Lost

“For the Son of Man came to seek and save those who are lost.”

-Jesus, Luke 19:10

When I was a wee child, I had my first real experience of feeling lost. I was at a store with my mother, and I briefly became separated from her. My childlike line of vision could only see lots of adult legs walking past me. I searched frantically until finally - I spotted mom’s legs! I ran to her and wrapped myself around her legs, sitting on her feet. I slowly looked up to see her face when, to my little heart’s horror, I realized I was hugging the legs of a stranger! I was more lost than ever. 

Being lost is like that. It’s being all alone in a big scary world where people just walk past you. And then to make matters worse, it’s grabbing onto all the wrong solutions.

When I was older, I took my newlywed husband for a walk in the woods at our cabin in Northern
Michigan. I charged confidently ahead; after all, I was familiar with these woods! I had been exploring them since I was a child. We walked for some time and then we took a break, at which point I experienced something that can only be described as akin to Vertigo. Trees surrounded us on all sides and I recognized nothing. The world spun. It was dizzying, and I realized we were quite lost.

Being lost can be like that too. It’s being confident and leading the way, only to end up somewhere unplanned and unfamiliar, spinning aimlessly.

I lost my son once when he was just a toddler. It was the worst 10 minutes of my life. It was at a wedding at our church. Poof! He was gone. We had a group of people searching frantically for him, calling his name. When we were just about to call the police he emerged sheepishly from a bathroom stall. 

Being lost can be like that, too. It’s when you’re just going about your business as usual, not realizing that Someone who loves you deeply is calling out your name, trying to find you. 

I’ve been lost in dingey apartments with the curtains closed and questionable company. I’ve been lost in piles of cigarette butts, in pipes and closets filled with hidden booze bottles. I’ve been lost in different cities that I thought would solve all my problems and I’ve been lost in the recesses  of my own mind because, as my dad always warned me, no matter where you go, there you are.

I’ve been lost in bipolar manic episodes and in the deep black valley of depression that follows. I’ve been lost in the muck of faith crisis and deconstructing my beliefs. I’ve been lost as a mother, lost as a wife, lost as a child and debatably even more lost as an adult. 

But for all the lostness I have experienced, God has compensated me with all the joys of being found. Jesus came to seek and save the lost. And he compensates for the years the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25).

What is it, then, to be found by Jesus? 

Being found is like the sun finally rising again. It’s when the depression cloud finally moves on. It’s flowers in the Spring and the way my dog wags his tail to greet me every time I come home. 

It’s falling asleep with the same arms around me every night and waking up to the same sound of little feet every morning. 

Most importantly, being found has to do with the person named Jesus. You see it’s not about where I might be going on this journey, it’s about Who I’m following on the way. Being found is when you finally wave the white flag and surrender yourself to Him. 

It is the human experience to feel lost. Everyone, at one time or another, loses their way. Everyone makes a wrong decision that causes them to lose their footing. Some go deeper into the lost than others. Some turn around quickly; others grab a shovel and keep digging. Finances, jobs, relationships, the future, sickness, suffering - all things that can leave us feeling lost, floundering on the waves. Life can feel like a maze we will never escape.  

Where do you feel lost today?

No matter how lost you feel today, may you know there is Someone seeking you in your lostness.

No matter how much you are trudging through the thick, may you know that Jesus came to seek and save us out of the sludge. 

You aren’t found because you’ve figured out your circumstances. Your circumstances might still be garbage. You’re found because you belong to Jesus.

May you find your foundness in Him.

 

Letting the Leash Go

I took my dog to the Vet today. 

He gets to be more of a grumpy old man as he gets older. He’s a brilliant dog who is wary of strangers being in his space. I don’t really blame him, I don’t like them in my space either. Last year at his yearly check-up, he made sure to try to bite everyone who attempted to touch him, multiple times, while I watched helplessly. He is a strong, healthy German Shepherd, so it’s no joke when he’s mad. 

This year, I asked them to take him back without me to see if he might do better that way. 

As I handed the leash off to the Vet tech, I thought about how hard it is to let go. Here I was, literally handing off stressful responsibility to someone else, sitting by myself with empty hands folded and waiting to see what would happen, watching the clock tick tock back and forth. 

