Tag Archives: Fear

Moving Forward

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photo-33

It was a big day today. I went on my first run since the accident over four months ago. After my fall, I vowed that I’d never let it happen again. It was a vow that wasn’t hard to keep during the winter. I don’t like cold weather, and my jaw has continued to serve as an achy reminder of that painful autumn day.

It was time to find an alternative form of exercise. One with less impact on my knees. I am in my (early) forties, after all. This was a sign. I retreated to the safety of my elliptical machine, but it just wasn’t the same. The Carolina spring has been casting its spell, and I finally succumbed to the enchantment.

I chose my path carefully. Dirt trail, not pavement, just in case. The first step evoked a strange combination of terror and exhilaration. My heart raced, not from increased work load, but from a rush of adrenaline brought on by memories of blood on pavement and a long ER wait. One slow, careful step led to another. Step after step, I was tempted to stop. Step after step, I chose to keep moving. It was an unimpressive run at best, but I couldn’t help but to feel a small sense of victory. I was no longer gripped by fear. Although slowly and cautiously, I was moving forward.

A friend recently asked me what I thought it looked like to forgive and move forward after having been hurt or betrayed. Forgiving is one thing. Trying to heal a severely wounded relationship is quite another. I found myself grasping for words. I’m not a fan of trendy, positive clichés. Too many have been tossed my way, causing further pain rather than the intended encouragement.  After stumbling around in my head and trying to piece together some semblance of truth, I found I had little to say.

But now maybe I do.

While taking my first tentative steps on the trail today, I realized that for me, running would never be the same. What had once been pleasurable and instinctive has become a cautious act of will. I would never again run with complete abandon. The doctors still don’t know what caused my foot to go numb, so there is no assurance that I won’t fall again.  The reality is that I could.  In order to move forward, I chose to believe that what lies ahead is of greater value than that which staying still will protect. There was risk involved. It was an act of hope.

As my brisk walk morphed into a slow jog, I was granted an unanticipated gift. Before my accident, I had run without much thought or concern. As a result of my fall, I had become acutely aware of the miracle of each step. Innocence had been replaced by gratefulness. I would never again take the ability to run for granted. Although riskier, it now holds much greater value.

For four months, I had structured my world in such a way to allow for healing. I didn’t put myself in a position to be hurt again. Having gravel being dug out of my chin isn’t something I want to relive anytime soon. Protection for a time was appropriate, but with time came healing. Eventually, I had a choice to make. I could live in fear or dare to hope.

Most of us tiptoe through life avoiding pain at all cost. It’s not that we underestimate the pain of the fall. It’s that we underestimate the cost. We may gain self-protection, but we pay a high price – the price of forfeiting deeper dependence on our Maker and a life marked by freedom, peace, and the deep abiding joy for which we were created.

If I’d have given in to the strong (understandable) compulsion to play it safe, I would have missed the long-awaited warm spring day. I would have missed the chattering chipmunks’ playful game of chase. I would have missed the heads of determined blooms, which were pushing through the darkness toward the light. The very soil from which they grew and drew sustenance was a byproduct of death. Each vibrant green sprout testified that death is necessary in order to birth new life. Death, even of a dream, is to be grieved. But that doesn’t have to be the end of the story.

In fact, it may be what comes before the very best part.

“Most of human life is Holy Saturday, a few days of life are Good Friday, but there only needs to be one Easter Sunday for us to know the final and eternal pattern. We now live inside of such cosmic hope.”   Richard Rohr

To forgive and move forward starts with grieving the death of what was, yet daring to hope for what could be. It means leaning in, exchanging a posture of self-protection for a posture of loving another. It means coming to terms with the frailty of human relationship, yet being willing to depend on the Father (rather than another ) to meet my needs. It means trusting in the goodness and power of my Healer, regardless of what the future may bring.

To forgive and move forward means choosing to believe that the power of Easter Sunday can resurrect and breathe new life into the dead.
And then to live like I believe it.

 

 


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The Problem of Forgiveness

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preserver

This post was originally shared with Redemption’s Road, a ministry of The Barnabas Center. Take a few minutes to visit and read about others’ experiences as they journey the road of redemption.

– — –

There are times when forgiving another comes easily. Bridges are crossed and damage is repaired.  Yet at other times, the choice to forgive feels too risky, if not impossible. We’re frozen. The following piece is written from the perspective of one who can’t seem to move forward. Perhaps you’ve been there as well.

– — –

The icy waters wrap around me like a dark deadly blanket. My body, initially shocked, is becoming numb to the pain. There’s a strange comfort in numbness – granting temporary relief while causing excruciating damage.

It’s your fault, after all. This predicament I’m in. Each act of betrayal, each harmful word, and even your deafening silence. They doused buckets of frigid water into this vast pool of pain.

The first wave brought shock. I was unprepared. Disoriented. Confused. With each icy blast, the warmth I’d always known was stripped away from me. I thrashed about wildly. Despite all my scheming, I was trapped.

