What about No

Suffering and trauma surround me, and yet, last night, as I struggled with a migraine and lupus pains of my own, the thing that brought me to tears was my inability to take my immersion blender apart and clean it.

Death, sickness, loss, rebellion.  And my salty tears spill out over an immersion blender that won't twist.

Not really, of course.  I was really crying over the babies, the cancers, the hearts, the fear, the exhaustion.  But that was too much too think about, and thus the random ragged spill from my pounding head.

Setting the immersion blender aside, I decided to wait until Shawn can help me.  There it lies, prone and shamed on my counter, with flecks of guacamole stuck in its deepest crevices, where I couldn't get to them while the chopper was attached to the motor.

When my husband comes home, we will figure it out together, Lord willing.

Distance.  Separation.

When Shawn and I were dating, I used to think about him so vividly when we were apart, imagining us both as points on the globe, traveling here and there on our different ways.  In those days before cell phones, there was no such thing as constant contact.  If you weren't together, you had to get to somewhere where there was a phone, and hope that the other person was also somewhere where there was a phone, and try to call the number, a work number, or someone's home.  You had to think about things, imagine where people would be, how long it would take for them to get from one place to another, and call at just the right time to catch them.  People in love could go to great lengths to devise ways to meet up, or -- in the earliest stages of love -- to devise ways to appear to run into one another randomly.  It was almost a spiritual exercise for me to pull my mind up above the surface of the earth and look down from the vast heavens, envisioning myself in motion, seeing my small spot of a gray car traveling a particular direction on one road, and Shawn's small spot of a red car traveling a different direction on a different road, wondering about when and where these two small spots ever might come to a joint location.

Sometimes God seems distant.  Sometimes He seems silent, even absent.  Sometimes you pray and pray and pray, and He doesn't give you what you asked for.  A few years ago, I hit a point like that, and felt mired in concrete, as though my feet were embedded in a sidewalk and I was being crushed by a load of wet cement sloshed down over me.  I couldn't breathe, let alone pray.  It was frightening, except for the numbness; the numbness took the edge off the terror.  Just recently I hit a similar point, but instead of the immense weight of cement pouring down on me during a period of paralysis, I felt the opposite.  Rather than weight, I felt emptiness, surrounded by a great echo chamber.  "How can I continue to pray," I wondered, "When God keeps saying no?  Why does He keep saying no?"

Shawn told me, and other people, too, that God is not saying no, only not now.  Not this time.  Not yet.  But I prayed for this time, for this situation, for this circumstance, and the answer was no.  And I'm not talking about once.  It was no, and no, and no . . .

They say I would want what God has planned for me, what God is choosing to give me, if only I had His eyes to see and His understanding to know how all the things will work together for good.  This is, no doubt, true.  Yet, I cannot see, and I do not know.  I feel frustrated and foolish for my lack of faith.

Pain does things to us.  God holds us together, somehow, by His mighty power.  I wonder, since His mighty power is able to hold us together, why does He so often choose not to use His power to alleviate our pain?  I have been pondering John 11, and why Jesus waited so long to go to Lazarus when they called for His help.  Jesus' delay resulted in great pain that would not have had to fall on those people, or so it would seem.  Even Jesus Himself suffered and wept as a result of that pain, pain He Himself could have prevented, but did not.

Sometimes pain tenders us, increases our compassion and humility, teaches us patience and trust.  But sometimes pain twists people into caricatures of themselves, robs them of dignity and nobility, plants fear deep in their souls and teaches them not to trust.  I have seen both effects, and the bad effects break my heart.  Pain upon pain.

I have also seen people who have what I think is the joy of the Lord.  Their faces shine with joy and peace.  They smile a lot.  They trust God to be good to them.  And it seems as though He is good to them.  Why does that beautiful life escape me?

I hate writing these things, because I think it gives fodder for those who would question their faith, and to those who have abandoned faith altogether.  Yet, we must be honest.  These are real questions, and the answers are not easy.  C.S. Lewis said, "Everyone thinks forgiveness is a lovely idea until he has something to forgive." In a similar vein, I think Christians can easily agree that trials and tribulations grow us into creatures with beautiful hearts, but when I find myself the one who is undergoing such a transformation, I quickly lose my stomach for the process.

Yesterday I listened to the Laura Story song, Blessings, again, thinking it might help me with my confusion.  At the end, the lyrics say:

What if my greatest disappointments
or the aching of this life
are the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy?
What if the trials of this life,
the rain, the storms, the hardest nights
are Your mercies in disguise?

I thought (forgive me), "Why do mercies have to be in disguise?  Why can't mercies be obviously merciful?  How can I trust in God's goodness if goodness is up for redefinition on a seemingly random whim?  If things that seem terrible are really good, how can I trust my perception of anything?  If I can't trust my perception of anything, how can I live?"

God is present, even though it is sometimes hard for me to perceive Him.  He has promised never to leave nor forsake me, and so He will not, much as it might seem that He has.  Appearances can be deceiving, and the truth resides outside of our perceptions.  This is why we must absolutely know the truth.

This is the truth:

• God loves me.

• God demonstrated His love for me by sending Jesus to make atonement for my sin, while I was desperately entangled in sin.

• The atoning death of Christ opened the way for His Spirit to come and abide in my body, to give me life and hope, to encourage and teach and guide me.

• He will never leave me nor forsake me.

• There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

• If God is for us, nothing can stand against us.

• The Spirit of Christ in me is transforming me into the likeness of Christ from one degree of glory to another.

