Messages

This morning I learned that there was a "miscommunication" between my mom's oncologist and his nurse. She's been waiting two weeks for him to get back on her case, after vacation, and start her medication. Last night he told her that he did order her medication -- two weeks ago -- but somewhere along the line it didn't get done. She's been waiting ... he thought she's already been on it.

I can't tell you how frustrating, and nerve-wracking, this is.

I'm trying not to freak out. I'm trying to stay calm. I'm trying not to be overtaken by the "what if's." But it's hard. I'm human. I tend to "go there" (unfortunately). And Grace is in my face this morning, everywhere I turn, talking, talking, talking ... when I just want silence. She's been following me, in one room and out the next. I'm getting ready to take her to her preschool's class picnic, and she's shadowing me. Everywhere. I want to be left alone. I can't.

And it's funny how two "messages" came my way this morning. The first from Sandy, forwarding me an online devotional meant for another friend of ours who is going through a tough time, yet I found it particularly poignant for me:

"When Job went before the Lord, as any person should do when they are suffering, he asked the question why. And there is nothing wrong with asking why. I have asked why many times. There is nothing wrong with asking why as long as you don't get the idea that God somehow owes you an answer. Even Jesus, hanging on the cross, said, "My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" (Matthew 27:46).

We don't always know why. And I don't even think there is anything wrong with saying, "I don't like or agree with this plan." In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prayed, "My Father! If it is possible, let this cup of suffering be taken away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine." (Matthew 26:39). Go to God with your whys. Go to God with your doubts. Go to God with your struggles. But ultimately, we need to say to the Lord, "Yet I want your will to be done, not mine."

Job asked a lot of questions, and then he started giving his opinions and trying to explain things away. Finally, God had enough. He asked Job, "Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell Me, if you have understanding" (Job 38:4). Effectively He was saying, "Well, Job, you are such an expert now! Will you tell me what is going on? I don't remember seeing you around when I was creating the planets."

God never told Job why. Instead, He just revealed more of himself to Job. More than an explanation, what we really need is an encounter with God—a revelation of God. Because when we see God for who He is, we see our problems for what they are. Small God, big problems. Big God, small problems."

And then, as I was cleaning up the kitchen, I came across Aidan's new memory verse from Acts, which we always tape to the kitchen wall so he can memorize it. I read the verse, amazed at its timeliness:

"Do not be afraid; keep on speaking, do not be silent. For I am with you."

Funny how messages pop up when you least expect them.

Trust

This image is on my desktop -- whenever I walk past the computer, or sit down to blog or email or write or work, I see it. I absorb it. I remember it.

Jen sent me this verse a little while ago and I find myself returning to it again and again:

God proves to be good to the man who passionately waits, to the woman who diligently seeks. It's a good thing to quietly hope, quietly hope for help from God. It's a good thing when you're young to stick it out through the hard times. When life is heavy and hard to take, go off by yourself. Enter the silence. Bow in prayer. Don't ask questions: Wait for hope to appear. Don't run from trouble. Take it full-face. The "worst" is never the worst. Why? Because the Master won't ever walk out and fail to return. If He works severely, He also works tenderly. His stockpiles of loyal love are immense. He takes no pleasure in making life hard, in throwing roadblocks in the way. (Lamentations 3:25-33)

She pointed out the last verse specifically -- "He takes no pleasure in making life hard, in throwing roadblocks along the way." She exhorted me to read this "over and over and over again" -- and I do.

This trusting thing ... this full and complete (and, for me, "unnatural") reliance upon God through all circumstances is hard for me. I've realized that it has to be a daily discipline, like brushing my teeth or washing the dishes. I find that I get upset with myself -- my gosh, it just shouldn't be this way ... right? But it is. Yet recognizing that very fact is what prods me along.

