Harvest has been such a huge metaphor in my life of ministry. I have spent years sowing God's word and my very life into the lives of those God has entrusted to my care. I have planted, tended, nurtured, watered, weeded, and waited for years. And in God's faithfulness I have seen some beautiful harvests during my years of ministry. This June began my fourteenth year since I began full time ministry after graduating from seminary. But this year is significantly different from the last thirteen. For the first time in my grown up life, full-time ministry is not the primary focus of who I am. My feelings about this have been mixed. While I did not choose to be in this place, the relief washing through me is palpable. People have commented how vast the difference in my appearance is: apparently carrying invisible burdens shows up in ways we cannot guess; conversely, laying said burdens down translates into a very cheap face lift!
The thing I have become most aware of in the last few months is a deep exhaustion. It has nothing to do with how much sleep I get, whether I'm rested, or have free time in my day. It is as if thirteen years of fully carrying the needs of those in my care, had left a build-up of soul residue that was never properly released. I couldn't release it; I didn't know how. And for the first time I am no longer responsible for anyone's spiritual well-being but my own. Those extra burdens had become toxic. God, in His mercy, moved me out of those circumstances and activated the release valve for me. The toxicity has been working its way out of my heart, mind, soul, and body. I have struggled with the feeling that I am being unfaithful, yet nothing in me wants to pick up any other kind of burden right now. I just don't have the strength to carry it.
Many people wrestle with answering God's call on their lives. Usually this involves some kind of stepping out and beyond themselves, leveraging their resources on the behalf of others. In fact the Bible Study I've been in is specifically centered on this call, using the book of Jonah as a picture of ways that we rebel against God when He wants us to serve our neighbor. Usually we find creative ways to hide or run away. But the call on my life in this strange season is so fundamentally different. God is not asking me to go and give myself into another ministry. Instead I have sensed the Still Voice within asking me to rest. To be. To be still and know His Stillness. Running away would look like gathering up my life to pour it into something else. A new ministry, another full-time position, a title, a job description, a mission to rescue the perishing, a whole new field to start planting and harvesting. Faithfulness right now looks alot like laziness to me. To let the field of my life lay fallow.
Really?! Is this really it?! Am I to relinquish the desire of my heart to deliver the life changing message of Salvation? Am I to let go of the sowing of my time and effort into sheep who need a patient and steady hand to guide them into fold of the tender and good Shepherd? Am I to stop arranging my life so someone else can experience the grace of God? Well, yes. Because over time in the delivering, guiding, and arranging somehow I became unable to experience the saving, tending, and gracing God provides me. I think it has something to do with sabbath rest. Even good work is still work. We still must rest from our labors, even when they center on the good of God's people.
The Holy Spirit began to show me a different image of what this year is to be for me:
But in the seventh year there shall be a sabbath of complete rest for the land, a sabbath for the LORD: you shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard. You shall not reap the aftergrowth of your harvest or gather the grapes of your unpruned vine: it shall be a year of complete rest for the land. Leviticus 25:4-5
A year of complete rest. And this is for the Lord. I can honor Him, love Him, and serve Him this year by allowing the field of my life a complete rest. Holy cow! This is so hard! And yet I feel so completely unable to bear anything else. I can only guess what lies ahead after this respite. But God won't give me any indication that something else does lie ahead. He just continues to be Still, inviting my weary soul into His Stillness too. I love it there. I'm so hungry for it. How can I not go?
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
This Little Light of Mine, I'm Gonna Let It Shine
Someone very dear to me has been struggling with unrelenting disappointment that never seems to fade. They raised the question recently, "What is wrong? Why is this happening?" Their question perplexes me as much as it does them. I wish I had answers, but I don't. But I do have a picture.Last weekend was Bowling Green's annual hot air balloon festival. My family and I hurried to the airport so that we could see the balloon glow on Friday night. For a few moments all the balloons ignite the fires that send them high into the air during daylight hours. Safely tethered to earth at night time, their inner glow paints the darkness with vivid color. It is so beautiful to me.
I've thought so much about balloons in the days since. Hot air balloons were made for flight. It seems unnatural for them to be grounded. Why have a balloon glow anyway? Random beauty seems pointless, especially at night. The practical side of me thinks of all that fuel wasted on "looking pretty." Yet the metaphor lover in me sees a deeper meaning.
For as long as I have been a pastor I have shared a simple message with everyone God puts in my care: God loves you; God has a purpose for your life; as you walk with God that purpose will unfold. As His children we were created to live that purpose in joy, to exercise those gifts with intentional abandon to the unique design and plan He has for us. In essence, we are meant to fly spiritually, to taste the joy of living into the person He made us to be. Most of the time this is our vocation, our calling. Life is good, even amidst challenges. Our outward vocations validate our inner being with meaning. Everything feels worthwhile.
But then there are seasons when it feels like God's purposes for us have been thwarted. No matter what we do, it seems that all around and within is frustration and turmoil. Each day we struggle to do the right thing knowing that our heart is not in it, but we do the right thing anyway. There is no joy, there is no peace. There is just the orderly march of dailiness that grinds away at our sense of self. We long for meaning. We cannot see how our lives are making any kind of difference. Our inner experience is just one long stretch of yearning for something more without any hope of deliverance. And oddly enough God seems to be the One orchestrating our misery. For some reason we seem to be tied to the ground at just the time when everything within us wants to fly. What purpose could there possibly be in that?
Here is where the metaphor speaks the most to me. Just like those hot air balloons were designed to sail through the skies, we were made to serve God in just the unique way that He designed for us. And it is a wonderful euphoria to be doing that. But it is impossible when a hot air balloon is sailing through sunlit skies to see the fire that lights it from within. Especially when it is so far away. I think this is how some people on the outside of faith see those of us who live faith from the inside. We seem to be disconnected from "real life" by a God who makes everything better. The phrase "too heavenly minded to be any earthly good" comes to mind. For the unbeliever, who might be interested in knowing more about God, how could he or she ever relate to someone who lives in a place so high and lifted up when their daily existence is flat, deflated, painful? How can we ever be approachable to those who need hope and grace the most when "real life" fails to penetrate our joyful soaring?
It seems to me that God speaks most powerfully about His ability to lift us out of darkness and into hope through the personal example of a believer who is also immersed in darkness yet has His Light shining through. It is truly beautiful. Can the glow be sustained for long periods of time? No. But enough to keep the balloon inflated so that others can come close. So that they can see that we are made out of the same material. So that they get a glimpse of God's Glory shining forth out of another life as ordinary as their own, perhaps planting within them the desire, and the hope, for the same inner Light that allows them to fly as well.
