Tag Archives: Loss

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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A Letter to My Church

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We met when I was just a child. I stumbled through your doors, a young girl who had become both a bride and a parent only months before. New city, new job, new marriage, new family – my feeble knees attempting to carry more weight than was humanly possible. You offered truth, friendly smiles, a destination for my weekly pilgrimage in search of hope.  Week after week, we greeted one another warmly.  We became acquaintances.

You asked small, cordial questions. The first crossroad was approached. I offered a slight glimpse of my wounded heart. I answered you in riddles, both hoping and fearing you would pursue more. You asked the next question. You listened. You didn’t minimize. You didn’t try to manage the chaos or despair. You didn’t turn away.  Week after week, we spoke briefly, yet with greater intention. We became friends.

Weeks rolled into months tumbled into years. We watched first graders receive Bibles and high school students launch off to college. We sat together at weddings witnessing the birth of new families. We observed helplessly as dying marriages gasped their last breaths. We celebrated the debut of desperately longed-for babies. We wept as tiny coffins were being lowered into frigid ground. He gave and He took away. Week after week, we continued to meet. To draw together for an hour or two. To sing and to pray. To tell each other the old, old story. To be reminded that yes, it is all true.

You were often my mother, my father, my siblings. My teacher, my student, my traveling companion. You brought me food when I was sick, when a new baby was born, and when another was lost. You shared your stories, your fears, your dreams, and your talents. With each kind act, knowing glance and deeper question, you offered healing and restoration. You spoke words of truth about yourself, about me, and about the One who brought us together. You loved well.

Yet there were seasons when you were the source of great pain. You were too busy. You didn’t have room in your circle of friends. You were tending to your own wounds and trying to repair the brokenness present in your own life. You failed me. And I did the same to you. But strangely, the pain and silence created an invaluable space.

For the brave work of longing.

For the reminder that we were not made for this world.

For the homesickness which nudged me back on the path toward Home. 

Despite the disappointments, we continued to meet. Week after week. Preschool Christmas pageant after Thanksgiving Eve communion after Maundy Thursday after crowded Easter morning. We didn’t give up on one another. We kept coming back – at times running and at others limping. Our relationship changed. We became family.

Our kinship was not born of common interest, background, social standing or life experience. It wouldn’t necessarily have been of our own choosing. Yet we loved the same Father who saw fit to bring us together. Week after week, a sacred alchemy transpired. The common became Holy. Through the jagged cracks of a broken, selfish, and prideful people, the Glory of the Most High spilled out and penetrated the darkness.

You changed shape as some were called away to other communities. They left as a result of following the Father, and their appointed time with us had been fulfilled. I confess that I’ve been tempted to do the same, but for less than admirable reasons. When I wanted more from you, or when you weren’t serving me in the ways that I had hoped. When our differences felt threatening. The gaps between us too wide to cross. I longed to flee to a place where my opinions were affirmed. But He knew that our differences served a marked purpose. What had seemed like an obstacle to my ideal had actually been rescuing me from a mirage. Yes, you had your own idols. But when you didn’t bow down to mine, you were offering a different perspective.  You saved me from myself.

Thank you for coming back week after week, year after year.

For leaning in. For your goodness and your weakness. For your hopeful words of encouragement and your honest tears of brokenness. For having vision for my life, my marriage, and my family when I wasn’t able. For granting me the sacred privilege of speaking into your life as well.

In your faithfulness and in your failures, you continue to draw me back to our Father. 

 

We walk through your doors

Broken and weary

Self-sufficient and prideful

Critical of those different

Blind to need

Brokenhearted by life

Enslaved by selfishness

You welcome us in

Giving room to rest

To struggle

To Fail

To Grow

To Hope

I am thankful.

 

 

 

 

 

 


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Big Rocks and Veggie Tales

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The asker-of-wise-questions at his first movie.
I’m pretty sure that Dad is looking out for the big fish.

We’ve made some changes around here.

Given that our oldest (at home) is quickly approaching high school, we’re coming to the end of an era. We’ve been homeschooling for the past nine years, and it has been a sweet time for our family. Very possibly, some subset or all three children will attend ‘school in a building’ in the next few years. Within a decade, they will be in college. Their days at home have always been numbered, but I’m beginning to see the point at the end of the number line approaching more quickly than I’d prefer. As that reality became more, well… more real, a question began to haunt me.

What if this were to be our last year?

What would I do differently? What would I want to make sure we experienced? Read? Played?

The truth is, for all of us, this could be the last year. The last year working at a particular job. The last year living in the current city or neighborhood. The last year that any given person will be in my life. If I knew in advance that the current situation were about to change, what would I do differently?

