course I was on. In my attempt to be obedient I’m going to do as God asked and I’m going to write. I have, however, decided you should know something about me to give you a baseline for what I’m going to be sharing—you know, so you don’t think I’m crazy—ha!

Growing up in a small town in Indiana, my life was not anything out of the ordinary. Or maybe by today’s standards, it was. I had a wonderful life filled with family, friends, God and security. A dad who came home for lunch every day. A mom who stayed home and baked cookies for us after school. A Sunday school class filled with all my friends from school. It was safe and full of love. I had the house where all the kids congregated and my parents led my youth group. We took family vacations, learned our Bible stories, served cookies to the elderly and enjoyed life. I look back on my childhood and it makes me smile. The days riding bikes in the neighborhood until dark, the day my mom turned our backyard into a circus, the parades down the little streets of our town…all of it a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting.

Our church was the tiny little white church with a steeple, open the doors and see all the people. Young and old, they were friends of ours since I was a born. It was a secure place to be where we sang hymns, listened to the sermon and had potluck in the basement when it was all over. It was fun being a part of the church family and it was certainly easy to be a Christian. It seemed that pretty much everyone was.

Our quaint little town of three thousand was nestled in among a large Amish community, rolling farmlands and the grand world of RV factories. Our town was a big tourist draw, what with the horse drawn buggies and all. During the summer our population nearly doubled with cars, driving painfully slow while trying to take it all in…the laundry hanging on lines outside, the tiny children in bonnets playing in the yards and the horses pulling carts along the side of the road. As most children do, I took the whole thing for granted, not really understanding that this kind of life didn’t exist for everyone. I had very few events in my childhood that caused me to contemplate the existence of evil and, so never even thought about it.

My first real glimpse of evil in the world came when my dad lost his job. I didn’t really consider it to be evil in nature until I grew up. At the time it was just scary and uncertain. I can remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday. My dad worked for a couple, managing their hardware/lumber store. We had become close family friends with the couple, staying at their house when my parents went out of town, spending time with them outside of work, I’d dare say we were like family. And then that sneaky little devil got his grip on their marriage, the husband had an affair and just like that, their lives changed dramatically and as a result, so did ours. In a really big way. My dad came home, laid down face first on the floor in our living room and wept. I had never seen my dad that way and it was scary. My dad was the pillar of strength in our family and to know that he was helpless made us all feel desperate. In all the anger and hatred from the divorce, the couple sold the store, fired my dad and sent him walking home. No notice, no car, no pay. Nothing. Just a hatred that comes from dancing with the devil. That night, with my dad on the floor, my mom crying, my older brother threatening to take care of matters (I’m not really sure what that meant, but in light of how angry he was at the time, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t good), I saw that bad did exist. That the world wasn’t all peaches and cream and we were going to need a miracle to pull through this. I remember praying, because that’s what I had always learned to do, to lean on God when the going gets tough. One thing I didn’t know at the time, however, was how to give it all to God. To really give it to God. I said my prayers and moved on, trusting my mom and dad to take care of things, maybe more than God.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and try to describe who I was as a child, who I saw myself to be. It seems like it would help to know a bit of who I was and what I was like before the Holy Spirit swept me off my feet so many years later. There are probably a lot of people that should chime in on this part to help, but since I’m writing in the woods all by myself, it’s going to have to be a solo interpretation.

My mom and dad used to say that I was a gift from God, a daughter to fill the hole in their heart that my older sister Dea left when she took her last breath. Born with an absurd amount of crazy dark hair and brown eyes, I came into this world the spitting image of my sister, Dea. The nurses questioned if I actually belonged to my parents, wondering if instead I needed to be shipped off to France. Wonder if that’s why the name? I’m still not totally sure about that one. I do know, however, that at one point my parents thought it would be a good idea to give me a perm—at six weeks old. Not a really good look, since at that age bedhead trumps a hairstyle every single time. I was a pretty easy little girl, or so I’m told. Although, I will say, over time I have noticed that everyone’s kids always sound so much better than when they were raised years ago. So really, there is no telling. I could have been a spoiled rotten little brat, for all I know. Based on the photo-history, however, it seems safe to say I was good enough, at least, to be smiling in a plethora of pictures. I was that kid that followed all the rules and only had to be looked at with a stern face to correct any wrongdoing on my part.

