From the Dungeon

I find myself back there again today - back in that miry dungeon of sin and death. As I come to my senses and ask myself how I got here, the pieces start coming back to me, and eventually I remember.

I remember that desperate feeling that life isn't fair. I remember diving headlong into it, ranting about how cruel God is to withhold this happiness from me - this happiness which is my birthright which He holds just out of my reach.

You see, I'm short - I've been short ever since 8th grade. That's the year I returned from summer break and found that the boys I had teased endlessly with names like "shorty" had shot up far above my head to eternally unattainable heights. Their retribution then - and today, truth be told - was to remind me of my place by holding something precious to me inches above my highest finger reach. (Confession: I find myself occasionally seeking catharsis today by doing such things to my itsy bitsy niece and nephew.)

And this is what I began accusing God of doing: holding this precious item - this happiness I knew I deserved - mere inches outside my furthest reach. What this precious item is today is quite irrelevant to the story - it's a different idol in each life season, but the story is always the same. The teenage temper tantrum is always the same.

It's in this crisis moment of selfish angst that an intersection appears in the road I'm traveling. An opportunity arises to leave my withholding Father behind and become (deludedly) master of my own fate once more. So I take the road I know so well - the wide road, the old road, the path of ego stroking and personal happiness. I throw off the constricting yoke of selfless niceties and choose to go out and get that happiness that God has been keeping from me all along.

What happens next I don't need to describe in detail to you. You've been there, you know it well. Selfishness becomes a type of anesthesia and I am pleased as punch until its effects wear off. That is when I wake to find myself in the dungeon. That is when I realize that this journey of freedom has ended - as it always has and always does and always will - in the same old captivity. My journey for happiness has brought me to a dungeon of worthlessness and filthiness and shame. These same old tormentors - the same old sicknesses that gave me my old battle wounds - these are what I find every time.

What shortsighted forgetfulness this is that does not remember that it was this old well-worn path & these old well-known enemies that broke me and cut me and shattered my soul in days gone by, in battles of old. What shortsighted forgetfulness this is that does not remember the price paid to purchase my freedom and defeat my shame and cleanse and restore my soul. What a broken captive I must be - I, who was freed forever from the power of the enemy but return to his dungeon willingly time after time. What lies must have been infused into my old soul-fractures to draw me back to the home of my original injury.

And yet back I go. Back to the dungeon that Christ rescued me from 24 years ago and 2016 years ago and before the dawn of time when He predestined me for the great Salvation He was planning. Here I am, forgetfully asking, Who will rescue me from this body of death?

When I awake in the dungeon, I have two choices. I can wallow in it and spend the day allowing the lies of worthlessness and filthiness and shame into the depths of my soul. Or I can cry out to my deliverer. Today, I chose the latter. Today - perhaps for the first time - I realized I haven't time to waste in a dungeon.

And because "The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold," and because "I call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised, and I am saved from my enemies," He answered me. The God I had accused of injustice and whose ways I had rejected as withholding came to my aid. He didn't bring armies or trumpets, or earthquakes and fire and hailstones like he does in Psalm 18. He brought a wedding photo.

For that is what Revelation 19 is: it is a photo album from the future - from my future. And when I look at it I know - no matter what I do, no matter how many times or how often or how violently I return to my dungeon of sin - in the end, God will clothe me in white and love me forever. No matter how long I have steeped in this mire of worthlessness and filthiness and shame, I will be cleansed of it all forever and exchange it for blamelessness before His eyes, declared worthy of His eternal love. This is my soul's reward. This God's eternal devotion to an enduringly unfaithful me - this delightful impossibility - this has become my birthright.

And now, with my perspective altered, my eyes are opened and the imagined shackles fade away. It turns out the cell door had never been locked: I had no captor but myself. I had chased illusions of happiness and ended up in an idle, disabled prison, chained by my own self pity. I had been tortured by my own inner brokenness - echoes of captivity past. But now, my true freedom is realized as I am restored to reality - real freedom to walk with God along this new, narrower road of life. Freedom to live for something bigger & Greater than myself.

This, too, is my birthright. Perhaps it is not so far outside my reach.