Eventually, I adjusted to the new environment.  The numbing water did its work. I wanted to forget what it felt like to be warm, to be comfortable, to be safe. Those memories had become more painful than the insidious cold death creeping through my veins. Every moment that transpired, life-giving blood moved more slowly.  Tissues were starving. I was dying.

In the dark, cold waters, I became consumed by my struggle to survive. I had little awareness of anything other than my immediate crises. Unbeknownst to me, a shift had occurred. You had entered my pool of pain and were moving toward me, moving resolutely across the frigid sea. I braced for the next wave to hit. I squinted and tried to assess the situation, but my vision was distorted. All I could see through fear-clouded waters was a shadow of someone I thought I had known. I could no longer see you clearly. Rather, all I could see was a shadow moving toward me. One that was no longer safe.

I didn’t consider that you had taken this risk to jump in with me.
I didn’t know that you were trying to help.
I didn’t care that you were sorry.
I didn’t want to take the risk.

Frantically, my eyes scanned the horizon for options.

Then I spotted it. At first, I struggled to see. Then the image became clear. Just outside my grasp floated a life-preserver. It was old and tattered, covered with scarlet stripes. Stripes that hade been singed into the surface 2,000 years ago. It offered a way out. For both of us.  I had a choice to make.

I could take hold of the float and extend it to you. We could emerge from the slow, frigid death and let the sun warm us. Thaw our bodies and hearts. Bring us back to life.  My heart skipped a beat. This nightmare could be over.

But what if the waters came again?
What if I found myself helpless once more?
No, that’s a chance I cannot take.

Indeed, there’s a strange comfort in numbness.

So I’ll tread my icy waters and turn away from the raft.
I won’t be hurt again.
I’m in control.

I’m drowning.


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Every Valley

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"Every Valley" by Sam Silander, 9 yrs.

It’s a strange thing to be making cookies and wrapping presents,
When wars are raging,
When families are crumbling,
When parents are burying their children.

The news is hard to watch this week.
Tears come easily, yet so does relief…
Which brings with it a twinge of guilt.

How do we reconcile the great cosmic chasm -
Our world has more than its share of darkness, pain, and evil,
Yet we move in and breathe the reality of Starbucks, Amazon, and Buddy the Elf.

Perhaps it’s more of a dual reality to be acknowledged than a chasm to be crossed.

This year during Advent, we’ve been working our way through listening to Handel’s Messiah (schedule found here). Each day, we’ve been listening to a few of the songs after reading the corresponding passages of scripture.

We’ve read, then listened, then listened again. I’ve heard the music of the Messiah throughout much of my life, yet this year, it’s as if I’ve really heard it for the first time. As we’ve listened intently to each song, a divine magic has transpired. Handel’s music, echoing its ancient truths and promises, has become our own. To enjoy, to discuss, to savor, to absorb.

The children composed poems in response to several of the songs.  I’ve woven a few of them together as a memorial stone for this Advent season. This is Handel’s Messiah, as seen through the eyes, heard through the ears, and experienced in the hearts of my young ones:

Heaven kissed earth
He came as a whisper, a snowfall, a spark

 He was born in a manger
Dingy
Dirty
Dusty

 Heaven crawled through the dust
He played in the garden
He healed the sick,
Yet his work was not done

 He was beaten and whipped
Crushing
Cruel
Cold

He wore a crown of thorns on his head
Stinging
Sharp
Steel

He let himself be hung on the cross
Piercing
Painful
Perfect sacrifice

He rose from the dead
Amazing
Awesome
Awestruck

He will come again victorious
Blinding darkness with light,
Death will gasp its final breath
Evil forever defeated,
Then all the wrongs through history
Will finally be made right

 Ribbon will wind through
The hot dry desert
Rainbow to straighten curves

 Every mountain will become low
Every valley high
Every mansion will become small
Every cottage will grow

 The hungry shall have banquets laid out before them,
The imprisoned shall have their chains dashed to the ground

The large rocks will shrink
Pebbles will grow to boulders
All will be even

The valley will rise
Mountains will disintegrate
All will be even

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

 

We spent days contemplating the implications of twelve words uttered by the prophet Isaiah, “Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill made low.”

Every valley.

Do we really believe it? Down deep where our core beliefs compose the background music that sets the tone for our everyday lives?  Even when wars rage and children are murdered? When evil rears its head and seems to be winning? When our lives, our plans, our dreams are crumbling?

Every valley.

That’s what He came to do, after all.

To heal the blind.

To bind up the brokenhearted.

To make all the wrongs right.

For in this, we can place our hope.

So bake your cookies,
and wrap your presents,
and sing the carols for the world to hear.

Through each small hopeful act,
You’re shining a light into darkness,
Taking part in raising valleys and lowering mountains,
Preparing a way in the desert
For the One who was,
And is,

And is to come.

 

 

* Artwork by Sam Silander, 9 yrs.