I believe our seasons of being tethered to the earth are temporary. I still believe God loves each one of us, that He has a beautiful and perfect plan for our lives, that as we walk with Him that beauty and perfection will unfold. I STILL BELIEVE. I know it is true for you dear one. I know it is true. Yet sometimes we find ourselves tied to the unrelenting gravity of earth sitting in darkness when all we want to do is fly off into the sunshine. I believe He gives us those times for reasons we cannot comprehend. But a couple of those reasons are becoming clear to me. First of all, sometimes this is the only way we know that our flying power comes from Him alone and ultimately has nothing to do with us. Without His Light within we are simply deflated and flat. Without His release in our lives, we cannot go anywhere. Second, our grounded-ness may not have anything to do with us at all and everything to do with that individual who needs to see a real live example of someone who is filled with God, yet not so high and lifted up that they are scared away from the life of faith. It could be all about bringing good news to a hungry heart that cannot receive it any other way.
Many years ago my husband was a youth leader. One weekend I got to attend the retreat his group went on. The night we stayed over was beautiful and clear; we decided to take a moonlit stroll to the lake. Once we got there the place was lit up with fire-flies. Tim decided to make an impromptu lesson out of it and challenged his students to live life like those fire-flies, with their butts lit up for God, sharing His light and love wherever they would go. The challenge still rings true today. We can get mad at the darkness and give up, or we can let His Light shine, casting beauty far into the night. A life of beauty has benefits. We never know whose deflated hope it will ignite.
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Provision
Last night was our first night where we didn't go outside to play. One of the things I have learned about boys is that they need time to run around, breathe fresh air, have freedom of movement and the space to let their imaginations become bigger than life. But yesterday it rained. And so we stayed inside. But it was hardly wasted time. I decided to go through my oldest son's clothes to see what he needed as cold weather approaches.
I never would have guessed that clothing boys could be such a delicate process. Yet boys can be very particular about what they wear. When there is disagreement my oldest has learned to protest, "Mom! That makes me look like a dork!" Since when do seven year olds care about being dorks?
It was such a relief to me as we began the process of going through Noah's clothes. Instead of complaining, Noah was actually excited. As we started trying on each pair of pants, it became apparent that last year's favorites were too small. I held my breath as we got to the ones that used to be over-sized; he had complained so much about them last fall, refusing to wear pants that had to be rolled up. Each pair slipped on easily, and fit perfectly. "Mom, these are so cool! I'm going to show Daddy!" I could hardly believe my ears as Noah said the words. Pair after pair he would go back and forth through the house, showing off his "new" wardrobe to his father. When we got to long sleeve shirts, it was the same story. What wasn't worth his time last year, last night he was excited to discover. Thus the fashion show continued until every piece had been tried on.
At the end of it all it turns out that we will probably only have to buy a couple of pairs of pants. I am immensely grateful. It may not seem like a big deal, but to me, it is a huge deal. I've been so lonely for a word of hope from the Lord. Here it shows up through the excitement of a seven year old boy who is glad to rediscover clothes in his closet. They fit: miracle! And he likes them: bigger miracle!!! I started to explain to him how wonderful it was when my voice caught. He looks at me and says, "Mommy are you going to cry again?!"
Well, yes. Probably. I feel like the weary wilderness sojourner who discovers Manna in the desert. In fact, the whole experience last night brought to mind a passage from Dueteronomy:
Remember the long way that the Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, in order to humble you, testing you to know what is in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commandments. He humbled you by letting you hunger, then by feeding you with manna, with which neither you nor your ancestors were acquainted, in order to make you understand that one does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. The clothes on your back did not wear out and your feet did not swell these forty years (8:2-4).
I love that line that speaks of God providing clothes for His children that don't wear out, and non-swelling feet for them to walk on. What a tender picture of care, with patient attention to the details that could easily escape notice. But He notices. I am struck by the realization that He arranged it so that we bought more than we needed last year, when it was no big deal. I was aggravated at the time that the clothes were made far larger than the sizes indicated. It irked me that my son refused to wear the clothes I picked out for him; even though the shirts were a little baggy I thought they looked fine. I could not have imagined then what God had planned for those simple pants and shirts, that He was saving them for just the right time when my sweet boy would thank me for finding such "cool" clothes for him to wear. God is full of wonder.
I am heartened. While I know with my head that God never leaves us nor forsakes us, sometimes it's hard to feel that way. Sometimes I feel all alone, forgotten and forsaken. So I am very thankful for this practical reminder, a beautiful picture of God's grace. And I am eternally grateful that God cares enough to bring miracles from the closet that keep my sweet boy from looking like a dork! Wonders never cease.
I never would have guessed that clothing boys could be such a delicate process. Yet boys can be very particular about what they wear. When there is disagreement my oldest has learned to protest, "Mom! That makes me look like a dork!" Since when do seven year olds care about being dorks?
It was such a relief to me as we began the process of going through Noah's clothes. Instead of complaining, Noah was actually excited. As we started trying on each pair of pants, it became apparent that last year's favorites were too small. I held my breath as we got to the ones that used to be over-sized; he had complained so much about them last fall, refusing to wear pants that had to be rolled up. Each pair slipped on easily, and fit perfectly. "Mom, these are so cool! I'm going to show Daddy!" I could hardly believe my ears as Noah said the words. Pair after pair he would go back and forth through the house, showing off his "new" wardrobe to his father. When we got to long sleeve shirts, it was the same story. What wasn't worth his time last year, last night he was excited to discover. Thus the fashion show continued until every piece had been tried on.
At the end of it all it turns out that we will probably only have to buy a couple of pairs of pants. I am immensely grateful. It may not seem like a big deal, but to me, it is a huge deal. I've been so lonely for a word of hope from the Lord. Here it shows up through the excitement of a seven year old boy who is glad to rediscover clothes in his closet. They fit: miracle! And he likes them: bigger miracle!!! I started to explain to him how wonderful it was when my voice caught. He looks at me and says, "Mommy are you going to cry again?!"
Well, yes. Probably. I feel like the weary wilderness sojourner who discovers Manna in the desert. In fact, the whole experience last night brought to mind a passage from Dueteronomy:
Remember the long way that the Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, in order to humble you, testing you to know what is in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commandments. He humbled you by letting you hunger, then by feeding you with manna, with which neither you nor your ancestors were acquainted, in order to make you understand that one does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. The clothes on your back did not wear out and your feet did not swell these forty years (8:2-4).
I love that line that speaks of God providing clothes for His children that don't wear out, and non-swelling feet for them to walk on. What a tender picture of care, with patient attention to the details that could easily escape notice. But He notices. I am struck by the realization that He arranged it so that we bought more than we needed last year, when it was no big deal. I was aggravated at the time that the clothes were made far larger than the sizes indicated. It irked me that my son refused to wear the clothes I picked out for him; even though the shirts were a little baggy I thought they looked fine. I could not have imagined then what God had planned for those simple pants and shirts, that He was saving them for just the right time when my sweet boy would thank me for finding such "cool" clothes for him to wear. God is full of wonder.