Not By My Clinging

I don’t know about you, but I have a great propensity to rely heavily on the temporary and fallible. I like to park on sinking sand. And I’ve been around long enough to know instinctively that such things tend to let me down, so what do I do? I develop contingency plans: if this place where I’m standing begins to give way, I’ll just hop on over to that place. And what is that place made of? More sinking sand. So the general pattern of my life, if watched in fast-forward, is a frantic hopping from sand to sand to sand. 

I have also added rotten limbs to my repertoire. If I spot my sand sinking, I can jump up and grab hold of something just as fragile and swing down to another patch of sand just as the limb breaks from the tree. 

Essentially, I’ve created for myself an obstacle course of sinking sands and shaky limbs, and I spend 99% of my emotional energy monitoring the stability of my current support structure and plotting what I will do when it fails. On and on in a vicious cycle. 

Recently, God granted me the great grace of disintegrating my last pile of sand and shattering my last limb. There is nowhere left for me to go. My soul is shouting for a handhold or a foothold, for something tangible to cling to while I wait for something tangible to stand on. And wonder of wonders, He is hearing my shouts. And miracle of miracles, He is answering them. But grace upon grace, His answer is not what I hoped for.

As the obstacle course fades, and every grain of sand sinks from view, and every last limb disappears, reality finally comes into focus and I see what has been here all along. Under each pile of sinking sand, beneath each tree branch, lies one continuous solid layer of rock. I was never in danger of drowning or falling. There has always been rock beneath my feet. I have spent my life running and climbing, searching for the security that was always right here.

And now, as the reality sinks in, there’s nothing left for me to do except collapse on the floor, exhausted. I can make promises to myself, like No more running from sand to sand, No more swinging from limb to limb. I can imagine accomplishing life without a shaky foundation. 

In this moment, I am secure. I’ve nothing to stand on, and nothing to cling to, but - good news! - it is not by my clinging that I am made secure. 

And this Rock is not a consolation prize. It’s not the dregs left to those of us who haven’t a tangible rock. It’s the foundation for which we all were designed.

So set aside your insecurity. Plant your feet. Stand up. There’s work to be done.

Nevertheless

If there is one thing about my Creator that always catches me off-guard, no matter how frequently and elaborately He reminds me of it, it is this: He always knows exactly what I need.

Today is a huge-flashing-neon-sign reminder of this, because today, I needed a migraine – and that is exactly what I got. Without boring you with the back story, understand that in the last few months, my life has gone into upheaval (the good kind), and I have run myself ragged with all kinds of wonderful things.

And then out of the blue, I found myself with most of a free Saturday – a Saturday I intended to fill with errands and chores. But this morning, when my alarm went off to start my busy day of freedom, I had the worst migraine I've ever experienced.

There's not much to do when light and sound are unbearable – but I remembered that the Bible app on my phone will read the Bible aloud to me. I was way behind on my Bible reading, having prioritized incorrectly when my life went into upheaval, so I asked my Bible app to read to me, closed my eyes, and listened.

For hours.

After listening to bits of 1 Timothy and some Psalms, half of Ecclesiastes, and a good 75% of Nehemiah, I realized that this was exactly what I needed: time in silence listening to God's Word. And with my life organized the way it is, there was essentially one way God was going to get me here – a migraine.

And so, because God is the sovereign, magnificent Provider that He is, His gracious hand gave me a migraine so painful that I would have no choice but to sit in silence and listen.

And that is when He brought me to one of my favorite chapters in the entire Bible - Nehemiah 9.

I challenge you, right now, to drop what you're doing and read Nehemiah 9... and then read it again. And anytime you crave a love story, read Nehemiah 9. And anytime you wonder if God is really a loving God, read Nehemiah 9. And anytime you wonder whether God is listening to your cries, whether God is really there with you, whether God could possibly care about a sinner like yourself, read Nehemiah 9.

Nehemiah 9 is one of the most concise yet heartrendingly-beautiful descriptions of the interplay between God's faithfulness to the Israelites and their faithlessness towards Him.

The chapter starts out with a description of the many extravagant things God did for His people: His delivery from Egypt, His protection in the wilderness, His victory over their enemies, His presence on Mount Sinai, and His constant, unabated provision. And then comes the most heartbreaking word in the Old Testament: but. Some version of this negative occurs 11 times in this chapter: but, yet, nevertheless. And it always indicates something contrary to logic – the occurrence of something that ought never to have happened.