 

 


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Miracle

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clouds bright sky miracle

My chin hit the pavement. The compact area of flesh and bone, no more than a few inches in total, absorbed the impact of my entire body in unhindered free fall. I was certain that my jaw was broken.

Scene I – The Fall

Last week, after several days’ procrastination, I could no longer deny the call of Eden-like autumn weather. I laced up my shoes and set out for a quick run. One step, then two. As I’d taken a thousand times before. But step three threw a rather large glitch into the dependable process. From the ankle down, my foot went numb. Rather than holding my weight and propelling me forward, it seemed to disappear. There was no mitigating stumble forward to be caught by the alternate foot. If I were watching through a window across the street, I’d imagine the scene would resemble the toppling of a cleanly hewn tree. Only faster. In an instant, I saw the crimson trees ahead, then blood on the pavement. Nothing in between.

Scene II – Emergency room

Waiting. Bright lights. Sharp pain transitioned into dull throb. Test results were announced. No break – only stitches needed. Dear friend came to hold my hand. All would heal.

Scene III – Recovery

Within hours, my speed of had dramatically decelerated. Everyday scenes, which normally roll by with a steady fluidity, were reduced to a series of plodding individual snapshots. My movements were slow and deliberate. Each minute had expanded, allowing a space for heightened awareness. I looked at my hand. Skin left upon the pavement was already being replaced.  Specialized white blood cells invaded my palm like FEMA infiltrating a disaster site. My jaw, which had taken the brunt of the impact, was already doing the silent, steady work of repair.

When I take account of the events that transpired, I’m stopped by the “what-could-have-beens.” The doctor said it could have easily been a broken jaw. Or a concussion. Or worse. My husband, who had been minutes from leaving town, could have been long gone. Rather than appearing at my door within minutes, my friend could have been too far away to help.

Yes, “what-could-have-beens” have the potential to cast a threatening spell of fear. A dark cloud hovering, power found only in its suggestion.

Scene IV – Surprise ending

Most days, I am tragically unaware that atoms of nitrogen and oxygen are dependably, tirelessly scattering the sun’s rays of light throughout the atmosphere. The blue sky is a miracle. But I just might not notice it until the clouds come.

For the past four decades, my lungs haven steadily taken in oxygen and disposed of carbon dioxide, providing a constant source of fuel for this organic machine.

My foot, the one responsible for my fall, has been faithful to support me for millions of steps.

My jaw, now bruised and swelling, has allowed countless meals to be enjoyed, loved ones to be kissed, and songs to be sung.

My nerves, skeleton, and flesh have worked together in seamless concert as I’ve danced, run, given birth, washed dishes.

Yes, I’m grateful that my fall wasn’t worse. At first, I claimed the absence of disaster as the miracle. But as my halted pace of life has allowed time for further consideration, I’ve been surprised by my shift in perspective. Or perhaps I should say my by my corrected vision.

Each step. Each breath. Each heartbeat. Each new skin cell. Those are the miracles.  Our dismissed blue skies.

The miracle is found in the

unnoticed

unfathomable

ordinary

of the everyday.

 


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Back to School: Poetry 101

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My alma mater. Where my soul and mind were well fed.

I’m going back to school.  Wanna come?

Don’t you remember the excitement of the new year?  A legion of sharpened pencils.  A carefully-selected notebook with neatly arranged folders.  A stark calendar awaiting the scribbled adornment of activities, assignments, and football games. But at the heart of all the frenzy is the promise of a new beginning.  A fresh start. The potential of the unknown.

As we grow older, the line between seasons begins to blur. The workplace rarely closes for summer vacation, and new starts are far less definitive.  We become pragmatic and resolved.  Too often, we trade in curiosity and imagination for practicality and security.  We deny an invaluable portion of our inheritance – the part of our souls that was designed to create.  Why?

“Children are more creative (than are adults) and are natural inventors.  Their worldview is incomplete and demands discovery. They prosper because they embrace their ignorance instead of ignoring it. And they are willing to explore, investigate, and put their ideas to the test because they are willing to fail.” (Sam McNerney. Killing Creativity: Why Kids Draw Pictures of Monsters & Adults Don’t )

 

We’re too busy.  Our schedules are packed with “have-tos” and we rarely venture to consider the “dream-ofs.”  I’d suggest, however, that under the emperor’s fine purple garments of busy schedules often exists the exposing, naked reality of our own fear. Fear of failure.  Fear of looking silly or impractical.  Or fear of wanting more.

My friend, John, is a gifted therapist who spends his days talking with folks as they struggle to make sense of the hard things in life.  John recently discovered that he has quite a talent for sculpting.  In writing about his journey, John notes that “Sometimes, the riskiest thing for us to do is to trust and try.”

So how about it?  You don’t have to step on the yellow school bus or move into a college dorm this fall in order to try something new.  If you could go back to school, what classes would you take that you missed the first time around?  What activities?  Why not trust and try?