I am heartened. While I know with my head that God never leaves us nor forsakes us, sometimes it's hard to feel that way. Sometimes I feel all alone, forgotten and forsaken. So I am very thankful for this practical reminder, a beautiful picture of God's grace. And I am eternally grateful that God cares enough to bring miracles from the closet that keep my sweet boy from looking like a dork! Wonders never cease.
Thursday, September 01, 2011
Inspiration
It may seem like an inconsequential thing, this statement in the first chapter of Luke: "Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord" (1:6). But truly it is a powerful piece of insight, one that touches me deeply. Luke has just introduced the reader to Zechariah and Elizabeth, the parents of John the Baptist, the one chosen to prepare God's people to receive Jesus. And then he tells us they were righteous.
Of course they were righteous, right? I mean, they are major players in the birth narrative of our Savior. And what Biblical heroes aren't righteous? (Okay, so there are a few.) But there is something huge hidden in the matter of fact introduction of John's parents. Between the time that the last prophet to Israel had prophesied and the birth of John, 400 years had lapsed since God had spoken to His people. God was silent for all that time. Zechariah and Elizabeth were living in a time where no one was saying, "Thus says the Lord." Their obedience and love for God humbles me, and it inspires me.
I am inspired because their story shows me what is possible. It's possible to live in right relationship with God and others, even when God is quiet. I am tickled by the ways I am learning this. Since the middle of August I have been working Tuesday's and Thursday's as pre-school teacher for four year olds. Our whole day revolves around helping our sweet boys and girls learn how to take responsibility for themselves and make good choices without us telling them what to do each time. The goal is to help them become mature and independent, to learn to function with greater responsibility so that they are ready for kindergarden next fall. Ultimately they will be able to come into the classroom, hang up their own backpack, get out their folder and put it in their cubby, write their names in their composition books, and find a quiet game to play all on their own, without having to be reminded of the process each time. There comes a time when constant coaching is no longer helpful. It teaches them to remain dependent upon us when they have the ability within to do some things for themselves. We want them to be successful in this exercise because it will help them down the road.
I am beginning to think the same thing is true about God. I think we reach a place in our relationship with Him that He begins to draw back so that we can see what we have learned, how much we have grown, the strength that He has diligently nurtured within us. The greatest loss comes when we remain immature in our faith and are never able to grow into God's purpose for us! Or we simply refuse to exercise the faith that His grace has instilled within us, demanding to remain spiritual infants who refuse to be weened into the next step of growth. It is like Paul lamenting about the Corinthians, "I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not ready for it. Indeed you are still not ready" (I Corinthians 3:2). If God is constantly having to hold our hand so that we can have faith in Him, we will never be able to serve or teach or encourage anyone else in the body of Christ since our own faith is so flimsy. The silence shows us the content of our hearts, and just how deeply the love and knowledge of God is rooted there.
There is something else that humbles and inspires me. It comes from the very next verse in Luke: "But they were childless because Elizabeth was not able to conceive, and they were both very old" (Luke 1:7). I remember what it was like to be childless, to look with longing at mothers with babies, to hope and pray every night that God would give us a child of our own. Tim and I prayed prayers like that for three years. Just when I had given up hope that I would ever be a mother, God stepped in and changed everything for us in a dramatic way. Just a couple of weeks ago we celebrated our oldest son's seventh birthday. Praise God for so many blessings! Tim and I joke that our offspring certainly showcase God's sense of humor; we have one son for each year of trying. So I know that kind of longing, but not to the degree that Elizabeth and Zechariah knew it. They spent their whole lives, all the way to old age, longing for something that was never granted, until the idea of fulfillment was long dead. And yet they are still described as righteous, known as people who lived rightly.
That one verse shows it is possible to live in right relationship with God when disappointment seems to great to bear. I wonder at what point Zechariah and Elizabeth made peace with their personal anguish? When were they able to say, "So life has marked me irrevocably in this way, there is nothing I can do to change it, and yet I will serve the Lord"? Perhaps they never did make peace with their anguish. It's interesting to me that we have no way of knowing. What we do know is that they lived long lives in righteousness, even when life didn't turn out the way they thought it would.
This place I'm in is a place I never thought I would be. I savor the parts of it that have surprised me with joy: the warmth of love that greets me when I am with my boys, the relief I feel now that I no longer have to put something else ahead of them. But then there are other parts that give me pause. There are some prayers I've been praying for years, the subject matter so dear to my heart I don't dare stop praying, or hoping. However, my weary heart believes it is about time God answered, especially when we are dependent upon Him like never before. In the wake of disruption, I want to see the unexpected goodness of God burst upon our lives with fresh goodness. I don't understand why He would wait so long in answering. My ears ache with the strain of listening for stirrings of His Word for us.
And so, oddly enough, I am encouraged in the place I never thought I would be. Zechariah and Elizabeth found a way to remain connected to the God, even when their deepest hopes and dreams never materialized after years of faithful waiting. I love that the text does not elaborate on those years of dryness. It simply makes a declaration of the culmination of those years. That at the end of the day, for days and years on end, they decided that belonging to God was the most important thing. Even in the face of unquenched longing. If such an ordinary couple like them could do it, maybe we can to.
Of course they were righteous, right? I mean, they are major players in the birth narrative of our Savior. And what Biblical heroes aren't righteous? (Okay, so there are a few.) But there is something huge hidden in the matter of fact introduction of John's parents. Between the time that the last prophet to Israel had prophesied and the birth of John, 400 years had lapsed since God had spoken to His people. God was silent for all that time. Zechariah and Elizabeth were living in a time where no one was saying, "Thus says the Lord." Their obedience and love for God humbles me, and it inspires me.
I am inspired because their story shows me what is possible. It's possible to live in right relationship with God and others, even when God is quiet. I am tickled by the ways I am learning this. Since the middle of August I have been working Tuesday's and Thursday's as pre-school teacher for four year olds. Our whole day revolves around helping our sweet boys and girls learn how to take responsibility for themselves and make good choices without us telling them what to do each time. The goal is to help them become mature and independent, to learn to function with greater responsibility so that they are ready for kindergarden next fall. Ultimately they will be able to come into the classroom, hang up their own backpack, get out their folder and put it in their cubby, write their names in their composition books, and find a quiet game to play all on their own, without having to be reminded of the process each time. There comes a time when constant coaching is no longer helpful. It teaches them to remain dependent upon us when they have the ability within to do some things for themselves. We want them to be successful in this exercise because it will help them down the road.
I am beginning to think the same thing is true about God. I think we reach a place in our relationship with Him that He begins to draw back so that we can see what we have learned, how much we have grown, the strength that He has diligently nurtured within us. The greatest loss comes when we remain immature in our faith and are never able to grow into God's purpose for us! Or we simply refuse to exercise the faith that His grace has instilled within us, demanding to remain spiritual infants who refuse to be weened into the next step of growth. It is like Paul lamenting about the Corinthians, "I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not ready for it. Indeed you are still not ready" (I Corinthians 3:2). If God is constantly having to hold our hand so that we can have faith in Him, we will never be able to serve or teach or encourage anyone else in the body of Christ since our own faith is so flimsy. The silence shows us the content of our hearts, and just how deeply the love and knowledge of God is rooted there.