What a picture of life. 

There are so many things out of my control that it feels like someone is always on the verge of pulling the rug out from under my feet. I hand the leash off when my kids leave for school every day, getting on the bus and going out into an unknown world. I hand the leash off while my husband does scary stuff on construction sites that I’d rather not know about. I hand the leash off, and hand it off again, and hand if off again, hoping my family comes back to me and risks pay off and things turn out well. 

On the upside, when you have to hand the leash off, you’re left there with an awareness that all you really have is the mercy of God and the care of Jesus upon your life. All of the sudden the things that really matter bubble to the surface, all as a result of your empty-handedness. As I prayed today, “Into your hands I commend my spirit…and their spirits…and all our spirits, forever and ever amen.”

Maybe that was dramatic prayer for a Vet visit. 

But maybe not. 

I think it was just the right prayer for letting go of the leash. 

PS. My dog did just fine and didn’t try to bite anyone’s face off this year. 

It Gets Different

I was recently visiting with a young man who had children much younger than mine. His blond-haired toddling daughter was as bouncy as could be, wiggling all over him on the couch while he tried to carry on a conversation with the adults.

“It gets easier when they get older, right?” he asked me, smiling hopefully.

I paused.

And really thought about it.

“It gets…different.” I answered. 

This week, I realized Theo’s jeans are officially too manly for me to wash with the rest of his clothes. When they are little kid pants, you just throw everything in there together with some soap and give it a whirl. Now, his jeans are manly, tough, big, and need their own washing cycle.

I’ve been noticing other things too. No one asked to go to any Easter Egg hunts this year; that is little kid stuff. Both my boys are in men’s size socks now. In a quick few months, they will both be on their way to Middle School. Theo can play guitar. Remi can cook himself several meals from start to finish. There is men’s deodorant in their bathroom on the counter, and cologne.  And Remi actually smirked at me recently when I asked him about messaging with girls on messenger. 

Temperatures here in Michigan hit a whopping 80 degrees yesterday, so of course the entire state came unglued with outdoor activities. It’s a tradition, it happens every year in April before promptly falling back into the 40s, which it is forecast to do by Tuesday. Love Michigan. 

Remi’s wild child came out in full force in the sunshine. He was barefoot, muddy, soaked, and sunburnt for pretty much the entire day. He played basketball, made mud pies, played in the hose, hunted for worms, and filled a bucket full of water balloons.

“Mom, can you tie this for me?”  he asked while I sat in my chair, soaking up the sun with my dog at my feet.

 “Sure bud.” 

I tied water balloon after water balloon before asking myself the question, how much longer will he want me to tie his water balloons for him? 

When they were very little, the needs were constant. We weren’t tying water balloons, we were making sure they didn’t choke on them. Or die, or otherwise severely injure themselves in a thousand different ways. They were noisy, screechy, clingy, and stinky. They were very cute, but very demanding. I did not for one single day feel rested for the first five years of their lives, at minimum.

These days I wouldn’t say it is easier, but it is for sure different. The hard things are different. 

The hard is knowing how to counsel them on friends, politics, government, taxes, war, and all the other major issues of life. 

The hard is knowing how much space to give, and how much to reel them in. 

The hard is technology use and the role of social media and phones in their lives. 

The hard is eye-rolls and life-is-not-fair door slams. 

The hard is realizing they are growing up to be their own people, with their own choices and opinions.

So we do our best, and trust that Jesus fills in the cracks with his grace. 

Does it get easier? 

It gets…different.

Promises and Shipwreck

Observations on Acts 27 - Paul’s Shipwreck

Observe that God’s promise is not the same thing as being able to control your circumstances. People, places, and things are outside the bounds of our control. The ship Paul was on had great difficulty struggling against the wind and storm that came upon it. Paul tried to reason with the ship’s officers but he was ignored. Material possessions were lost when they were thrown overboard. Paul had a promise from God that he would stand before Cesar, but he had no control over people, places, or things in the meantime. 