So that was me. And still mostly is. But there is something different now and it’s the reason for all these thousands of words. The different is what I believe God wants me to share. It all started about twelve years ago when Jesus asked, "Will you give up everything to follow Me?" and after years of hesitation, I finally answered yes.

What will follow are the stories of what began happening to me the moment I believe Jesus knew I was serious about saying yes. Not just giving lip service, but an on-my-knees, hands-in-the-air, begging God to let me serve and follow kind of service. One thing I have learned is that truly following Jesus isn’t for the faint of heart. But it is for those who want to give 100 percent of their heart and it is absolutely worth it.

And so—here is my heart…

The First Whisper

Iremember it so clearly…my very first whisper from God. It stirred in me a mix of emotions. For such a small word, it evoked an army of feelings—fear, excitement, a little more fear, confusion, curiosity. But really, honestly, mostly fear.

We were in Santa Fe, NM—my husband, Garth, my parents, our ministry team and others who had come to join in the mission of spreading God’s word. It was September of 2008, the first city we had gone to as a ministry outside of Dallas, so it was a new experience altogether and no one fully knew what to expect. During the day, we walked the streets of downtown, our single purpose to love on the people of Santa Fe. It was the first experience I had with being vocal in my faith and it was intimidating. It was also the first time I experienced brushing up against resistance to what I believed, which greatly added to the intimidation factor. Garth and I were staying in a condo with my parents, partly because it was convenient and partly because we were that classic young couple with kids trying to save on expenses. Our bed was in the living room on the pull out sofa and after long days of walking through the city and long evenings of worshipping through song and concert, we often crashed in our room with the whole family to re-cap the day and all God was showing us. Nothing was out of the ordinary at this point, although the topic of conversation was often the stretching in our faith that the events of the day had brought about.

One particular night, after our time of rehashing the day’s events, things went a little differently than normal. If I had to pinpoint a moment in my life when something really altered the course I was on—I would say this was the moment. This was the night that changed everything for me. Not all at once, in a drastic way—but an event that would eventually lead me to a new way of viewing my relationship with Christ.

Everyone had left (basically they just went to their bedroom and closed the door) and Garth and I both got ready for bed. My goal—just so you know—was to get ready and in bed before Garth so I wouldn’t have to turn out the lights and walk in the dark all by my thirty-three-year-old self. So I rushed to wash my face, brushed my teeth and jumped onto the sofa. The problem with that whole set-up is that I’m married to a man with the most amazing ability to fall asleep the minute his head hits the pillow. Which leaves me in a bit of a quandary…I’m always left awake to fear the night and what it might bring. So there it is—I was scared of the dark. Irrational? Very. My mom keeps trying to get me to remember back to something in my childhood that may have set it all in motion—but every time I think back I get a blank. Nothing seems to have triggered it—it just is. So I’ve always kept lights on. I’ve always made sure I wasn’t alone when it was dark and if for some reason I was, doors were locked, all lights were on and I was barricaded in my room, slightly frozen in fear. Weird, I know. I guess there is probably good reason for my mom’s continuous attempts to get me to talk through it. Regardless, that’s where I was and I often fought with my brain to beat Garth to sleep…and lost every single time. Pretty soon I heard my husband’s steady breathing and knew he was out. So I closed my eyes tight and prayed that God would just knock me out—fully knowing I wouldn’t be capable of opening my eyes again once I closed them if I didn’t fall asleep. If I had to go to the bathroom, well forget it. And then suddenly I was asleep…or I’m guessing that was the case, because the next thing I knew, something woke me from the deep and blessed sleep I was finally in.