Seven times, this ridiculous but precedes an Israelite rebellion. Far too many times in the Old Testament, the Israelites defied logic and betrayed the One who had saved them. Over and over, these chosen people, these redeemed few, covered their blessedness in shame and filth, spitting in the face of the God who had come down to rescue them.

Nevertheless, it is the other four instances of this illogical word that lends it its beauty. For every time Israel sinned and rightly suffered for it, God returned to redeem her from the pain she had earned by her rebellion.

It is these buts and yets that get us through the darkness that is all around us.

Every time I fall short, every time I cover my blessedness with shame and filth, I remember this but: “But you are a God ready to forgive, gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and did not forsake them.” (17) And neither will He forsake me.

Whenever I have dug myself a pit I cannot climb out of, I remember this yet: “Yet when they turned and cried to you, you heard from heaven, and many times you delivered them according to your mercies.” (28) And just as He heard them from their endless pit of rebellion, He will hear me and answer me – and He will do so according to His endless mercies.

If ever I am distressed over the impending fate of a lost soul I hold dear, I remember this, the most beautiful nevertheless; “Nevertheless, in your great mercies you did not make an end of them or forsake them, for you are a gracious and merciful God.” (31) For though I know His justice is perfect, I know His grace is powerful enough, even for those I deem hopelessly lost.

And if ever there comes a time when I doubt He is worthy of my reliance, if He will in fact hear me and forgive me and redeem His lost, I remember this yet: “Yet you have been righteous in all that has come upon us, for you have dealt faithfully and we have acted wickedly.” (33) For how dare I doubt His faithfulness to me! Even if I were to live as long as the Israelite nation endured in rebellion and fail as many times as they failed, He would still remain faithful to me. He would still forgive me each and every time, no matter how often. He would still hear me, no matter how deep the pit I had dug. And He will continue to redeem the lost, no matter how impossible it may seem for Him to do so.

And, because I am unlikely to change any time soon, He will continue to drag me to my knees whenever I have forgotten to kneel – for this is exactly what I need.

Forgetful

I have been working my way through the book of Mark, and this morning I read chapter 8. This chapter starts out with the story of Jesus feeding the four thousand. I started reading it and realized, I have read this story very recently. After a few seconds' thought, I flipped back a few pages in my Bible – two, to be exact – and there, two chapters earlier, in Mark 6, is the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand. Ok, I thought, that explains why it feels so very recent, and I kept reading. What I read next blew my mind, for I had never read it in this light before. Here is what I found: when Jesus expressed concern for the hungry crowd who had lingered for three days without food, his disciples responded, “How can one feed these people with bread here In this desolate place?” (Mk 8:4).

I had to read it several times to be sure my eyes were not deceiving me. Mere days after Jesus miraculously fed five thousand people with five loaves of bread and two fish, his disciples haven't the faintest idea how he is going to feed these four thousand people. Even after witnessing His miraculous provision first-hand, they worry. It isn't even a situation requiring different provision from before, or more provision than before. In both situations, Jesus must make much out of little, and this second situation actually requires less.

I began to grow irritated with the disciples – I wanted to dash back in time and shake them, yelling, “He just fed five thousand, you idiots! Have you forgotten what He has done? Don't you see what He can do?”

And then, in a flash, I realized why I was so irritated with them - their failure is an exact mirror image of my own.

There aren't many things more humbling than being in the throes of righteous indignation, only to realize I am exactly as guilty as the victims of my rage. (Log, splinter, etc.)

These disciples had witnessed God's provision first-hand; so have I.

These disciples immediately forgot God's provision and began again to worry about the exact same things as before; I have done the same.

It is for this reason that Jesus' words later in Mark 8 hit me hard. You see, the disciples failed again later in that very chapter. After Jesus fed the four thousand - with food to spare - and after a brief discourse with some angry Pharisees, He and the disciples got on a boat. The disciples had only one loaf of bread between them, and began to fret about their hunger.