There is something else that humbles and inspires me. It comes from the very next verse in Luke: "But they were childless because Elizabeth was not able to conceive, and they were both very old" (Luke 1:7). I remember what it was like to be childless, to look with longing at mothers with babies, to hope and pray every night that God would give us a child of our own. Tim and I prayed prayers like that for three years. Just when I had given up hope that I would ever be a mother, God stepped in and changed everything for us in a dramatic way. Just a couple of weeks ago we celebrated our oldest son's seventh birthday. Praise God for so many blessings! Tim and I joke that our offspring certainly showcase God's sense of humor; we have one son for each year of trying. So I know that kind of longing, but not to the degree that Elizabeth and Zechariah knew it. They spent their whole lives, all the way to old age, longing for something that was never granted, until the idea of fulfillment was long dead. And yet they are still described as righteous, known as people who lived rightly.
That one verse shows it is possible to live in right relationship with God when disappointment seems to great to bear. I wonder at what point Zechariah and Elizabeth made peace with their personal anguish? When were they able to say, "So life has marked me irrevocably in this way, there is nothing I can do to change it, and yet I will serve the Lord"? Perhaps they never did make peace with their anguish. It's interesting to me that we have no way of knowing. What we do know is that they lived long lives in righteousness, even when life didn't turn out the way they thought it would.
This place I'm in is a place I never thought I would be. I savor the parts of it that have surprised me with joy: the warmth of love that greets me when I am with my boys, the relief I feel now that I no longer have to put something else ahead of them. But then there are other parts that give me pause. There are some prayers I've been praying for years, the subject matter so dear to my heart I don't dare stop praying, or hoping. However, my weary heart believes it is about time God answered, especially when we are dependent upon Him like never before. In the wake of disruption, I want to see the unexpected goodness of God burst upon our lives with fresh goodness. I don't understand why He would wait so long in answering. My ears ache with the strain of listening for stirrings of His Word for us.
And so, oddly enough, I am encouraged in the place I never thought I would be. Zechariah and Elizabeth found a way to remain connected to the God, even when their deepest hopes and dreams never materialized after years of faithful waiting. I love that the text does not elaborate on those years of dryness. It simply makes a declaration of the culmination of those years. That at the end of the day, for days and years on end, they decided that belonging to God was the most important thing. Even in the face of unquenched longing. If such an ordinary couple like them could do it, maybe we can to.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Tell the Truth
I remember a popular song from my childhood called "Killing Me Softly With His Song." It is the story of a girl who hears about a guy who is a good musician and decides to go hear him play his stuff. She discovers that his lyrics speak what is happening within her heart.
I am thinking about that song. I want that experience. I am so hungry for it. Especially on Sunday's. I want to hear my story reflected back to me, to hear that somehow the gospel touches this lonely place, not just with pat answers and platitudes, but with truth and grace. I don't want to hear someone share Jesus out of a place of success or comfort. I want to hear someone speak about Jesus out of their experience of desperation, when their dreams are dying before their eyes, when prayer seems futile, when consolation runs dry.
I am searching for an authentic witness to the truth. But it takes so much courage to pull the veil away and expose the rawness of hurt, anger, disappointment. I have rarely gone to church and heard someone speak of finding God in those places, exposing the difficult places of their heart experience as a fountainhead of hope. The gospel just sounds so much better when we pretend that life is great. If life is great it is easier to believe that God is great. But I am struggling right now. How do I find God in the midst of that struggle? Especially when all the ways I have know God's presence in the past just come up empty?
Some parts of my life are deeply satisfying. Those places are balms to my spirit. I am so thankful for them. Then there are other parts that hurt so much. I want to know, and need to know, that the loss I feel is still blessed. That hope lives in there. That I can expect God to show up, maybe not in a way that I currently recognize, but in a way that lets me know I'm not God-forsaken.
The thing is, without a real expression of someone's struggle, it's hard to believe their assurances. The grace offered seems cheap and flimsy, unsubstantial. I need to know there is more. I need to know grace is deeper, stronger, fuller. And I need someone to show me where that kind of grace is. Because right now I can't see it.
What I can say about Sunday mornings is that I love the music. It washes over me. It challenges me, because I can't just sing words I don't believe. Sometimes I sing with tears streaming down my face. But I still sing. My favorite song this morning at church was "How He Loves Us" by John Mark McMillan. The lyrics speak of the radical and deep love of God, so powerful we would be swept away in it if we could only see it for what it is. I so need to know God loves me that much right now. It's hard to feel it, but I tend to believe the words of the song more than the sermon. McMillan wrote it after his friend Steven was killed. He found a way to believe in God's love in the midst of his anguish. Maybe there is hope for me too.
I don't understand this season I'm in. It is a delirious mix of gratitude and angst. I catapult between the two extremes so often it leaves my head, and especially my heart, spinning. But I have to believe this is not the end of my story. I have to believe that I will look back on this time and be able to find His hand at work, resolving what is broken in my heart, healing what I cannot mend. I have to believe that grace is real, even when I can't see it. I have to believe that grace is truth, even when it feels false.
I am thinking about that song. I want that experience. I am so hungry for it. Especially on Sunday's. I want to hear my story reflected back to me, to hear that somehow the gospel touches this lonely place, not just with pat answers and platitudes, but with truth and grace. I don't want to hear someone share Jesus out of a place of success or comfort. I want to hear someone speak about Jesus out of their experience of desperation, when their dreams are dying before their eyes, when prayer seems futile, when consolation runs dry.
I am searching for an authentic witness to the truth. But it takes so much courage to pull the veil away and expose the rawness of hurt, anger, disappointment. I have rarely gone to church and heard someone speak of finding God in those places, exposing the difficult places of their heart experience as a fountainhead of hope. The gospel just sounds so much better when we pretend that life is great. If life is great it is easier to believe that God is great. But I am struggling right now. How do I find God in the midst of that struggle? Especially when all the ways I have know God's presence in the past just come up empty?
Some parts of my life are deeply satisfying. Those places are balms to my spirit. I am so thankful for them. Then there are other parts that hurt so much. I want to know, and need to know, that the loss I feel is still blessed. That hope lives in there. That I can expect God to show up, maybe not in a way that I currently recognize, but in a way that lets me know I'm not God-forsaken.
The thing is, without a real expression of someone's struggle, it's hard to believe their assurances. The grace offered seems cheap and flimsy, unsubstantial. I need to know there is more. I need to know grace is deeper, stronger, fuller. And I need someone to show me where that kind of grace is. Because right now I can't see it.
