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.