I’ve always been a lover of the well-written word.  I enjoy discovering and reading poetry with my children, and have a special place in my heart for the prose of Emily Dickinson and T.S. Eliot. I dabbled in poetry in high school and college, yet I’ve settled comfortably into the role of a distanced appreciator.

This fall, Chris Yokel (who you may remember from Redeeming the Fall) will be offering two 4-week sessions for folks who have limited or no experience with poetry, but who’d like to learn more.  In a nutshell:

The Basics of Poetry (Sept.17 – Oct. 7): Basic literary elements of poetry.  Teaching videos will be posted on Youtube.

Poetry Writing Workshop (Oct. 15 – Nov.11): Poetry workshop including exercises to help challenge and prod you along.

The class has been designed for those who need flexibility and can commit varying degrees of time. You can find out more detail and sign up for the class at chrisyokel.com.

Whether it’s daring to venture into a poetry class or a pottery studio, exploring a new genre of music or learning the art of cooking Thai cuisine, take a chance. Excitement is drifting through the early autumn air. Breathe in deeply. Let it inspire you.

And if you’re afraid of trying something new, well, I’ll embarrass myself first on the world wide web, so whatever you choose to do may feel a bit less vulnerable. Here goes my first, timid, awkward attempt at haiku:

no more excuses
keyboard strokes dash through veiled pride
to create brings life

 
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Joy in the Shadows

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Something wasn’t quite right.  The room down the hall that had been filled with the lighthearted chatter had become eerily quiet.  My reason knew better, but my mother’s heart, innately built to protect my offspring, grew concerned.  I followed the littered trail of plastic weapons, grappling hooks, and super heroes that had been carelessly discarded.  At first, I couldn’t find them.  But the trusty trail did its work.

Two little blonde-haired boys were crouched and wedged between the sofa and the spacious window against which it sat.  They didn’t move.  Flooded with relief, I turned my attention to that which held them captive.   They seemed to be peering into nothingness.  Our backyard looked as it always had.  Trees, a playground, and a struggling vegetable garden composed the familiar scene.  “Look closer, mama.”  Said my youngest.  “It’s just hidden in the dark.”

Sure enough, as I shifted my focus from the landscape to what was immediately before me, hidden stealthily among the shadows, was a tiny, eight-legged miracle.  She was completing her signature stripe down the middle of her masterpiece. Watching my boys took my breath away.  The Creator of the universe had beckoned these tender ones to come and play with him.  They had been introduced to their maker through his handiwork.  They had received a taste of joy.  All through the work of a tiny spider.

Joy is one of those words we use frequently.  We memorize the verses, sing the songs, and speak of joy in our everyday conversations.  In Galatians 5, Paul says that joy is one of the distinguishing marks of the Christian life.  Yet what does it meant to “find joy” in the midst of our scheduled, demanding, and ordinary lives?

The Greek word for joy, charis, means “grace recognized.”  God’s grace is always present.  It never leaves us.  At times, grace is easily seen.  It’s showcased in the infectious laugh of an infant, the delight of a bridegroom, Bach played perfectly on the cello, relief flowing from a good doctor’s report, forgiveness granted from a loved one, the bursting buds of spring and the vibrant leaves of autumn.  For an instant, we’re deeply aware of God’s presence in the midst of a very fallen world.   The veil between heaven and earth becomes thin.  We are given a taste of the divine, of the ancient, and of the eternal, all in the blink of an eye.  We are given a taste of joy.

At other times, grace, like that tiny spider, is working away in the shadows.  It is no less real and no less present than when spinning in full sunlight, yet it is much more difficult to see.  Life is full of shadows.  In our family, broken (or limping) relationships, miscarriage of a child, job loss, and the challenges that come with marriage and parenting name a few.

Yet God promises his children that his grace is sufficient, and He is working in the midst of all circumstances.   I believe that to be true, yet something often clouds my vision from seeing that grace.  It prevents me from experiencing the joy that is available.

There is an ongoing battle within me between my pursuit of happiness and my desire to have joy.  Although joy may produce happiness, the two are not interchangeable.  Joy is always available.  Happiness is dependant on circumstance.  Our Maker created us for joy, yet we can’t produce or manipulate it. That’s the rub.  I’m made for joy, but I spend my days chasing after happiness.

“The difference between shallow happiness and a deep, sustaining joy, is sorrow.  Happiness lives where sorrow is not.  When sorrow arrives, happiness dies.  It can’t stand pain.  Joy, on the other hand, rises from sorrow and therefore can withstand all grief.  Joy, by the grace of God, is the transfiguration of suffering into endurance, and of endurance into character, and of character into hope – and the hope that has become our joy does not (as happiness must for those who depend on it) disappoint us.”  Walt Wangerin

Daily, I miss out on the opportunities to experience joy simply because I’m too distracted.  When circumstances make God’s grace more difficult to see, I want to lean toward the window that offers hope rather than returning to the “toys” of my everyday routine. Those toys come in many forms, such as busy schedules, ministry, work, home projects, exercise, and great books.  They are good gifts from the Father, but I give them too much power.  They provide the security of the familiar.  They provide relief.  They provide comfort.  They provide a temporary anesthetic for a chronic ache.  They’re temporary substitutes for the real thing, but I’m still left wanting more.