And Jesus, aware of this, said to them, “Why are you discussing the fact that you have no bread? Do you not yet perceive or understand? Are your hearts hardened? Having eyes do you not see, and having ears do you not hear? And do you not remember? When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you take up?” They said to him, “Twelve.” “And the seven for the four thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you take up?” And they said to him, “Seven.” And he said to them, “Do you not yet understand?” (Mark 8:17-21)

These words shoot straight into my heart. I am so blind to His past provision – so distracted by my current want and my future worry - that I act as if I have never witnessed His provision first-hand. What pain it must have brought Jesus when His disciples did not understand! And what pain it must bring Him now when I do not remember!

Lord, I have been a forgetful fool. Thank you for your enormous patience, and for feeding me in spite of my unbelief.

 

Good to Be Alive

Today I attended a funeral for a man who was so very dear to so very many. His death came as no surprise, because he was 91 and his health had been failing, but that isn't what made today easier. Today was easier – joyful, even – because right now this man is face-to-face with his Savior, and, in the words of my pastor, “more alive than he has ever been.”

As I left the church and started my drive home, I was so caught up in my audiobook that I almost didn't see it. Looking back, I am actually rather annoyed with myself that it took me so long to notice it. It wasn't something shocking, it wasn't something out of the ordinary. In fact, that is probably why I didn't see it – it was hiding behind its ordinariness.

It wasn't an oncoming car I didn't see. It wasn't something or someone in the road I nearly missed. It was simple beauty. Simple, ordinary, everyday beauty. For some reason unbeknownst to me, God chose to make this day – this July day in Ohio – beautiful. The writer in me wants to call it extraordinarily beautiful, but that would do it a disservice. It was simply beautiful.

The sun was shining high in the sky, and had chased away every cloud from the horizon. It was a balmy 73 degrees – the right temperature for driving with windows rolled down. There were birds, but no mosquitoes. There was green and bright blue. It was simply beautiful.

So I decided to roll down my window and listen to some tunes. I entered my “Favs” playlist and hit “Shuffle.” Then my iPod played the perfect song - “It's Good to Be Alive” by Jason Gray. The chorus goes like this:

“I wanna live like there's no tomorrow,

Love like I'm on borrowed time.

It's good to be alive.”

Immediate car-dancing and shout-singing commenced. The song was on repeat for about 20 minutes, so I sang and sang and sang about how good it is to be alive.

Then I started thinking about the first time I'd heard this song. It came on the radio many months ago and absolutely tore me up. I was driving then, too, and had slowly started crying. Those were not the same tears that came to my eyes today when I realized how good it is to be alive. They were tears of pain and disbelief – because I was thoroughly convinced that it could not possibly be good for me to be alive.

I don't remember what pain I was enduring at that moment, but I do know it was intense. Even in moments without pain, rare though they may be in this world, I have always felt an intense craving for my Final Destination. My heart has long echoed Paul's sentiments, “to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Phil 1:21). So how could this song possibly be true for me?

God has brought me through an immense amount of personal growth since that day. He has brought the words of this song alive and shown me that they are, indeed, true. I do not crave my Final Destination any less, but I do intend, in the meantime, to live. I intend to “live like there's no tomorrow and love like I'm on borrowed time.” I intend to use what breath I have left to praise the Creator for the beauty of His creation. And I intend to arrive Home breathless and exhausted from running the whole length of the expanse between here and there, no matter how long it may be.

It is, indeed, good to be alive. Thank you, Dale, for living out this truth every day. I envy you, sir, for your race is finished, and mine has only just begun.

Destined to Grieve

Everyone has that one weakness – that earthly thing they hold most dear. It is this weakness that is frequently threatened. The cosmos collaborates to give a paper-cut and then pour continuous streams of lemon juice on it.

For me, that weakness is people. Relationships are what I live for. I have family, best friends who are close, best friends who are distant, close friends, and distant friends. I have so, so many people. And I love them all dearly.

And yet, time after time, they are threatened. Some grow ill; some grow ill and die. Some merely move far, far away. Others stay geographically close, and yet grow more distant than some who have moved far, far away.

This is a common theme of my life, and from what I know of humanity and this world we live in, I would guess it may also be a theme of yours.

Upon realizing that this theme will continue indefinitely, we may either hide ourselves forever from all deep attachments with our fellow man, or we curse ourselves with inevitable grief.