• The Spirit of Christ in me is my hope of glory, and the hope of glory for whatever parts of the world He touches through me.

Oh Lord, Spirit of Christ in me, fill me with your divine essence.  

Make me beautiful in your sight 

and let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you.  

Show me your glory and goodness.  

Help me trust you, not only with my own life and heart, 

but also with the lives and hearts of those I love.  

O Lord, I love them so much, 

and I want their faith to awaken and grow and flourish.  

I am so fearful that when you say no to me, or to them, or to us, 

they will see and judge you to be an undesirable Father.  

Lord, I am not responsible for your reputation.  
You are responsible for your reputation, 

and you are able and worthy and wise to handle your reputation perfectly, 

even though I may not understand what you are doing.  

Please still my frantic heart with your perfect love, and cast out my fear.  

Help me to replace my anxiety with gratitude for who you are 

and all that you have done for us.  Please.  
Thank you for new mercies every day, 
testimonies of your presence and power:  
Slow healing, a kind stranger, welcome news, a phone call with a friend,
hellebores blooming in my yard in February.  
Thank you for not abandoning me.

Amen.

February is here

Each year I make a calendar to give to the members of our family for Christmas.  I use mostly my own photography (sometimes a little of Laura's gets mixed in), and I try to come up with a meaningful word, phrase, or Bible verse to headline each month.  I put family members' pictures on their birthday date squares, as reminders.

The roses above are part of the design I made for this year's February calendar page.  I grew them in Illinois, and they brought such joy to my heart.  Such joy.

Originally, I thought these calendars would be a lovely point of connection.  Although we live in different places, far from one another, if we all had the same calendar, we could put it up and look at it in our different locations and have this similar thing that we were all seeing as our days passed. 

I'm not sure whether the kids use theirs.  We are mostly a post wall-calendar society these days.  Google calendar, with its handy auto-notifications, saves the day more often than not, and is the go-to for tracking what we need to accomplish.

My life is a jumble these days.  Nobody ever told me that life just keeps getting harder.  I always thought that there would be a point at which we would come out on a smooth plain, and rejoice.  Well, there is.  But now I know that the smooth plain is in heaven, and there will be rocky roads until we get there.  Most days I am at peace about it, learning to pray, "Lord, Your will be done," and truly mean it.

We moved to North Carolina for relief from harsh winter weather (among other things, but yes).  This past January, I spent two weeks in Minneapolis, which was quite a paradox.  Move from Illinois to North Carolina to escape winter weather, and then go to Minnesota for January.  If you've ever been in Minnesota in January, you will know what I am talking about.  If not, you probably think you know, but don't quite.

After I returned from Minneapolis, we found ourselves needed in Cleveland for a week.  Shawn, who had been at home in North Carolina the whole time I was in Minnesota, found himself shocked by the chill of Ohio.  I, on the other hand, appreciated how, although Cleveland was cold and gray, it was still possible to walk the dog on a leash outside.

Winter comes every year, always reminding us that life is hard and nature is harsh.  Winter is a kind of death symbol, a season when light, warmth and growth recede in the face of brittle ice and lengthy nights.

The years of our life are seventy,
or even by reason of strength eighty;
yet their span is but toil and trouble;
they are soon gone and we fly away.
~Psalm 90:10

"In this world you will have trouble," said Jesus. "But take heart!  For I have overcome the world."
~John 16:33

He has overcome.  In Him, we can have peace (also from John 16:33).

We can have peace because when we fly away, we have a destination.

"Let not your hearts be troubled.  Believe in God; believe also in me.  In my Father's house are many rooms.  If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?  And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also."
~John 14:1-3

If then you have been raised with Christ,
seek the things that are above, 
where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.
Set your minds on things that are above,
not on things that are on earth.
For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.
When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with Him in glory.
~Colossians 3:1-4

So we do not lose heart.
Though our outer self is wasting away,
our inner self is being renewed day by day.
For this light and momentary affliction
is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory
beyond all comparison,
as we look not to the things that are seen,
but to the things that are unseen.
For the things that are seen are transient,
but the things that are unseen are eternal.
~2 Corinthians 4:16-18

We were not made for death.  We were made for life, and God holds out to us the nail-scarred hands of Jesus, dripping with His priceless blood that opens to us the floodgates of the water of life.  True life is on the other side of this existence, but without faith we cannot lay hold of it.

Without faith, we will never receive eternal life.  And faith comes from God; it is His gracious gift, offered freely to all who will believe.  How does this even work?  We need faith in order to believe, and we must believe in order to receive the gift of faith.  It's a complete paradox, an unsolvable riddle, but the answer must lie in God Himself.

God is the Source of everything and He holds all things together (Colossians 1:16-17).  Everything comes from Him.  We come from Him.  And our faith comes from Him.  In our own frame of reference, with our limited powers of perceiving and understanding, it seems that we make the choice to believe and follow Him, and so we do.  But every right step we ever take, we take only because He first ordained it.  We can do no right thing outside of His grace.  I'm not even sure whether we can do any wrong thing outside of His grace, but I am absolutely not qualified to get into that.

All I know is that our hope is in Him, and He promises us an eternal future of glory that surpasses our wildest imagination.

Our hope is in Him.  On Him we have set our hope (2 Corinthians 1:10).

He is merciful in love.

He is almighty in power.

He is steadfast in faithfulness.

I pray that God, the source of hope, 
will fill you completely with joy and peace.
Then you will overflow with confident hope,
through the power of the Holy Spirit.
~Romans 15:13

I know I keep coming back to this, but I need to.