What I can say about Sunday mornings is that I love the music. It washes over me. It challenges me, because I can't just sing words I don't believe. Sometimes I sing with tears streaming down my face. But I still sing. My favorite song this morning at church was "How He Loves Us" by John Mark McMillan. The lyrics speak of the radical and deep love of God, so powerful we would be swept away in it if we could only see it for what it is. I so need to know God loves me that much right now. It's hard to feel it, but I tend to believe the words of the song more than the sermon. McMillan wrote it after his friend Steven was killed. He found a way to believe in God's love in the midst of his anguish. Maybe there is hope for me too.
I don't understand this season I'm in. It is a delirious mix of gratitude and angst. I catapult between the two extremes so often it leaves my head, and especially my heart, spinning. But I have to believe this is not the end of my story. I have to believe that I will look back on this time and be able to find His hand at work, resolving what is broken in my heart, healing what I cannot mend. I have to believe that grace is real, even when I can't see it. I have to believe that grace is truth, even when it feels false.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Conversations
I got to visit with one of my dear friends today. We spoke of where we are in our lives. The last time we saw each other I was cleaning out my office at the Wesley Foundation. I remember her words to me then, "It doesn't look right, but it doesn't look wrong." Today she said to me, "You look years younger than you did this time last year." I see myself in the mirror every day. I wasn't aware of how outwardly noticeable the changes in my spirit have been.
I remain wonder struck. This weekend will be my oldest son's seventh birthday. It is the first time in his life that I can enjoy his special day without being weighed down with concerns and worries about the beginning of fall semester. For the first time I don't have to rush off to another back to campus event. For the first time, planning my little boy's birthday party can be the most important thing in my life during the weekend that freshmen move in to campus. It is wonderful to me.
This morning I sat beside my sweet boy on the floor as he ate dry Trix cereal before going to school. I looked at his feet, noticing how they look more like my husband's feet than mine. I had never noticed before. It was a quiet, beautiful moment. I noticed because there is room inside of me for such observations. There didn't quite seem to be that kind of room several months ago.
It is almost as if whole parts of my being went to sleep in the pressure cooker I was living in. I didn't even recognize my own diminished capacity for joy; who knows when it quietly slipped away. Well, actually I am very aware of Who knows. I believe it is why He did for me what I could not do for myself: give me freedom. At the time, I was devastated. Today I can see God's goodness in it. He is so good.
My friend spoke wistfully of cup filling. She had attended a women's group at church one time where each participant was asked to fill a clear plastic cup with water and set it where it would be visible. Each week she was to mark the water line. Of course as time passed less and less water remained in the cup. What was there became stagnant. The point was that no one else fills our cups for us. When we always pour into every one else, ignoring the condition of our own hearts, eventually we have nothing left to give, and what is there to give isn't worth having. As she explained the dynamic to me, I began to sense that God used the events of the last few months show me how empty my own cup had become.
It's hard talking about the oppression I used to live in. It seems like talking about it brings the feelings of suffocation back. But at the same time I know that I must articulate the differences, simply so I can
recognize them and fully own the the changes that have come forth. I know that if I fall asleep again I can walk right back into the same kind of prison I was in, simply with different wall paper. Really I want to be free. This is a season for learning to walk tall in this God gifted freedom.
I remain wonder struck. This weekend will be my oldest son's seventh birthday. It is the first time in his life that I can enjoy his special day without being weighed down with concerns and worries about the beginning of fall semester. For the first time I don't have to rush off to another back to campus event. For the first time, planning my little boy's birthday party can be the most important thing in my life during the weekend that freshmen move in to campus. It is wonderful to me.
This morning I sat beside my sweet boy on the floor as he ate dry Trix cereal before going to school. I looked at his feet, noticing how they look more like my husband's feet than mine. I had never noticed before. It was a quiet, beautiful moment. I noticed because there is room inside of me for such observations. There didn't quite seem to be that kind of room several months ago.
It is almost as if whole parts of my being went to sleep in the pressure cooker I was living in. I didn't even recognize my own diminished capacity for joy; who knows when it quietly slipped away. Well, actually I am very aware of Who knows. I believe it is why He did for me what I could not do for myself: give me freedom. At the time, I was devastated. Today I can see God's goodness in it. He is so good.
My friend spoke wistfully of cup filling. She had attended a women's group at church one time where each participant was asked to fill a clear plastic cup with water and set it where it would be visible. Each week she was to mark the water line. Of course as time passed less and less water remained in the cup. What was there became stagnant. The point was that no one else fills our cups for us. When we always pour into every one else, ignoring the condition of our own hearts, eventually we have nothing left to give, and what is there to give isn't worth having. As she explained the dynamic to me, I began to sense that God used the events of the last few months show me how empty my own cup had become.
It's hard talking about the oppression I used to live in. It seems like talking about it brings the feelings of suffocation back. But at the same time I know that I must articulate the differences, simply so I can
recognize them and fully own the the changes that have come forth. I know that if I fall asleep again I can walk right back into the same kind of prison I was in, simply with different wall paper. Really I want to be free. This is a season for learning to walk tall in this God gifted freedom.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Hidden Treasure
The silence seems so loud. I feel like God hasn't left His calling card in a while. As a pastor I respond to comments like this with encouragement. I understand the spiritual dimensions of dessert experiences, some from theological training, mostly from my own past history. Often God will withdraw His felt presence as a way of drawing us closer, deeper to an experience with His otherness. It becomes an invitation to play hide and seek with the Divine. As God hides, bidding us come and find Him, we follow to places we never would have ventured otherwise; we discover treasures in the most obscure places. I have never been sorry for those times of dryness, for the seeking and finding. But it can be so hard to be in the middle of that place. It doesn't feel like child's play; it feels like being lost.
Understanding rarely incubates us from the fullness of life experiences. Being a professionally trained theologian doesn't make the God questions any easier to answer, or searching for Him any less frustrating when He chooses to hide. Here I am, wrestling with questions that don't have easy answers and playing hide and seek with the only One who isn't bound by human limitations. Finding always happens on God's terms. Never on mine. I hate that.
But I am a very firm believer that all things work together for good. I know God is around here somewhere. Though I cannot see Him or feel His presence or hear His voice in the once familiar ways, His goodness does cast a long shadow. I notice it when I look into the faces of my children. I sense His blessing when my baby boy puckers up for mommy kisses. It embraces me when my "too cool for school" seven year old throws his arms around me for a quick hug. And I hear it in the sweet declaration of love from my 4 year old: "Mommy, I love you."
My husband and I have never been closer. Getting to this place has been painful, but I've never understood so clearly how much my presence is cherished by the person who means the most to me. Sharing my vulnerability so deeply is somewhat new to me. Yet I feel completely safe and cared for as I let him see into the deep places of my hopes and fears, faith and doubts. In the past I often felt responsible for holding the whole world upon my shoulders of faith. In discovering how weak my own shoulders actually are, I have also found a strength in him that I didn't know was there. It comforts me. I feel less lost when we are together, especially when we talk about what is really going on beneath the surface.