I'm bound to falter; I will forget. When the next blow, the next swirling squall, the next crashing wave comes -- and it will, for that is part of life -- I know in my fallenness I will most likely knee-jerk into panic and anxiety. But there's abundant grace, too. And there's a choice to make -- will I stay there, in that place, or will I trust? Will I take this passage to heart?

I pray it will be so. And I am so thankful for friends who love me so much as to help me along the way.

Three Words

I came across this verse yesterday on a website, and it struck me in a rather new way -- not unlike my reading of the passage a few days earlier where Jesus calms the storms, seeing that in a very new light as well. Here too, as Paul writes to the Corinthians, he's writing to me -- that in times of darkness, of suffering, of great despair, we have hope. There's a reason for this rough and brambled path -- there's hope.

We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about the hardships we suffered in the province of Asia. We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead. He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us. (2 Corinthians 1:8-10)

I was struck by the first sentence -- Paul is being very open with his readers about what they're going through. "I do not want you to uninformed" -- in other words, "Listen up, guys: life is really crappy right now. Make no mistake -- it's tough. It's scary. It's downright terrible." Their experiences have been beyond difficult, beyond dark, utterly insufferable. And yet he's not sugar-coating anything; he's not giving the usual response of "Oh, yeah, we're OK ..." when they're really not. It struck me that in our culture today, people don't often really share what they're going through -- it's not "polite," it's "private," we don't want to dump our burdens on others, yada yada. And yet that's exactly what Paul is doing here -- he wants to make it very clear that what they're going through is downright terrible. He's not sanitizing their situation; he's not being private; he's not going on his merry way. He's bringing them into his life, his situation, so they will know with certainty what is really going on, so they can support each other through prayer. This is rather contrary to how we operate in most of our relationships today.

But Paul sees a reason for their suffering -- it's not random, not for nothing. "But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead." They cannot control what's going on; they cannot fix the situation themselves. Their only recourse is to rely solely on God. If it was just a matter of a neighbor slapping graffiti on their worship space, then they could handle that. If it was just a matter of a few pieces of hate-mail, then they could handle that. But it's not -- it's so much more. So much so that at times they even fear for their lives. But Paul says it has to be that bad; there has to be that much darkness; it has to be "far beyond our ability to endure" -- because it's showing them that their efforts of "handling it" are nothing, are pointless. God, and only God, can deliver them, this God who can raise the dead.

There are three words in the last verse that really spoke to me, that gently handed me that reminder that I so desperately need to cling to on our own valley-walk. "He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us" --

"He has delivered us ..." -- God has done it in the past. He has been completely faithful in caring, providing, saving, delivering. He has a perfect track-record, without fault, without let-downs.

"He will deliver us ..." -- This time will be no different. What makes me think it might be? What makes me harbor fear in my heart, that God won't come through for us this time? That things will just keep getting worse? I'm ignore that word: "will." I've been on the soaring mountaintops; I've been in the deep valleys. This time is just another valley -- sure, it's a scary one, a hard one, a painful one ... but God will ...

"He will continue to deliver us ..." -- And God will continue to do it, again and again and again. He isn't going anywhere; He will continue to stay by my side. That is a promise that will always be kept.

What a cool verse. I can't tell you how many times I've read Corinthians, and yet this time -- once again -- my eyes have been opened to it in a new way. Thank you, Lord, for giving me the grace to really see, for bolstering me through your Word, through friends, through moments of peace and transcendence. I confess my faith is weak, my faith falters when the path causes me to stumble. Thank you for those words -- You have, You will, and You will continue.

You are here.

"An Incredible Moment in a Storm"

I grew up with the Bible, and while I've never done the "Read the Bible in a year!" kind of thing, I will say I'm extremely familiar with it. Famous passages, obscure verses, mighty giants in the New Testament and unpopular prophets in the Old ... you name it, I most likely know about it.