Observe also that God’s promises are not thwarted by those same people, places and things which we cannot control. Storms do not stop God’s promises. Shipwrecks do not stop God’s promises. Stupid people do not stop God’s promises. 

Observe how God’s promises sustain us in times of crisis. The Scripture says,

“The terrible storm raged for many days, blotting out the sun and the stars, until at last all hope was gone.” -Acts 27:20

When hope was gone, Paul was able to confidently share God’s promises that (1) Paul would stand trial before Cesar and (2)that no one on the ship would die. Despite the storm that blotted out all light and hope, Paul declared,

“So take courage! For I believe God. It will be just as he said.” -Acts 27:25

Interestingly, God quite literally does not promise smooth sailing. In this case, the promise transcended the apparent circumstance. There was no provision against encountering storms, being a prisoner, being shipwrecked, or even experiencing near-death by drowning. God promised (1) a destination for Paul and (2) the lives of the men aboard the ship. But the pathway to see the promise fulfilled was fraught with danger and calamity!

Do I think in this life that I will escape to a softer fate of less struggle?

This life, arguably, is a storm. 

And a shipwreck. 

And a promise. 

For brief moments we are Jack on the Titanic, yelling about how we can fly, but mostly we are Paul, clinging to a piece of wood from our broken ship, swimming toward shore. Swimming toward the promise. We don’t arrive unscathed, but because of God’s faithfulness we do in fact arrive. Jesus also didn’t arrive unscathed, and he has the scars to show for it.

Intesting, too, that by all natural appearances, it looked like God was not fulfilling his promise. So much so  that “all hope was gone.” At this point, Paul had to walk by faith rather than sight, and he had to trust God’s word to him as more real than the dire situation that was taking place in the natural realm. And he declared, “I believe God. It will be just as he said!” 

Underneath what we see in the natural realm, there is a Kingdom power at work, moving us along ever so softly toward the fulfillment of all of God’s promises to us. There is nothing he has said that he will not also back up. Whether we think we can see it or not, all of life is moving steadily toward the yes and amen of God’s promises to us in Jesus. We are floating, as though on a river of love, toward fulfillment, moment by moment. 

Let us rally, then, to believe God’s word to us over and above whatever circumstances we face today! 

“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: it will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.” -Isaiah 55:10-11

Keep Me in the Sunlight

 “It is plain that a life which includes deep resentment leads only to futility and unhappiness. To the precise extent that we permit these, do we squander the hours that might have been worthwhile. But with the alcoholic, whose hope is the maintenance and growth of a spiritual experience, this business of resentment is infinitely grave. We found that it is fatal. For when harboring such feelings we shut ourselves off from the sunlight of the Spirit. The insanity of alcohol returns and we drink again. And with us, to drink is to die.” -The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, How it Works, page 66

When I was young, I had a terrible habit of chewing on my fingernails. 

This habit, fueled by anxiety and inner turmoil, inevitably led to hangnails. Little pieces of nail, hanging on by a thread. Painful every time they were touched or even lightly brushed. 

Resentments are kind of like that. 

What do we do with the pain and trauma imposed on us by others in this life? 

What do we do when people leave us when we need to be loved the most? 

What do we do when people hurt us, stomp on us, tear our hearts out? 

What do we do with the hangnails within us that hurt deeply every time they are touched?

It is an inevitable fact of life that we will be let down. And when it happens, we have options. We can permit deep resentments to form. We can hit back. We can stew and boil. We can allow hangnails in our life which periodically bubble up and cause us serious pain.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be sick with resentment. I don’t want to suffer from hangnails. I don’t want to be shut out from the sunlight of the Spirit. 

So I have to do some things. I have to ask what my part was in any hurt I face. I must take any responsibility that is mine to take. I must make amends where possible for any wrong I’ve done. 

I must have empathy for people who have hurt me.  As one wise man said, 

“If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.” -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Everyone is going through some kind of suffering. 

And sometimes, I simply have to figure out how to forgive. 

Forgiveness is far from easy. 

It often requires something like emotional open heart surgery. 

It isn’t something I can dig out of myself without a lot of help. 

So I look to Jesus. 

Jesus demonstrating enemy-love.

Jesus commanding us to forgive. 