I am destined to grieve.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I cannot live life with mere superficial attachments. I cannot coast from friendship to friendship without investing myself in others. I cannot withdraw my friendship at whim and place it elsewhere. So instead I must open myself up to pain. I must invest in people and put trust in them - not all of it, not too much even, just some. And then they will inevitably do what people do – what even I am so very guilty of doing. They will leave or forget or break trust or give up on me, and my heart will be in a state of shambles for the millionth time. Indeed, shambles seems to be my heart's state of residence.

But so be it. This destiny is far preferable to the self-inflicted loneliness that is the only other option.

So far, God has prevented my defense mechanisms from building up too much callousness within my heart. This means that each infliction of pain is not less intense, nor the damage less severe. The urge to run always pops up, and as soon as it is denied it is replaced by the depression that wishes never to feel anything ever again and the cynicism that is convinced the pain will never end. And there is nothing quite so lonely as the cynical depression that comes out of relationship failure.

But then, I hear the most patient of voices saying to me, “My child, if I can provide for your physical needs - if I can give you food and shelter, employment and financial stability out of thin air, can I not also provide for your emotional needs? Can I not heal wounds and close distances? Am I not the creator and inventor of all relationships? Am I not trustworthy? So why do you fret? Ask me and know I will answer you. Surrender your arrogant striving.”

And that is when I realize how foolish I have been to make these human relationships more important than my relationship with their Inventor. I have made these gifts more important than the Giver. I have made these creations more important than their Creator. How painful it must have been for Him to hear me tell Him His love was not enough! How foolish I was to cry and pine for love when it was right there with me the whole time! My emotions, my grief, my desire to be loved, are a mere shadow of the grief my Savior feels when I turn my human failure upon Him.

But then, in the throes of despair from my own sorrow and guilt from the sorrow I have caused, God does the most gracious thing a Father could do - He sends me to bed. His words, soothing every dark corner of my battered soul, whisper into the ache of my heart, "All you must do now is go to bed, wake up in the morning, and try again."

So goodnight, grief. I'll see you tomorrow.

Discovery Mode

One thing I absolutely love about my job as a nanny is the opportunity to watch a child learn - to watch her teach herself everything she possibly can, and then fill in the blanks. The ten-month-old I nanny is in what I call discovery mode, and I love watching her gears turn. To my overactive imagination, her inner monologue looks something like this:

What's this? Oh, I know what this is. It does this. And this part over here tastes yummy. I remember that from last time.

Oh, this is new! What happens if I do thi – oo, that was neat. Will it happen again? Yes it will! And again! And again! What if I do it over here? Yes, same results. Over here? Oh, that is different. This is nea-- Oo, look, something else.

This is a fun thing. What does it feel like? What does it sound like against this first thing? What does it taste like? Yum! Can I put the whole thing in my mouth? How about backwards? Sideways? Oh that works better. It has another side over here, and I like it, too. And it has another side over here. I like it. And another side over here. And another side. And a handle. All of these parts are fun. I do not know which I like best. I just hit myself with this part and it felt new. I shall try it again. It felt the same. I shall try to hit myself with the other part. It does not feel different.

I would like to hold this and that in my hand. Is that possible? Yes, but it is very hard. I have managed it and they do not fall, even when I wave my arms like this. Can I now add another thing? Oh, how about that over there? Can I crawl with these two in my hand? Yes, but it is very hard. I have managed it. And now I have so many things in my hands. This is so nea – Oo, look what you have.

I want to touch what you have. Can I touch it here? You said no. How about now? You said no again. Now? You have said no again. Can I touch it over there instead? You said no. Can I touch it with this other hand? No again. With my mouth? No again. Can I hit it? You don't like that either.

Oo, you're giving me something fun to play with! It is so shiny. What does it do? Oh, it does that! Show me again! Oo, that's neat! Can I make it do that? I can't. I can't. I can't. I can! I did it! I did it again! Now I shall do it over and over until nap time because it is new and fun! I shall just keep doing thi – Oo! Look at that!


Some days I wish my life were this simple. Other days I wish my attention span were a little longer than hers is. Not making much progress the - Oo! Look at that!