I haven't had many experiences of picking up a particular passage and finding that, for the first time in 36 years, I see it in a completely different light. I know those moments can happen -- they just don't often happen to me. And to be perfectly honest, I've never been much of a "Bible reader," despite my close familiarity with it. I don't often just sit down with it and start perusing the pages. In the past, during particularly rough patches on my journey's path, I would sit down with the Psalms, finding solace in David's words, echoing my own thoughts and silent pleadings. But to say, "I think I'll read Titus today" ... not really.

For Christmas, I received a devotional called Moments with the Savior: A Devotional Life of Christ by Ken Gire. I've never been much of a "devotional" patron either, but the giving -- and receiving -- of this gift has been one of those truly God-inspired (or, rather, God-directed) moments. If there was ever a time of life where I needed to pour over these pages, it's now. And for the first time in a myriad of years, I read a particular passage so differently, so profoundly, so uniquely that I'm not sure I'll ever look at it the same way again.

Jesus Calms the Storm (Mark 4:35-41)

That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, "Let us go over to the other side." Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat. There were also other boats with him. A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, "Teacher, don't you care if we drown?"

He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, "Quiet! Be still!" Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.

He said to his disciples, "Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?"

They were terrified and asked each other, "Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!"

Once again I find myself on a rough and brambled path, where the phrase "hard times" doesn't even begin to describe it. The holes are fathoms deep; the way murky-clouded; the rocks knife-sharp. And when we thought we had it under control, when we thought we could handle what came our way, it was then that "a furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped." For the first time, verse 37, in that recent quiet evening moment of reading, had nothing to do with a physical, wooden boat or a physical, whirling storm. In that moment, verse 37 described my life, my journey's path. Nearly swamped.

A few verses earlier, Jesus said, "Let us go over to the other side." Again, in that moment, the verse took on an entirely new meaning for me. It was I who wanted -- who needed -- to change, to go over to the other side, to be new. I cannot handle these squalls, these storms. They're too much. I fool myself into thinking that I can control these things. "If Don can just make this much ..." or "If our budget could just get to this point ..." or "If we can just sell off these belongings ..." But that's the catch: "if WE ... if WE ... if WE." WE cannot do anything, or control anything. Perhaps that's why the squall is so fierce, for if it was just a sprinkling of rain we could easily open our umbrella, on our own. But in a storm, we can do nothing. "Let us go over to the other side" ... that's where I need to be. On that other shore, for this current one is storm-battered and life-taking.

Then Jesus said to the waves, "Quiet! Be still!" And in that moment of evening's quiet, as I held that book in my hands, Jesus was not speaking to the wind or the waves. He was speaking to me. The storm will continue to rage; the waves will continue to crash and break. But it is I who need to be quiet, and be still. I am churning my own waters with my fears, I am bellowing the wind with my own panic. "Quiet! Be still!" His eyes were turned toward me.

"Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?"

I never looked at those questions in that light before -- they came after the miracle, yet still needed to be asked. The disciples witnessed miracles, heard His words ... yet they too were still trapped in fear's grip. And once again, in that quiet evening moment, Jesus' questions were not directed at the disciples; they were aimed at me. Do I still have no faith? Am I still so afraid?

How I hate to answer those questions.

Snippets of the prayer at the end of this reading leaped off the page:

"Help me when the sudden storms of life come crashing over me with their fierce winds and frothing waves ...
And help [me] to see that no matter how devastating the storm that sweeps over [me], you DO care if [I] drown ...
Help [me] to see that you allow storms in [my life] to strengthen [me] -- not to shipwreck [me] ...
And when uncertain seas unsettle [my] faith, turn [my] attention to you so that the tempest in [my soul] might be quieted and made still ..."

Is this what the author of Mark's gospel intended? Perhaps not -- probably not. I have no idea how things will look after this storm passes, or if, for its a mighty one. But again, maybe that's the point -- I would be too blind if it merely sprinkled a few drops of rain. I need a fierce squall, something so far outside of my feeble attempt at control that I have no choice but to relinquish my weak and pathetic hold on the rudder.