All of these gifts are truly good gifts. Sometimes I think we get so comfortable that it's easy to not see the blessings we already have, to not live deeply in the moment that holds us. Losing a full-time job brings a lot of uncertainty. As things have changed so much for our family over the past few months, I am keenly aware that this moment is all we have. I want to make the most of all the moments I am given, to cherish each one and live them all fully. These awareness, brought close by the discomfort of uncertain circumstances, is beautiful. I wouldn't have chosen it, but I am glad it chose me.
God's treasures are often buried under the debris of our Americanized expectations. We think happiness resides only on easy street. I am finding that happiness really lives in those places where the heart learns the value of what has already been given. As I mother three mischievous and lively boys, as I hold hands with the man who still makes my heart sing after 15 years of marriage, I realize my deepest prayers have been answered. I can rest here. I can make my home here. Even though so many things are uncomfortable right now, this is treasure enough. And I am profoundly grateful.
Understanding rarely incubates us from the fullness of life experiences. Being a professionally trained theologian doesn't make the God questions any easier to answer, or searching for Him any less frustrating when He chooses to hide. Here I am, wrestling with questions that don't have easy answers and playing hide and seek with the only One who isn't bound by human limitations. Finding always happens on God's terms. Never on mine. I hate that.
But I am a very firm believer that all things work together for good. I know God is around here somewhere. Though I cannot see Him or feel His presence or hear His voice in the once familiar ways, His goodness does cast a long shadow. I notice it when I look into the faces of my children. I sense His blessing when my baby boy puckers up for mommy kisses. It embraces me when my "too cool for school" seven year old throws his arms around me for a quick hug. And I hear it in the sweet declaration of love from my 4 year old: "Mommy, I love you."
My husband and I have never been closer. Getting to this place has been painful, but I've never understood so clearly how much my presence is cherished by the person who means the most to me. Sharing my vulnerability so deeply is somewhat new to me. Yet I feel completely safe and cared for as I let him see into the deep places of my hopes and fears, faith and doubts. In the past I often felt responsible for holding the whole world upon my shoulders of faith. In discovering how weak my own shoulders actually are, I have also found a strength in him that I didn't know was there. It comforts me. I feel less lost when we are together, especially when we talk about what is really going on beneath the surface.
All of these gifts are truly good gifts. Sometimes I think we get so comfortable that it's easy to not see the blessings we already have, to not live deeply in the moment that holds us. Losing a full-time job brings a lot of uncertainty. As things have changed so much for our family over the past few months, I am keenly aware that this moment is all we have. I want to make the most of all the moments I am given, to cherish each one and live them all fully. These awareness, brought close by the discomfort of uncertain circumstances, is beautiful. I wouldn't have chosen it, but I am glad it chose me.
God's treasures are often buried under the debris of our Americanized expectations. We think happiness resides only on easy street. I am finding that happiness really lives in those places where the heart learns the value of what has already been given. As I mother three mischievous and lively boys, as I hold hands with the man who still makes my heart sing after 15 years of marriage, I realize my deepest prayers have been answered. I can rest here. I can make my home here. Even though so many things are uncomfortable right now, this is treasure enough. And I am profoundly grateful.
Monday, August 08, 2011
Transitions
It's the middle of transition time again. Tomorrow Noah starts second grade, and I have a teacher work day for my new job. It's one of those times when I feel unsteady, like walking into a dark room and needing time for my eyes to adjust. It will take a while to get my bearings, to feel comfortable with the new rhythm of my life.
Actually, I trust the process. When routine returns and the long, lazy days of summer are over, somehow life finds a natural ebb and flow. I tend to be more productive because the things I need to do have nice confined spaces to fit in within my day. Everything organizes itself into blocks of time where I can focus on specific things during specific hours. The closet OCD part of me likes this. It reminds me of the unspoken mantra that lives in my head when I am trying to restore order to my house, to my life: "A place for everything; everything in its place." This particular moment is just that fuzzy time when I try to figure out where everything fits, often by trial and error.
In my University Experience class I have my students construct a grid that represents a week in their lives, spread across an 8" x 10" piece of paper with hours labeled down one side and days ordered on top. I ask them to color code each block of time according to their activities, making sure they clearly show class time, study time, work time, and free time. Each year I also participate in this activity. It helps me understand how my life fits together. The gift of the exercise is that occasionally I discover a block of time I didn't realize was there, something I can consciously dedicate to an activity I enjoy. I realize how anxious I am to see my life in neat blocks --I would know what parts of myself fit where and when.
For now I wait in the craziness of new schedules, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the newness. It's all good. Eventually life finds a comfortable pace, and the whole family finds a way to settle in. I'm looking forward to my new ordinary to reveal itself.
Actually, I trust the process. When routine returns and the long, lazy days of summer are over, somehow life finds a natural ebb and flow. I tend to be more productive because the things I need to do have nice confined spaces to fit in within my day. Everything organizes itself into blocks of time where I can focus on specific things during specific hours. The closet OCD part of me likes this. It reminds me of the unspoken mantra that lives in my head when I am trying to restore order to my house, to my life: "A place for everything; everything in its place." This particular moment is just that fuzzy time when I try to figure out where everything fits, often by trial and error.
In my University Experience class I have my students construct a grid that represents a week in their lives, spread across an 8" x 10" piece of paper with hours labeled down one side and days ordered on top. I ask them to color code each block of time according to their activities, making sure they clearly show class time, study time, work time, and free time. Each year I also participate in this activity. It helps me understand how my life fits together. The gift of the exercise is that occasionally I discover a block of time I didn't realize was there, something I can consciously dedicate to an activity I enjoy. I realize how anxious I am to see my life in neat blocks --I would know what parts of myself fit where and when.
For now I wait in the craziness of new schedules, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the newness. It's all good. Eventually life finds a comfortable pace, and the whole family finds a way to settle in. I'm looking forward to my new ordinary to reveal itself.
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Until Then
One of the craziest things has happened to me this summer. Scripture looks completely different to me. Like, I know how to read it as the campus minister who carries great burdens, and struggles alone, and tries to juggle being a mother with taking care of a whole ministry that nurtures students. Reading scripture while bending beneath the weight of that life is familiar. I can feel the oppression of the expectations I was living under even as I write those words. But things are different now. Today I am a woman who has been set free from a prison I didn't even know I was in until God led me out. What is clear is that I am a vastly different person that I once was.
I don't know if I will ever get over being surprised at how differently scripture speaks to me now. I once heard that you can never step into the same river twice. Reading scripture is the same way. As life moves us to different places, the old familiar story speaks a new message. All of the allusions and references change. My bearings have shifted.