I don’t want to live a life of regret. “What if this were to be our last year?” has become the banner under which decisions are made. Not with a spirit of fear, but with a focused, expectant intentionality.

Early in my corporate career, I was introduced to Stephen Covey and his Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. One of the most memorable illustrations from Covey’s teachings is the Big Rock principle. I’m a visual learner. In the spirit of tackling ‘first things first’, I trotted off to Michael’s craft store and brought home the components of our life lesson.

big rocks

Jars – Signify the hours in a day. Their capacity is finite. Twenty-four hours is all we get.

Big rocks – The most important priorities. These are the nonnegotiables.

Small rocks – The activities we enjoy and want to do more often. Good things but not crucial.

Sand – Less significant.  Not to be confused with Sabbath rest and reflection, sand represents those not-so-constructive activities we use to “check out.” I have a few. And I bet you do as well.

If we fill our days with sand, we run out of room for the big rocks. The reality of our daily lives doesn’t embody our stated priorities. When this happens, I end up feeling frustrated, disappointed, and on the worst days, despair.

Yet if we start with the big rocks – structure our choices around that which we deem most important, well, you get the picture.

As we were plunking rocks and pouring sand, I couldn’t help but to feel some relief. Surely this conversation would bolster my case for working hard, getting chores accomplished cheerfully and quickly, and developing unselfish, joyful relationships between siblings. Yes. I had found the perfect illustration to support my case. Until one of my children, as does frequently happen, asked the question.

“Mom, if we’re supposed to want what God wants, don’t you think some other things are really more important?”

More important than mastering your Latin declensions, obeying your parents, and cleaning your room? Really? Hmm. Good point.

I realized that I had hoped this exercise would reinforce my priorities. But that was the problem. It was my agenda.  Not that the things I want for my children aren’t valuable and important – I believe that they are. But are they really THE big rocks? What exactly do we value most?

Hard work?
Obedience?
Academic excellence?

 

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind and with all your strength.” Mark 12:30

 

THAT is the big rock.
Pursuing God.
Or more specifically, allowing Him to pursue me.
That’s where we start.
Everything else must follow.
Everyday.

In Me, Myself, & Bob, Phil Vischer, the creator of Veggie Tales, tells the story of the rise and fall of his company, Big Idea. The business case he unfolds is fascinating, particularly for a former banker. I’m like a kid in a candy story when discussing marketing and strategic planning. Although captivated by both the personal drama and business details in the book, I was stopped by his personal reflection at the end. Vischer had wanted good things for God. He wanted to further the Kingdom. Yet this admirable dream was plucked out of his hardworking, persevering, highly-creative hands. What happened?

In response, Phil Vischer offers the hard, hopeful insight:

“The impact God has planned for us doesn’t occur when we’re pursuing impact. It occurs when we’re pursuing God.”

 

That’s the big rock.
Not my agenda.
Not my dreams.
Not the good things I can do to further His Kingdom.

I’m grateful to share that I’ll be hearing from Phil Vischer this weekend. He’ll be speaking at Hutchmoot, a gathering of folks occurring in Nashville. This is an uber-talented group, of which many earn a livelihood creating for the common good. They have a great deal to give. I find it fitting that the speaker won’t be offering a talk on “The Five Keys to Building a Successful Business ” or “Effective Marketing Techniques to Grow Your Platform.” Phil Vischer achieved those goals. He had great impact. But the years were eventually marked by loss and heartache – which resulted in a deep well of wisdom. And from that wisdom flows the most valuable lesson of all. One that has been taught over and over through the ages to a people who are slow to learn.

 

“I know your deeds, your hard work and your perseverance. . . You have persevered and have endured hardships for my name, and have not grown weary. Yet I hold this against you: You have forsaken your first love.” Revelation 2:2-4

 

Yes, we need to make some changes around here. I want to lay down my big rocks of personal agenda, control, and self-reliance. Daily, I’ve allowed good dreams to usurp that which is best.

I’m guilty.

I’m forgiven.

I’m beloved.

I’m grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

 


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Necessary Losses

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A year ago, we sent our Sam away to camp for the first time, as is chronicled below. This afternoon, we sent him again. Really, little had changed. The packing list, the drop-off destination and time, the schedule for the week, all had remained the same. But we are different. Life is like that. We don’t love less – we trust more. We’ve had the experience of letting go for a time, yet we receive back. A pattern emerges, and we learn to identify that pattern for what it is while we are in the midst of it. The more we experience, the more we believe. The more we believe, the more we relinquish the illusion of control. Yes, through the little losses in life, we learn to trust. What we experience and see in the moment is not the end of the story. The end has been written – one where all loss is cast away into the darkness. An end where everything sad will indeed come untrue.