My boys’ intent gazes offered evidence that something significant was occurring.   It caused me to shift my focus and draw in closer.  I wanted to see.  Every day brings evidence that grace, though not easily seen, does indeed exist.  It whispers that joy is always possible.  When I watch a friend walk through a hard stretch of life, yet choose to look for more.  When the landscape of circumstance provides no plausible reason for deep peace and contentment, yet peace and contentment abound, I draw in closer.  I want to see.  When I look through the shadows of disappointment, fear, anger, or despair, my maker transforms my belief into discovery.  I no longer know only about him.  I experience him.  Grace recognized.

Joy can be found in the most unexpected places.  In the hurting (or rejoicing) co-worker down the hall, in the redemption offered by a hard conversation with a friend, and in the painful void that accompanies loneliness.  Every day and every season bring a unique composition of light and shadow.  Every day and every season offer new opportunities to experience joy.

A few years ago, our family entered a season of unknowns.  The economic dominos fell directly on top of my husband’s group at the bank.  As result, his job went away.  Early on, the possibility of making a radical career change was invigorating. We were open to whatever God had planned… that is, as long as we remained in Charlotte.  We found it relatively easy to hold occupation and lifestyle loosely, yet we clung tightly to our community. Our feet were firmly planted in the Queen City.  As the months ticked away, relocating became much more than just a remote possibility.   All roads were leading to a job in Nashville.  We were moving.  We made the house-hunting trip, began making connections in our new city, and sold our home.

The greatest gift we received from those twelve months was not the surprise ending of a job in Charlotte.  It was not in the detail of circumstance or in the granting of our hearts’ desires.  The real surprise ending was that our hearts’ desires had been changed.  Rather than clinging to what we thought life should look like, we began to want God’s best – regardless of circumstance.   Job loss resulted in our surrendering control.  We experienced the peace and freedom that comes only from total dependence on the Father.  There it is.  The tiny eight-legged miracle spinning in the shadows. Grace recognized.  Joy.

God leaves his fingerprints all over my day, if only I’ll have the eyes to see them.  I’ve been created with a voracious appetite for joy, yet I spoil it by snacking on pleasure, convenience, and whatever promises relief from pain.   Rather than retreat from the darkness that can be present in life, I want to lean toward it. To see the gift of the moment.  To receive and embrace what has been given to me rather than longing for lesser gifts.

“It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak.  We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered to us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea.  We are far too easily pleased.”  C.S. Lewis

At every turn, grace awaits discovery.  The spider is spinning, the flowers are bursting into bloom, and the earth and all its inhabitants are proclaiming that there is hope.  One day, everything sad will finally come untrue.  The sun will rise for the last time, and will forever dispel the shadows that temporarily hinder our vision.  Everyday, we’re offered a glimpse of that eternal joy.  At times, it’s glaring brightly for all to see.  Yet at others, we may need to lean in toward the shadows.  As the eyes of our heart strain to see the miracle of grace, it’s not through panes of glass that we peer.  It’s through the shadows cast by two pieces of rough, blood-stained timbers.  Through the eternal intersection where death and life gave birth to hope.   We have access to the hope that will not disappoint when we’re willing to “Look closer… it’s just hidden in the dark.”

 

 

This article was originally published in the Spring 2012 newsletter of The Barnabas Center, a Christian counseling center located in Charlotte. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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When It Hurts

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The following is a guest post written by Alyssa Ramsey.  Alyssa is a gifted writer with a beautiful heart.  I first (kind of) met Alyssa in a small group setting, where she briefly mentioned her challenge of finding time to create while mothering two small children.  At that moment, I knew that we would be friends.  And we are.  Visit Alyssa’s blog at www.cordsoflight.wordpress.com.

 

“Are you going to shot me?”

The words tumbled honestly, fearfully off my 4-year-old’s lips. Two nurses, syringes in hand, answered with practiced reassurance:

“You’ll be fine! Easy as pie! We’ll be done in no time!” Their words, intended to comfort, convinced my daughter of one thing: this was going to hurt.

She drew her legs up inside her green monster-covered hospital gown and clamped her arms around them. When the nurses laid her on her back, it was as a tight package of elbows and knees.

Then they got me involved. The nurses instructed me to lay sideways across her chest, pin down her arms, and block her view of the proceedings. Then they wrenched her legs out of the recesses of the gown. And the crying began.

I had tried to prepare her for this. “I know the shots hurt a little bit,” I’d said, “but they help you not to get sick. A shot is just a little ouchie, but getting sick can give you great big ouchies.”