It could just be that my whole person has shifted, and I never noticed because God did the transforming quietly, slowly over time. It's like one day I woke up and I was a completely different person than I was fifteen years ago. If I were to travel back in time to say hi to the girl that I was, I would barely recognize myself. And I definitely know that different people never hear scripture in the same way; their hearing is shaped by everything that has made them who they are.
The last few days I have been pondering a familiar scripture that speaks to me in a new way: Romans 8:18-30. It begins with Paul's encouragement, "I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us." It ends with Paul's firm declaration concerning God's children: "And those whom he predestined he also called; and those whom he called he also justified; and those whom he justified he also glorified." The old me would read this passage and imagine how God was going to jump into the circumstances of my life and bring forth a glorious reversal of all things painful and unjust. Today I read it and recognize a quieter truth, deeper than my earlier reckoning.
Before I thought that God was like Bette Midler's song "From a Distance" watching over us from a perch in heaven and swooping in to save the day when things had gotten sufficiently out of hand. (On some days that is what my life is like as a mother. Swooping is a good skill to have as a mother of three small boys.) All of my prayers and longings were directed toward that end, seeking God's intervention to accomplish the good I desired but was unable to bring forth. After all God is big, and God is good. Of course He wants to help. The events of the last few months have shifted my assumptions somewhat.
It's not that God is no longer Big and Good. He is. But I am recognizing that His purposes are not always (rarely?) my own. Let me explain. The Romans passage quickly admits that all of creation is "subjected to futility." But then the passage intimates that God is the one who did this! What the hay?! Why in the world would God do this? What could He possibly accomplish by putting us and the whole world in a scenario where we are groaning and straining toward a better good that seems to always be out of our grasp? I love how verse 26 puts it this way: "For we do not know how to pray as we ought." Of course we don't. Of course I don't! In the middle of suffering my prayers are like this: "God, get me out of here!!!!" I love what the scripture says next. God puts His own Spirit within us to pray on our behalf: "because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God." Since I don't know how to pray according to God's will, God prays it for me, within me even.
I'm thinking that God's prayers within us are the very thing that transforms us, from the inside out. I'm thinking that this is how God slowly transformed me. I believe the key to unlocking this mystery of why God does what He does and not what we want comes from verse 29. I believe it is the heart of God's will for us and the whole creation: "For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn within a large family." While I'm begging God to rescue me from my troubles, God is working through them to recreate me in His Son's likeness. The Greek word for conform is "summorphos" which means "properly, conformed, by sharing the same inner essence-identity (form); showing similar behavior from having the same essential nature" (See www.biblos.com, HELPS Word Studies). It is our suffering that God works through to implant the likeness of Jesus within us.
And so through it all, God is not some distant overseeing Divine figure who waits to come in and save the day. Instead God is with us through every moment, experiencing the depths of our heartaches, disappointments, and pain. He translates our hurt into "sighs too deep for words." And as Romans 8:28 says, He translates those sighs into our good, and ultimately our glory. Again returning to the original meaning of Paul's use of the word "glorified" or doxazo in verse 30: "glorify; properly, to ascribe weight by recognizing real substance (value)" (again, see www.biblos.com, HELPS Word Studies). It's as if the difficulties we go through whittle away the parts of our lives that are not really us, not our heart's desires, not our true nature or character so that what remains is the essential self God had in mind at our beginning. It is a process of becoming the person God created us to be, full of the beauty and substance that only we can bring to the world. That end is truly joyful and genuinely good.
The temptation then, is not to believe the worst about God (God is certainly Big enough to handle our poor opinion of Him; I imagine He's been doing it for years. As Solomon says, "There is nothing new under the sun."). Our biggest temptation is to bug out of the process, to end the relationship and give ourselves over to our own appetites, or even worse, the enemy's lies. God's victory is when we stay connected despite our confusion, even anger, and continue to stretch ourselves towards Him. God never tires of hearing our groans. For Him they are the vessels of His transformation remaking our lives. For us they are the birth pains of the essential self being born, that person we have always longed to be but never thought we would or could.
There are so many things I do not understand. So many ways I would staunch the suffering and heartache of others if I could. I hate that I am unable to make life different for those I love, especially when my own soul leaps within me for the freedom and release I have found. All I can do is add my groans to theirs, to join in their longing for a better experience, for a more hopeful and satisfying end. It is my act of love to gather them into my own heart and offer them to the heart of God, asking for His glory to be revealed in them. But until then . . . .
"But until then my heart will go on singing,
Until then with joy I'll carry on;
Until the day my eyes behold the city,
Until the day God calls me home."
Lyrics to "Until Then"
Words and music by Stuart Hamblen
I don't know if I will ever get over being surprised at how differently scripture speaks to me now. I once heard that you can never step into the same river twice. Reading scripture is the same way. As life moves us to different places, the old familiar story speaks a new message. All of the allusions and references change. My bearings have shifted.
It could just be that my whole person has shifted, and I never noticed because God did the transforming quietly, slowly over time. It's like one day I woke up and I was a completely different person than I was fifteen years ago. If I were to travel back in time to say hi to the girl that I was, I would barely recognize myself. And I definitely know that different people never hear scripture in the same way; their hearing is shaped by everything that has made them who they are.
The last few days I have been pondering a familiar scripture that speaks to me in a new way: Romans 8:18-30. It begins with Paul's encouragement, "I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us." It ends with Paul's firm declaration concerning God's children: "And those whom he predestined he also called; and those whom he called he also justified; and those whom he justified he also glorified." The old me would read this passage and imagine how God was going to jump into the circumstances of my life and bring forth a glorious reversal of all things painful and unjust. Today I read it and recognize a quieter truth, deeper than my earlier reckoning.
Before I thought that God was like Bette Midler's song "From a Distance" watching over us from a perch in heaven and swooping in to save the day when things had gotten sufficiently out of hand. (On some days that is what my life is like as a mother. Swooping is a good skill to have as a mother of three small boys.) All of my prayers and longings were directed toward that end, seeking God's intervention to accomplish the good I desired but was unable to bring forth. After all God is big, and God is good. Of course He wants to help. The events of the last few months have shifted my assumptions somewhat.
It's not that God is no longer Big and Good. He is. But I am recognizing that His purposes are not always (rarely?) my own. Let me explain. The Romans passage quickly admits that all of creation is "subjected to futility." But then the passage intimates that God is the one who did this! What the hay?! Why in the world would God do this? What could He possibly accomplish by putting us and the whole world in a scenario where we are groaning and straining toward a better good that seems to always be out of our grasp? I love how verse 26 puts it this way: "For we do not know how to pray as we ought." Of course we don't. Of course I don't! In the middle of suffering my prayers are like this: "God, get me out of here!!!!" I love what the scripture says next. God puts His own Spirit within us to pray on our behalf: "because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God." Since I don't know how to pray according to God's will, God prays it for me, within me even.