Jesus forgiving the criminal on the cross next to him.

Jesus inviting Judas to eat with him even though he knew he was about to betray him.

Jesus dying for people who hated him. 

Sigh.

But also - glory! 

The world is chock full of animosity, resentment, and unforgiveness. On the micro level we can see it in broken relationships between individuals. On the macro level we see it in the form of crazy world leaders and war. Everywhere we look it is normal to be angry at the other. 

Jesus followers are called to higher ground. 

I am called to higher ground.

And so I let go. 

Of the way they didn’t show up. 

Of how they left at the worst possible time.

Of how they disappeared without giving a reason. 

Of the temptation to fester. 

Of the way I want the other shoe to drop on them as I write these words. 

Jesus help me climb to higher ground by taking the lowest possible road. 

Help me not just practice enemy-love, but to refuse to even have enemies at all. 

Help me heal my hangnails.

Help me live in the sunlight of the Spirit.

A Broken Thank You - For Good Friday

 A prayer for the mystery of the Cross…

Dear Jesus,

This year I am struck by all the competing theories of your atonement as I scroll through my Facebook feed. Your people are in disarray, all believing different things, each staking their claim on one piece of the truth. I am also struck by how little capacity I have for such debates this year. It is overwhelming to process. It wearies me. I think that certainty is the luxury of people who have not yet been rampaged by life. I no longer have a place for it; it doesn’t fit. 

So I come to your Cross on this dark day of remembrance, more full of mystery than ever before. I sit with you in the dark, thinking how often you too have sat with me in my darkness. I wonder what it all means, but for now I’m satisfied believing that you somehow lead us out of the darkness and into the light. 

And I offer up a broken “thank you.” It is my offering. Maybe it’s not enough, too lukewarm, not on fire. But I believe you accept it, just as I believe you accept all of us who offer up broken thank-you’s, absent of certainty, yet still certain of your goodness. 

Thank you, Jesus.

Snowblowing and Obedience

 I hate snowblowing. 

The cold, the wind, the slush, the clogging and pushing and grunting. I absolutely hate it and will pay someone else to do it every time. It is, in my eyes, the worst homeowner chore we have to do. I’d rather clean the chicken coop full of poop.

On my Tuesday discipleship call today,  we asked the question: What is Biblical obedience?

We discussed the difference between religion and relationship, the connection between love for God and love for others, and the Mary versus Martha mentality. I don’t have a perfect definition, but I think that Biblical obedience is love in action that springs from a heart oriented toward Jesus. Something like that, is what He wants from us. 

This week I got an email requesting my Annual Report for an Ordained Elder in the Church of the Nazarene. As an ordained elder, I am responsible to report to my district leadership what I’ve been up to with my credentials this year. 

-How many times have you preached this year?  0

-How many calls have you made this year? 0

-Share a brief testimony about how God’s been moving in your ministry this year: Mostly I’ve been healing, cultivating hope and life again after a year long mental health crisis. Oh, and snowblowing. 

It’s easy to answer these questions and feel like a total failure. I haven’t used my credentials because I’ve been too sick to do so. I am just starting to creep slowly back into ministry responsibilities at our new church. Key word - slowly. 

When I first started out in ministry, I was naive and therefore surprised to discover that in the church, there is a career ladder, just like there is in any other field. You might think this wouldn’t be the case, that pastors wouldn’t be ambitious like that, but unfortunately you’d be wrong. There is totally a ladder, and plenty of people trying to climb it. It kind of makes my stomach churn. 

For a while, I was on that ride; that is until my mental health plummeted and everything came crashing down in a heap. All the years I spent teaching and preaching and serving and building came to a screeching halt. I had to close my church plant because I was too sick to function. Relationships disintegrated. 

One weird thing about churches is that when you stop showing up, no one pursues you to find out why. Poof, you just disappear, and like a cult, they stay in the church, never peering out to see what happened. I think this is sadly one of the biggest downfalls of our churches today. They don’t look for relationships beyond their own little group. It’s very weird and should raise some red flags.  

Anyways, it’s taken some time to find my footing since I set down everything I had built my life around like that. I often ask Jesus what exactly is going on and what He is doing in this weird season. One day He answered me. It sounded like this:

Me: Jesus what are you doing? Where am I going?