But no one wants the pain. So she cried.

My face was bent low over hers as the nurses swabbed the alcohol. I spoke quiet words of comfort – breathed them out an inch from her nose. She wouldn’t look at me. She pleaded with the nurses for mercy.

“Here comes the first one,” they said.

My daughter’s body arced and twisted. Then, despite my weight across her chest, she pulled herself up to nearly sitting in a valiant escape attempt. Anything but the pain.

“Whoa, mom!” the nurses chided.

They don’t realize how strong she is, I thought.

I laid her back down and held her more tightly. I held her to permit the pain and to lessen it. I — the one who could have prevented this, the one whose knowledge and will had brought us here, the one whose presence was safety to her, the one who felt her pain as though it were my own – I, her mother, held her firmly in the path of affliction.

I spoke reassurance to her, though I was sure she couldn’t hear me for her own screaming.

Then came the second shot.

“Stop it! Please stop it!” she begged. And suddenly my eyes were wet, too. My instinct was to scoop her up into my arms, to end the agony, to rescue her. But knowing we were only halfway there – knowing that this was for her good – I allowed it to go on.

By the time she got the third shot, my daughter’s misery outmatched her vocabulary. With no adequate words for her horror, she heaved inarticulate moans of despair. I understood them. I’ve uttered them myself. In moments of darkest fear and deepest hurt, in the hour of betrayal, I’ve uttered them.

Her pain was nothing new, and nothing to what’s to come. In her innocence and youth she was already feeling the consequences of the curse, the mark of destruction in her flesh.

Still, I held her.

I felt her body go limp beneath me. She had given up. Still I held her, my face only inches from hers and my weight pressed upon her heart. In her distress, the full intensity of my love was bent upon her. I remembered that my other child was also in the room, but this one, the one who suffered, the one who could think of nothing but the pain – my daughter – my heart burned for her.

When at last their torturous work was done, the nurses left the room as Corinne tumbled off the table and into my arms. I spoke my affection to her, but she avoided my gaze. Still, I held her, and since there was no one else to give comfort, she accepted it from the one who had allowed the pain.

I waited as my daughter processed her thoughts, not knowing how the trauma had affected her trust in me. Perhaps she would blame me for her suffering. Would she see it as betrayal? Could a 4-year-old understand why the pain was necessary?

Moments later, we left the office and walked out into the bright October air. The cool breeze soothed my burning thoughts and calmed my daughter’s quaking breaths. And then, with puffy eyes and aching legs, just one step past the pain, she gave me a gift.

“Sanks for helping me not to get sick, Mama.”

Belief.


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Houston, We Have a Problem

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Taken from Apollo 13 during the crisis

We recently watched Apollo 13 with our younger boys for the first time.  I’ve seen it before, but what a treat to see it through their eyes.  Together, we felt the eager anticipation of three astronauts who had labored throughout their careers with the ultimate goal in mind – to walk on the surface of the moon.   Since the inaugural landing had taken place months earlier, Americans were no longer captivated by the endeavor.  What had once seemed unimaginable had quickly become last year’s news.  For the astronauts of Apollo 13, however, their eyes were fixed on the goal.  It was to be their turn.

The entire team of engineers, astronauts, and those on ground control had planned for every conceivable contingency.  They knew that problems could arise, and they had planned accordingly.  Early in their flight, a mishap did indeed occur.  They took it in stride, then were grateful that “our glitch for the mission was over.”  Within minutes, however, everything changed.  “Houston, we have a problem.”

The story rapidly unfolded as the three astronauts realized that their ultimate goal of walking on the moon was no longer a possibility.  In fact, it became clear that their return to earth would be somewhat of a miracle.    We were drawn into their tight quarters, felt the loss of power, and more acutely, the loss of control.  No one had conceived that such a multi-system failure could occur.  There was no contingency plan for a disaster of this magnitude.  In the midst of the crisis, they were all forced to disband the plan for what should have been, and to go back to the proverbial drawing board.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”  I’ve said it.  Perhaps you have as well.  We anticipate disruptions in life.  We know they can happen and plan accordingly.  We buy the right insurance, secure the right job, marry the right person, and discipline our kids according the philosophy of the day. We’re not naive – we know that we’ll have our glitches along the way, but acknowledge piously that those problems will make us stronger.  Until one very ordinary day, we’re not facing another malfunction to be repaired, but have suddenly found ourselves drifting in space as the result of a potentially lethal explosion.  We certainly didn’t see it coming, and couldn’t possibly have planned our own remedy in advance.

~Death of a loved one

~Infidelity

~A defiant, rebellious child

~Serious Illness

~Financial disaster

We travel through life anticipating our own version of walking on the moon – the day when all of our hard work will finally pay off.  But in the blink of an eye, everything can change…

Houston, we have a problem.

As the crew became aware of the situation’s severity, a chain reaction of emotion was instigated.  Within minutes, there was an awareness that the pinnacle for which they had trained through the years, would never be reached.  They would not walk on the moon.  This realization brought with it gut-wrenching grief as life-long dreams literally disappeared into vapor.