No, there was not a lengthy breakfast, nervous boy, or teary goodbye today. We’ve been here before. The scenery is familiar. And that, I suppose is a loss as well.

 

I’m feeling a little sad this afternoon.  An hour ago, we put my baby boy on a bus that is taking him to camp for the first time.  Ok, he’s almost 10, but he’s still the baby boy of the family.  He was “a little bit nervous but more excited.” Backpack and guitar in tow, he bounded up the stairs of the bus behind two of his best buddies.  After they boarded, we strained to see through the darkened windows as the three of them peered out and waved furiously… “good-bye.”

This is my tender-hearted boy, who only a few years ago, couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to his sister as she was leaving home after a weekend visit from college.  ”Mom, it just hurts too much.” As I sat on the edge of the bed and watched my sweet boy unsuccessfully fight back the tears, my heart was divided. I never want him to hurt deeply.  I want to protect him from all of the evil in the world.  I don’t want him to be disappointed.  I don’t want his heart to ache.

At the same time, my hope is that he will grow to be a man who will love others well and live life to its fullest.  This is the kid who exudes life.  Whatever he feels, he feels deeply – both joy and pain.  You can’t have one without the other.  I love his depth of emotion, but I’m sad for the self-protection that years and experience will most likely bring.  It’s a paradox of sorts.  The very thing that I love about him is bound to bring him pain in life.

So it is with love and life.  Virtually every good gift that we are given comes as the result of some kind of loss.

~The butterfly – the end of the caterpillar
~The tree – no more a seed
~Wisdom – only after loss of innocence
~Marriage – the loss of carefree singleness
~Each new child – the smaller family unit will never be the same
~Graduations, weddings, birthdays – markers that a chapter of life has been written and completed

For me, here are a few to add to the list:

~Coming home to be with my family – the close of a rewarding career
~High school and college graduations – the shift in our family as 2 adult children launch their lives
~The wedding of our daughter – she’s now under someone else’s care

And now, a much smaller, yet still significant loss.  My blonde-headed blue-eyed little boy will come home to me having changed.  A bit more confident.  A little less dependent on me.  More aware that yes, there is life outside of our family, and it is good.  I’m thrilled that he’s able to go.  I’m thankful for his opportunity to   have a life-changing experience in a safe, nurturing environment.  But yes, there will be loss.

Ultimately, I am deeply grateful for the gifts of growth, change, and reminders of my ultimate dependence.  My hope is to encourage you that in the dark of night, and in the melancholy seasons of loss and closing chapters, you will be aware that your heartache is evidence of you are living life fully.  That you’d look to times past when necessary losses led to deeper peace, greater joy, and a firmer foundation from which to live.  That you’d be comforted to know that indeed, “there is a time for everything, and a season for every purpose under heaven.”

“Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”  C.S. Lewis

Chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast

 

I don’t think he’ll starve
A few more songs before we go
Have guitar, will travel
He’s going to be missed
Mrs. Anderson and her ducks
Last “Good-byes”
Camp Lurecrest  -   Thanks for taking care of my baby boy…

 


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Unlikely Places

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He had traded in his Armani suit for a bright orange jumper.  Rather than dining at five star restaurants, he now waited in line for standard institutional meals.  His daily interactions no longer took place in the oak-paneled boardroom, for his domain had been reduced to a ten by ten foot cell.  He had worked his way through school, climbed the corporate ladder from the bottom rung, and had arrived at a coveted position of wealth and status.  But through the years, the cocktail of success had numbed his conscience.  He was abruptly awakened from his drunken stupor as the cell door clanged shut. The echo resonating down the long cement corridor served as a haunting reminder of his long chain of life-changing choices.

Although he had traveled throughout the world, this was a foreign country for which he could not have time to prepare. He sat quietly digesting every morsel of information that would help him understand this new land.  The culture, language and customs of this place were alien to the life he had known.

His new neighbor, an intimidating hulk of a man, had gained his citizenship through taking the life of another.  He observed that very same man tenderly giving his new, hard-labored-for shoes to one who needed them more.  Time after time, he witnessed acts of kindness, selflessness, and courage within this world set apart from acceptable society.  He slowly discovered that all he had previously believed about “these people” was not accurate.  Yes, they had made poor, often devastating choices, yet in each man resided a more complex story.  Another side.  Alongside the obvious, well-documented depravity was the irrefutable existence of dignity.