I'm thinking that God's prayers within us are the very thing that transforms us, from the inside out. I'm thinking that this is how God slowly transformed me. I believe the key to unlocking this mystery of why God does what He does and not what we want comes from verse 29. I believe it is the heart of God's will for us and the whole creation: "For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn within a large family." While I'm begging God to rescue me from my troubles, God is working through them to recreate me in His Son's likeness. The Greek word for conform is "summorphos" which means "properly, conformed, by sharing the same inner essence-identity (form); showing similar behavior from having the same essential nature" (See www.biblos.com, HELPS Word Studies). It is our suffering that God works through to implant the likeness of Jesus within us.
And so through it all, God is not some distant overseeing Divine figure who waits to come in and save the day. Instead God is with us through every moment, experiencing the depths of our heartaches, disappointments, and pain. He translates our hurt into "sighs too deep for words." And as Romans 8:28 says, He translates those sighs into our good, and ultimately our glory. Again returning to the original meaning of Paul's use of the word "glorified" or doxazo in verse 30: "glorify; properly, to ascribe weight by recognizing real substance (value)" (again, see www.biblos.com, HELPS Word Studies). It's as if the difficulties we go through whittle away the parts of our lives that are not really us, not our heart's desires, not our true nature or character so that what remains is the essential self God had in mind at our beginning. It is a process of becoming the person God created us to be, full of the beauty and substance that only we can bring to the world. That end is truly joyful and genuinely good.
The temptation then, is not to believe the worst about God (God is certainly Big enough to handle our poor opinion of Him; I imagine He's been doing it for years. As Solomon says, "There is nothing new under the sun."). Our biggest temptation is to bug out of the process, to end the relationship and give ourselves over to our own appetites, or even worse, the enemy's lies. God's victory is when we stay connected despite our confusion, even anger, and continue to stretch ourselves towards Him. God never tires of hearing our groans. For Him they are the vessels of His transformation remaking our lives. For us they are the birth pains of the essential self being born, that person we have always longed to be but never thought we would or could.
There are so many things I do not understand. So many ways I would staunch the suffering and heartache of others if I could. I hate that I am unable to make life different for those I love, especially when my own soul leaps within me for the freedom and release I have found. All I can do is add my groans to theirs, to join in their longing for a better experience, for a more hopeful and satisfying end. It is my act of love to gather them into my own heart and offer them to the heart of God, asking for His glory to be revealed in them. But until then . . . .
"But until then my heart will go on singing,
Until then with joy I'll carry on;
Until the day my eyes behold the city,
Until the day God calls me home."
Lyrics to "Until Then"
Words and music by Stuart Hamblen
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
A Tale of Two Summers
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."
--From A Tale of Two Cities
When I was in seminary one of my professor's favorite sayings was "Can you feel the tension?" We learned what it meant to be immersed in paradox, on the one hand learning so much about the building blocks of our faith while at the same time sometimes losing it. I remember it being one of the most challenging times of my life. And yet is was key in giving me a faith I could stand on, as all of the flimsy stuff fell away. It was there I learned to look beyond the feeling of God's presence to God Who is always Present. As difficult as that time was, I am profoundly grateful for it now. I am still standing.
But there are days. Again I find myself in the middle of a paradox. On the one hand this has been (as my son Isaiah would put it) "the best summer ever!" Just last night we enjoyed a game of kickball in the front yard during the semi-cool of the evening. It was a lovely moment of family fun, all of us playing together. Even my 19 month old was there, except he preferred digging in the dirt on third base. At one point I paused and looked at my life, filled with wonder and joy, grateful to be there with all my boys. There have been many moments like that this summer, more than in the past. Moments full of laughter and love and togetherness. Sweet moments blessing me with hope and humor.
And then there other kinds of moments, other kinds of days. My heart feels raw with the pleading for God to answer one simple prayer, prayed with every inch of my being, all of my molecules straining toward Heaven with longing. There were times like these in seminary when I decided God wasn't there, or that God must be disabled. I've lived enough since then to know better. God hides for reasons that are beyond my understanding, yet His hiding always initiates my deeper seeking, yielding treasures that are worth it in the end. They are just not so worth it in the middle.
I catapult between the extremes: Gratitude that takes my breath away, and helpless yearning aching for God's intervention in deeply held need. Sometimes I feel so full, so joyous. Other times I feel stripped to the bones of faith, empty of all assurances that my prayers matter. Those are the times I'm no fun to be around.
As much as I long for sight, this is not the time for seeing. (I hate this!) I believe it is the time for being present. It is the only thing of value I have to offer Him right now. "I'm still here," I tell Him. "That has to count for something." So far I haven't heard His answer. But I'm guessing that if being Present is one of His best gifts to me, then He can be pleased that I'm present with Him, especially when it hurts so much.
This is me trusting,
Sami
--From A Tale of Two Cities
When I was in seminary one of my professor's favorite sayings was "Can you feel the tension?" We learned what it meant to be immersed in paradox, on the one hand learning so much about the building blocks of our faith while at the same time sometimes losing it. I remember it being one of the most challenging times of my life. And yet is was key in giving me a faith I could stand on, as all of the flimsy stuff fell away. It was there I learned to look beyond the feeling of God's presence to God Who is always Present. As difficult as that time was, I am profoundly grateful for it now. I am still standing.
But there are days. Again I find myself in the middle of a paradox. On the one hand this has been (as my son Isaiah would put it) "the best summer ever!" Just last night we enjoyed a game of kickball in the front yard during the semi-cool of the evening. It was a lovely moment of family fun, all of us playing together. Even my 19 month old was there, except he preferred digging in the dirt on third base. At one point I paused and looked at my life, filled with wonder and joy, grateful to be there with all my boys. There have been many moments like that this summer, more than in the past. Moments full of laughter and love and togetherness. Sweet moments blessing me with hope and humor.
And then there other kinds of moments, other kinds of days. My heart feels raw with the pleading for God to answer one simple prayer, prayed with every inch of my being, all of my molecules straining toward Heaven with longing. There were times like these in seminary when I decided God wasn't there, or that God must be disabled. I've lived enough since then to know better. God hides for reasons that are beyond my understanding, yet His hiding always initiates my deeper seeking, yielding treasures that are worth it in the end. They are just not so worth it in the middle.
I catapult between the extremes: Gratitude that takes my breath away, and helpless yearning aching for God's intervention in deeply held need. Sometimes I feel so full, so joyous. Other times I feel stripped to the bones of faith, empty of all assurances that my prayers matter. Those are the times I'm no fun to be around.
As much as I long for sight, this is not the time for seeing. (I hate this!) I believe it is the time for being present. It is the only thing of value I have to offer Him right now. "I'm still here," I tell Him. "That has to count for something." So far I haven't heard His answer. But I'm guessing that if being Present is one of His best gifts to me, then He can be pleased that I'm present with Him, especially when it hurts so much.
This is me trusting,
Sami
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)