Then came the dramatic shift.

They had to leave behind the dream of “what should have been” in order to accept “what actually was.”

It was only after that pivotal decision that they were able to move forward.  The goal of walking on the moon, which had once felt paramount, instantly became insignificant.  Perspective had changed radically.  The chance of survival was slim.

Alone, they were helpless.  Completely at the mercy of the ground crew which was working frantically to come up with a solution, the astronauts had to wait.  In silence.  In darkness.  In the cold.  Have you been there?  I have, and it’s a terrifying to be thrust into the reality of our own limitations.

They had to reorient themselves:

~by scrapping the original plan

~by redefining their goal

~by letting go of control and following the direction of another

After days of peril and excruciating uncertainty, the astronauts were successfully brought back home.  That which had once seemed routine became priceless.  Not one of the three ever walked on the moon, but as they let go of “what should be,” they were free to discover the miracle of what actually was.

“This could be the worst disaster NASA’s ever faced,” lamented the NASA Program Director.  True.  But not the end of the story.  The Flight Director responded, “With all due respect, sir, I believe this is gonna be our finest hour.”

And it was.

From the ashes of great crisis, beauty can indeed rise.

And one day, we’ve been promised, that it will.

~~~~~~~~~~

Intensive investigation revealed that the near-fatal malfunction was a result of a production error 4 years prior to the Apollo 13 flight.  Any blame-shifting or finger pointing during the crisis had been misplaced.  It became clear that the error was not caused by either the astronauts on board or the crew on the ground. They were all the unfortunate heirs of a pre-existing faulty condition.

Paul in 2 Corinthians 4: 8 says: “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair.”

*The word for perplexed in the original means “no way through” and the word for despair is the same word intensified meaning ” utterly without any way through”.

We can trust the Lord to find a way through for us in all circumstances so that whereas we may be stumped, not seeing any way forward though our problems, He will never let us be persuaded that there is absolutely no way through. He will keep us from despair. He will provide the promised way out. (1 Cor 10:13)

*Borrowed from Ieuan LLoyd-Jones 

 


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Lessons from the Master: Freedom from Ties that Bind

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“The Painter in His Studio” by Rembrandt

Rembrandt van Rijn is undoubtedly considered one of the Great Masters of painting and etching.  As with all of us, his life was marked by both success and tragedy.  He suffered the death of his wife and 3 of his 4 children, and endured significant scandal and bankruptcy. It would be reckless to hold Rembrandt up as the standard for which we should strive, yet there is merit to gleaming insights from his remarkable life.

During his career, Rembrandt received a fair degree of criticism for his unconventional methodologies. Ironically, it was often this deviation from the norm that resulted in the extraordinary nature of his artwork.  Some say he was intentionally “bucking the system.”  I’d suggest that his motivation was not externally motivated defiance.  Rather, he was intensely determined to be true to self.

“Instead of being commissioned, the subjects for most of his works were chosen by Rembrandt himself.  Other contemporary portrait painters, like Van Dyck, Velazquez, or Hals, worked almost exclusively on commission, which meant they had to abide by the narrow restrictions on the form imposed by the expectations of the sitter.  Make me look good, whatever you do.”    Roger Housden

Rather than painting in order to please patrons, Rembrandt honored his sense of creative expression.  He chose artistic integrity over financial security.  Some of his most moving and memorable works were produced as a result of the resulting creative freedom.  He painted in order to reveal souls, not capture images.  Holland was a magnet for refugees, and many of his subjects were poor Jewish neighbors (he was the first of his time to paint Jesus as a young Jewish man).  He captured the moods of everyday people as they went about in ordinary life – teaching a toddler to walk, cleaning, and sleeping.   All because he was free from the ties that come with needing to please others.

I’d imagine that if Rembrandt had restricted his artwork to the parameters set by patrons, his paintings still would have been remarkable.  We simply would have never  known that we missed the best part of him.  The same is true of our lives – although seemingly fruitful from the outside, we often don’t experience the fullness of life that we were intended to live.  We too, miss the best part.

I’m challenged by the contrast of Rembrandt’s freedom with my frequent bondage to the opinion of others, and to the commitment to make life work on my terms.  I want a life freedom, yet find myself bowing down to the idols of approval and control.  The struggle is revealed daily…

~ When I find myself angry with my older children for making poor choices, or with my young children when they exhibit less-than-expected manners.  Not always because I want what is honoring to God, but at times because I want affirmation that we’re good parents.  Rather than live a life marked by patience and encouragement, I become a slave to approval.

~ When I’m not willing to go to my husband and ask for forgiveness after an argument, even when I know  that I was in the wrong.  Rather than living a life marked by love and freedom, I become a slave to the illusion of control.

~ When I maintain a safe distance from friends instead of entering into the messiness of relationship.  Rather than living a life marked by integrity and long-suffering, I become a slave to the attainment of safety and acceptance.