It’s weird that something so quiet and gentle would wake me, but it did—and I woke to the sound of my name being said one time. Not Janaé—but instead I heard Jaé. I was startled. Very few people call me Jaé. In fact, only Garth, family and a handful of friends ever use that name. Turning over, I asked Garth what he wanted and was met with silence…or maybe snoring…but whatever the case, Garth was clearly not awake. I was puzzled and now I’m awake and I’m kind of freaking out. At this point in life, night time was not my friend.

Eyes closed, I feel my heart beating and I realize I’m stuck. Do I open my eyes and take the chance that something unfortunate is standing in front of me? Or do I keep them closed and pray God knocks me out again? It’s a bit of a pickle for someone who should have long since outgrown a fear of the dark—I’m pretty sure they don’t have support groups for people like me—so I’m on my own on this one. Then I hear my name again. Jaé. Quiet and sure, calling me. I turn over once again, ask Garth what he wants and am met by the same steady breathing of someone deep in sleep. That’s when I started praying, God if that’s you—tell me why you’re calling my name. Please.

And He did. With my eyes closed I saw one beautiful turquoise-blue butterfly, then another, and another—until my whole sight was filled with butterflies. It was absolutely beautiful and weird all at the same time. I was awake, my eyes were closed and yet I was seeing butterflies. Was my imagination in overdrive? Was tonight the night that I went completely insane? Or was there something more that God wanted me to see, to know? So I began to pray and God began to answer. He didn’t answer all at once that night, but slowly over the next few days He began to give me answers to what I saw and why I saw it. I think He saw me try to believe and with each step of belief, trust and obedience, He gave me more answers.

The next day I decided to dig in and learn about butterflies and as I read, I learned that the butterfly is often a symbol of the resurrection of Christ as well as the resurrection of believers. The caterpillar disappears into a cocoon, which is like the tomb Christ lay in after the crucifixion. Later, it emerges from death, having transformed into something more beautiful and powerful than it was. This is what I believe He shared with me that night: you are like a butterfly, you finally gave up your whole life and this is a new beginning. There is so much more for you, just trust Me and what I show you. That was it. Simple and sweet and yet something I had never experienced before.

I often wonder why God comes to me in the night and the conclusion I’ve come to is that it’s when I’m at my weakest. It’s the time when I give everything over because, out of fear, I can’t seem to control anything, grasping in the dark at nothing. It’s the time when I pay closest attention to what’s around me even though it can’t be seen. And it’s the time when I pray the hardest. I think it’s really cool and really frustrating all at the same time that the greatest Teacher of all is using the very thing that scares me the most to bring me closer to Him.

This butterfly was my first whisper from God, or at least the first one that I listened to. God still, to this day, uses these butterflies to remind me of that first encounter with Him…on the days I don’t feel Him quite as close. On the days when I feel lonely or helpless. On the days when I need to see a smile fluttering through the air. He is there in those little blue butterflies and I will forever be grateful He called my name in the dark to show me that blessing. And that I finally listened.

Seriously, how cool is it that even in my disobedience in not writing, God still showed up—and had me write about what He did for me all those years ago? Just one more blue butterfly. And that was just the beginning—the cocoon was shed…

You said, ‘Behold, the LORD our God has shown us His glory and His greatness, and we have heard His voice from the midst of the fire; we have seen today that God speaks with man, yet he lives. (Deuteronomy 5:2)

A Battle Waged

Years ago, a war that began in the heavens thousands of years ago intensified, as a battle line was crossed and a group of missionaries walked the streets of Flint, Michigan. It was during this week that Satan reared his ugly head and attacked with a vengeance, angered that the name of Jesus was being spread on the streets he claimed to own. And I had a front row seat.

The ministry founded by my younger brother Kyle, had coordinated this week-long effort. Over seven hundred volunteers walked the streets to spread the word in one of the poorest cities in America and I was among them. I couldn’t be in Flint for the entire week, but the short time I spent in this hurting city marked my life forever.

It was a week unlike anything I had ever experienced. I’ll show my ignorance to much of what was around me and say that I was amazed that poverty in this form existed in the United States. Every other house was burned to the ground, mailmen wouldn’t deliver to certain areas for safety reasons and the neighborhoods were run by gangs. It was a dark place and being