Jesus: Amy, I have plans for you that have nothing to do with climbing some perceived career ladder in ministry or the church. This doesn’t mean that you won’t serve in the church, it just means I don’t want you to find your identity in all of that.

Me: That’s kind of a relief. What should I focus on then?

Jesus: Snowblowing. You know, stuff like that. 

I used to think that Biblical obedience meant something extravagant, like saying YES when God calls you to go to Africa. I’m sure that is obedience for those people. But I’m learning that for me, and probably for most of us, the harder kind of obedience is saying yes to the daily shuffle. 

I can get on a platform and preach a good message, but can I love my kids?

I can teach a good Sunday school lesson and lead a good discipleship group, but can I have patience and self-control when it’s needed most?

I can lead a worship set, but can I serve my husband by snowblowing the stupid snow before he gets home and has to do it himself?

I used to want to take on the world. Build something big. Make a difference. Be uniquely qualified. Be remembered. These days, obedience calls me to focus on smaller things. Snow blow the snow. Fill the bird feeders. Cook the dinner. Clean the chicken coop. Do the laundry. Work the mundane job. Pick up after the remodel work. Have the friends over. Pray for the children. Stock the pantry. Walk the dog. 

It is freeing to be in a smaller place, but for me it is also harder in many ways. Truth be told, public speaking comes easier to me than having patience for my children or snow blowing for my husband out of a heart of love. As my sister recently said, we do not get to choose the tools of our sanctification, they just come to us without our permission, and they change us.  

I think it’s good that I’m paying more attention to the life I actually have, rather than what I can build to change the world in the future. I am convinced that rather than climbing any ladders, Jesus wants me to sit at the foot of the ladder and not even look up. That’s good news, because it’s restful sitting with Jesus. 

Maybe my annual report should look more like this:

-Times preached: 0

-Calls made: 0 

But…

-Lessons learned through suffering: many

-Hope cultivated through healing: lots

-Faith strengthened through trial: tremendously

And most importantly…

-Driveway snow blowed from a heart of love: all winter long.

Seedlings

We are starting seedlings for our garden this year.

We planted them today.

Tiny pots, all lined up in a row.

Planting has me thinking about faith. To drop a tiny seed in some dirt, to nurture it with sunlight and water, all requires a good measure of faith. Faith that something will sprout from nothing, and then faith that it will grow. Faith that it will survive being transplanted, and then that it will survive the elements outside. Faith that it will bloom, bud, flower, vine, and ultimately bear the produce that will nurture us. Faith that something bigger is coming that what we can see today.

All that, from those tiny pots, all lined up in a row.

Today, on day one, the seeds sit in the dark, damp soil. And we wait. And we tend with water and light. And we wait for the invisible magic to manifest into the natural world. 

These things have me thinking about the Parable of the Mustard Seed. 

He told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches.” -Matthew 13:31-32

The Parable of the Mustard seed gives me hope because it means that my small, bumbling efforts toward the Kingdom of God can develop into something much larger and sturdier than what I started with. This is good, especially because my flesh and the enemy want me to believe that nothing is ever enough. They seek to keep me in a perpetual state of anxiety over what I’m not doing and whether I’m doing enough. 

It always feels like my efforts should be more spectacular and in-your-face. More public, more impactful. But in truth, my efforts are small and daily and mostly hidden from view. I make effort, and then I hope with the blowing of the wind that my effort falls on good soil where it can grow. 

It’s that age old question that hits all of us at one point or another: does anything I do matter?

Jesus says yes. Tiny things have great potential to grow into something wonderful, like a bountiful garden in July that began in April as quiet cups of dirt and seed in my basement. That’s how things work under God’s reign and rule.

So, I’ll keep praying with my boys every day before they go to school. 

I’ll keep hugging them at night.

I’ll keep trying to build them up.

I’ll keep listening when they need to talk.

I’ll keep cooking those family meals every night. 

I’ll keep trying to be a good friend, a good daughter, a good wife. 