Over time, his relationships shifted from that of outcast to friend, and he grew to love these criminals.  These undesirables. These prodigals. Together, they had found the strange peace that comes when many layers worn in the world are stripped away, and the naked truth remains. Life’s circumstances had leveled the playing field for these men of extremely diverse backgrounds.  There was no plotting to manipulate the future.  No fortune to be made or social ladder to climb.  No pretense.  No attempts to explain or defend. Locked away behind bars, he was able to find freedom.

The countdown of years droned on, one slow minute following another.  From the outside, his life looked painfully monotonous compared to the stimulating world that he once knew.  Yet the simplicity of his days allowed space for movement and growth of a different kind.  He found and spoke words of truth about the realities of his life without fear of judgment or condemnation.  As his scrambling to control and manipulate life was no longer a viable strategy, there was an ease and relief that settled in his soul.  Room was made for a new inhabitant – One who would never leave nor forsake.   One who restores the years that poor choices have taken.  One who makes all things new.

Trapped in the worst of situations, there was no way out.

He lost all that he had in the world.

He gained Life.

*******

“You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope.  With less of you there is more of God and his rule.

You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you.  Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.

You’re blessed when you’re content with just who you are –no more, no less.  That’s the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can’t be bought.

You’re blessed when you’ve worked up a good appetite for God.  He’s the food and drink in the best meal you’ll ever eat.

You’re blessed when you care.  At the moment of being “care-full,” you find yourselves cared for.

You’re blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That’s when you discover who you really are, and your place in God’s family. 

You’re blessed when you get your inside world – your mind and heart – put right.  Then you can see God in the outside world. 

You’re blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution.  The persecution drives you even deeper into God’s kingdom. .”  

The Message


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Houston, We Have a Problem

2
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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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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Of Brick and Straw

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You know the story… the three pigs, the three houses, and 2 very different outcomes.  What made the difference?  The materials with which the houses were built.  On the 2 ends of the spectrum are the straw and the brick.  I want a life built out of brick… but never would have thought that the straw would be part of the process.

As a child, like so many others, I grew up in a semi-functioning family.  The stress fractures that had been present throughout my parents’ marriage became too great when a poor economy resulted in a job loss.  This proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back resulted in the ultimate demise of my parents’ marriage and of family life as I knew it.

This week, we received what could have been devastating news.  After 17 years of faithful and productive service, my husband’s lucrative job was to come to an end.  We had had some inclination that as the result of another bank merger, this could be an outcome.  Yet we had little idea what and when the ultimate decision would be made.  Here we are.  With 5 children and little savings left due to the economy, we are more than ok.  We’re grateful.  For life, for family, for health, for a challenging marriage that has withstood the storms (both internally and externally) of 15 years, for friends who have walked through those storms with us, but most of all, for our loving God who wants what is best for us and is relentless in providing it.  In His upside-down economy, what is best is rarely what we would choose, yet it is ultimately what will bring us joy, peace, restoration, and healing.  We are grateful.  This is his best for us.

“The biblical detail about using straw in brick-making is puzzling to some.  How, they ask, could the addition of straw as an ingredient make bricks stronger?  In Egypt the mud-straw combination was commonly used to strengthen building blocks.   It also prevented the bricks from cracking or losing shape.  Modern investigators have run tests to show that when straw is mixed with mud the resulting bricks are three times as strong as those made without straw.  Fluids in the straw release humic acid and harden the bricks.  To this day, after thousands of years, mud-brick monuments still stand in Egypt.” (The Good News)

I’m struck that when we allow the Lord to take the straw of our lives… the hurts, heartaches, disappointments, and yes, our blatant sinfulness, he can mix it in with the mud of the world…  job loss, illness, the end of a significant relationship… and use it all to build something stronger.  Yet it is only after that mixture spends significant time in the refiner’s fire that it becomes strong.  Strong enough to withstand the storms of life.  Strong enough to play a part in giving others temporary shelter when their storms come.

What am I doing with the straw in my life?  Too many years have been spent coddling the hurts, regretting the past, and harboring an unforgiving spirit.  The straw remains not only weak, but highly flammable given the right environment.  My desire is to loosen my grip on the straw and hand it over to the Lord.  Only then is He able to resume His work as the great potter.  Only then will the strengthening and building begin.  I have a choice.

And so it is.  Life is built, brick by brick.   A series of daily choices.  I pray for the faith, strength, and courage to believe that our Lord wants what is best.  That he will take the broken pieces of my life and create something beautiful for His glory and enjoyment.  That the fires of life will not last longer than needed, but long enough to produce strength.  And that eventually, we will not speak in terms of straw, bricks, and fire, but of roads paved in gold.

 

~Written on our 15th wedding anniversary


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