I want to live a life marked by peace, integrity, humility, and vibrancy.

Yet I also want to win the approval of others, control of my life, and experience safety in relationships – all which come with strings attached.  Ties that bind.  Chains that enslave.   By my own hand.

We see the cycle of bondage as it played out in Israel’s history.  Until they were delivered.

We are still in need.

I am still in need…

 Our enemy, our captor is no pharaoh on the Nile

Our toil is neither mud nor brick nor sand

Our ankles bear no calluses from chains, yet Lord, we’re bound

Imprisoned here, we dwell in our own land

 Deliver us, deliver us

Oh Yahweh, hear our cry

And gather us beneath your wings tonight

 Our sins they are more numerous than all the lambs we slay

These shackles they were made with our own hands

Our toil is our atonement and our freedom yours to give

So Yahweh, break your silence if you can

 Andrew Peterson “Deliver Us”

The majority of us will not leave a portfolio of priceless artwork for which we will be remembered.  Our legacy will be more subtle, yet no less significant than that of Rembrandt’s.  We’ve each been given a unique palette of talents, experiences, and predispositions with which we paint upon the canvas of the world.  We leave our mark on those we meet, indelibly altering the composition and tone of their lives.

Daily, we choose for whom we are painting.

Do I take the talents and abilities that I’ve been given to fulfill the expectations of others (or myself)? In doing so, I become a slave to that which I hope to attain.

Or do I choose to live life as a student of the Master?  Trusting his guidance, studying his ways, and painting to please him alone…  and as a result, leaving behind a legacy that bears a resemblance to the Master himself.

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.  Stand firm, then and do not let yourselves be burdened by a yoke of slavery.”  Galatians 5:1


 


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Glass Full

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Last week, my husband and I attended a dinner party with several other couples – some of whom we had known for years, and some who we didn’t know at all.  It was a relational group – conversations flowed easily, and we made connections of mutual friends, colleges, churches, and interests that could have been charted like a constellation map.  Eventually, we migrated to the living room to congregate over dessert.  The “get to know you” question of the evening:  “As a couple, what has been the highlight and what has been the lowlight of the year?” It shouldn’t have been a particularly difficult question to answer.  The couples were given a few minutes to discuss with each other prior to answering in the larger group.  I was stopped.  Not by the question, but by my scrambling for an answer.

Like a mad woman searching frantically for keys that I was sure I had just seen, I found myself digging through my purse full of memories from the last year.  Surely there was a major disappointment somewhere.  I was able to surface the highlights rather quickly.  But to my own surprise, I couldn’t seem to locate the doubtless difficult times with the same ease.  I’m well aware that life is a grab-bag full of good and bad, and that some folks seem to beat the odds regarding pulling out more prizes than duds, at least from appearances.  But our history, although peppered with some delightful treasures, has been one with considerable struggle.  Wow.  Perhaps this year has been different.

I finally came around to acknowledging that this year has indeed been one of unexpected respite.  Isn’t this what we’ve been waiting for?  A season filled with richness of experience, joyful celebration, and relative peace.  The glass was unusually full.  Then why did I have a faint feeling of sadness like a microscopic crack threatening to siphon my merriment, drop by drop?  Then it slowly dawned upon me.  I had a vague sense that I’ve felt this way before.

~ As I watched my beautiful newborn sleep, I reveled in inexplicable delight… yet I secretly feared that he may not wake up

~ When a year’s worth of uncertainly came to an end, resulting in our stay in Charlotte, a new job, and a move to a wonderful neighborhood…  as we sighed with relief, there was an underlying “what if we loose this?”

~ When medical tests returned negative – an up-to-date affirmation that I was healthy… but what about next time?

“Our life is a short time in expectation, a time in which sadness and joy kiss each other at every moment. There is a quality of sadness that pervades all the moments of our lives. It seems that there is no such thing as a clear-cut pure joy, but that even in the most happy moments of our existence we sense a tinge of sadness. In every satisfaction, there is an awareness of limitations. In every success, there is the fear of jealousy. Behind every smile, there is a tear. In every embrace, there is loneliness. In every friendship, distance. And in all forms of light, there is the knowledge of surrounding darkness . . . But this intimate experience in which every bit of life is touched by a bit of death can point us beyond the limits of our existence. It can do so by making us look forward in expectation to the day when our hearts will be filled with perfect joy, a joy that no one shall take away from us.”      Henri Nouwen   

So maybe, just maybe, the microscopic crack in the glass is there for our own protection.  Perhaps it is the way in which our Father gently reminds us that we were not made for this world, and that even the best days – or years – fall short of the glory which He has prepared for us.  When we no longer try to fill our own glasses with that which can evaporate, rather we finally find ourselves basking in an ocean of eternal perfection.

 “What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived – the things God has prepared for those who love Him.” 1 Cor. 2:9

 



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