And though these efforts are not snazzy or spectacular, still they are my offering, the seed which I am hoping lands on good soil and grows. I’ll keep sowing my tiny seeds in faith that God is making something beautiful out of this life and these people. 

I’ll keep praying and loving, however imperfectly. And that’s another thing about growing seeds in faith. We aren’t experts. We probably buried some seeds too deep and others not deep enough. The soil is likely imperfect and who knows if we watered enough on day one. But even so, with all our imperfect efforts, we will still see the seeds sprout in due time.

So don’t be discouraged. Keep watching those tiny pots, all lined up in a row.

God like Jesus

 Jesus walked the earth in feet that grew weary, dirty, and sweaty.

His hands were susceptible to callouses from hard work.

Jesus tasted fear. He tasted grief. Hot tears fell from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

Jesus tasted the bitterness of betrayal and abandonment. He was left when he should have been loved. He tasted judgment, condemnation, and ultimately death. 

Why does it matter? 

Because if God knows what it is to be human, then there is a chance that maybe we can actually relate to God. 

I need this kind of God. One who has come close. One who knows the reality of my flesh, my broken mind, my general frailty. One who has walked through all darkness and therefore can lead me out of it. He’s been through the wilderness, so he can lead me through my own wilderness. He passed through death, so he can even lead me through that part too. 

I need this kind of God, who spit dirt from his teeth while he was tempted in every way by Satan in the barren wilderness. One who hung out with drunks and losers and probably even hookers, and wasn’t driven away by the smell of cigarette smoke. One who hungered and thirst and went toe to toe with demons. He wasn’t afraid of people with monsters, He just loved them and set them free, and that’s good news because I’ve had a few monsters of my own.

I don’t need a far-off, untouchable God or one who set the world in motion and then stepped away to let us spin on our own. And of what use is a God who stays aloof, refusing to enter into human suffering? I don’t need a God who doesn’t care about the least of us, the broken and lost and ugly ones. No, thankfully that kind of God isn’t the true God, but only a creation in our fear-filled imaginations. 

I need a God like Jesus. 

God-made-flesh.

Passed through life and death,

Leading me all the way.

The Gritty Road

Notice how everything God says is always and only goodness, pouring forth out of his mouth like sunshine cascading through the clouds. In this world we will have many troubles, but take heart! He has overcome the world. The thickest darkness cannot overcome his light. 

This life is full of trials and tribulations, but it is also filled to fullness with God’s love. Dear human, it is natural to experience waves of grief and fear. They sweep over you, threatening to drag you away. But embrace, too, waves of grace and love. These come from the hand of God and are given to refresh you and give you peace. 

Jesus doesn’t save us from our humanity, but he saves us in our humanity. Saying, dear human, I can’t help you escape the harsh realities of life, but I can help lead you through them with grace and peace. This is where your faith must land. I walk the gritty road of human life with you, and I will never leave or forsake you. I have tasted dirt and blood in my teeth and I drank the worst drink the world could offer me. I know what you need and how you feel and I will not wait to provide it. 

Notice too, how when you look through eyes of faith, there is much light and love. But when you look in the natural, the lights go out and you can’t see anymore. Walk then by faith, and not by sight, looking for the good, accepting hope, seeking love. 

No matter what you’re struggling with today, remember that Jesus walks the gritty human road with us, helping us to walk by faith.

Brain Fog

There is not much “Spring” in Spring Break this year. It is cold and wet, and we are stuck inside. After long months of winter, we are so ready for a break in the weather, and these days drag on. A cacophony of boy chaos is the background  noise of my writing this morning.  

It is easy, on days like these, for monkey-mind to begin stirring. The day is wide open with nothingness, and my irritable-restless-discontent kicks in. Negativity and anxiety can cascade like a waterfall if I don’t put a stop to them. My mood will match the weather if I let it have its way. 

Fighting. Why must I always be fighting? Fighting for my peace, fighting for my rest, fighting to have joy. Fighting to crawl out from under anxiety and depression, fighting to take thoughts captive, fighting to get through the day. Always fighting.

A song I love says, “I see the light but never find the surface; I don’t know if I can swim no more.” I feel like that all the time. Like I’m in arm’s reach of health but just can’t quite reach it. Like I’m climbing a muddy hill, almost to the top but still slipping down. 

Scripture is full of contradictions and opposing, alternate counsel. Sorry if that offends you, but if you read it you’ll find it to be true. It says we are in a battle, but the work is finished. It says we are to fight, but we are also to rest. It says we are promised victory, but we are also guaranteed to suffer. I try to find the balance point in all the tensions. I should rest. No, I should fight. I should fight from a point of rest while I suffer and wait for victory. That sounds right. It feels like a weird balancing beam, and I’m not very skilled at it.

What do you do when your brain is sick? When it just doesn’t work right? When you can’t think your way out of a paper bag? So much of my faith-life has been about the sharpening of my mind. What do I do when I don’t have that? When everything feels like fuzz and fog and contradictions that I cannot reconcile?

Days like these strip faith down to something more raw and real and naked. 

The thief on the cross next to Jesus, he somehow believed, and while he was bleeding out with literally nothing to offer, Jesus welcomed him. 

It’s like that.

Or like the Roman Centurion, who was standing in front of Jesus, and seeing how he died, said “There is no doubt this man was the Son of God!” (Mark 15:39). Just a gaze at Jesus, and faith sprang forward, and entrance into the Kingdom of God. It’s like that, coming back to gaze at Jesus again and again, so that faith will continue to spring forward. That’s how I fight through these days. 

I’m thankful for the revelation that Jesus is a real person, not just a theological discussion. I used to love theological discussions, and sometimes I still do, but mostly now I see them as a luxury for people whose brains are fully functioning. Faith is not coming to a land of ideas, but to a real person who takes me by the hand and welcomes me just as I am, regardless of if my brain is working that day or not.

Thanks Jesus, that when my brain is not working right, I can come back to what is simple and true.

Jesus loves me this I know…

The Process of Suffering

 

God’s been teaching me about the spiritual process of suffering. These are just some of my personal observations. 

There is a spiritual process of suffering. 

First, the Big Ugly Thing introduces itself to you, and you are bewildered. You may despair even of life itself (2 Cor. 1:8). Questions commence. You suspect that like Job and Peter, Satan is sifting you like wheat, under the watchful eye of God (Luke 22:31, Job 8:12). You wonder what you’ve done to deserve it and whether God hates you. 

During this time your faith feels as thin as fleeting fog. Things you thought you knew, you no longer know. Through the shadows, you cling by a thread to hope. You want everything to go back to normal, but it doesn’t. So you trudge along in a haze, shaken, suffering. 

Next in the process comes the Fight. Somehow, faith rises, and you become determined to not allow the Big Ugly Thing to take over. You commence fighting the good fight of faith (1 Tim 6:12). For maybe the first time, you start taking God’s Words about suffering seriously. You try to figure out how to literally count it all joy (James 1:2). You think more about sharing in Jesus’ sufferings (2 Cor 4:10, Phil 3:7-11). You recognize the fragility of your clay jar - even of all of life (2 Cor 4:7). You consider that your present suffering is not worth comparing to the glory that will be revealed in you (Romans 8:18). You fight hard to believe these things. 

You don’t know it at the time, but some very serious things are happening to your character during the Fight. Useless things are being cast out, and new things are being planted. The old man is fading, and Christlike qualities are growing. Faith, hope, moral excellence, knowledge, self-control, patient endurance, godliness, affection, and more - all culminating in a more sincere love. Those who suffer much love much. 

You’ll never be the same. You won’t call yourself stronger, just different. Slower. Less judgy. Lower. More sincere love.

Finally the test - the trial - the Big Ugly Thing, begins to pass from the scene of your life. You exit the hour of suffering like a soldier after battle: wounded, hoping it’s actually over, but very much alive. As the shadows fade, God whispers promises into your heart, creating new hopes and dreams. He says a new thing will spring up (Isaiah 43:18) and that a new branch will grow from your old root (Isaiah 11:1). What Satan intended for evil God will use for good (Genesis 50:20). You gather yourself, and now you walk with a limp, but still you walk forward, away from the Big Ugly Thing, out of the Fight, and into God’s weird future.