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!

The Worst Season of All

This has been a season of goodbyes. It started, as it often does, with a graduation. Some of my friends were seniors in college this year, and the beginning of May brought their time in the area to an accomplished close. Summer is also travel season, and it brings several dear friends and family into town – and then right back out. Life itself brings with it continuous, annoyingly reliable change, and it has moved some dear friends further away than I would like. Most unwelcome of all was the extraction of my “baby” brother from my local life, as he is fully engaged in the process of striking out on his own as a fully-educated, extremely talented adult. (I am excruciatingly proud of him – I only wish I could be proud from less than 5 hours away.)

I hate goodbyes. They signify the absolute worst kind of change – the kind of change that hinders my relationships. I am extremely fond of my relationships, and fonder still of the people inside them. I love regular face time with my people – even though “regular” ranges from semi-monthly to several times a week. The absolute biggest disaster – the force most capable of upending my life – is that which puts those I see regularly far enough away that this becomes impossible. (I know I am not alone in this sentiment.)

And yet they continue. Time after time, month after month, year after year, people leave. And each farewell stings just a little bit more – each loss is placed on a growing pile of similar losses, some still tender because they have not yet had time to heal. As time passes, I find myself tempted to give in to the bitterness that stalks my heart. I have grown so tired of these goodbyes that when I learned of the most recent departure, there was a whisper deep in my heart that said, “Of course he's leaving – everyone leaves.” It was the desperate cry of a hurting heart that wants, more than anything, never to hurt again. The pain was eager to harden my heart to those I love most, refusing to let them close enough to hurt me when they – inevitably – leave.

For the briefest moment, I considered it. But then, without a second thought, I cast it away forever, for I realized that, despite how great this pain may be, the joy brought by the closeness and dearness of these relationships is far greater.

More importantly, I think it's time for me to have a little more faith – not in the whole of humanity, not even in the “goodness” of those I love – but in the God who gave them to me, the God who takes them away. It is when I begin to think of these people as mine and of my happiness as pivotal that everything comes unraveled. Instead, it is time for me to realize that God has a plan for something bigger than my relational satisfaction, and He intends to use these wonderful people I dearly love to enact it. It is time for me to trust in God to take care of me, even when it appears as if He is taking away those who made me feel most cared-for, and to hope that, perhaps, He may yet let me keep some of them. Even amidst the goodbyes, it is time for me to make new friends, to deepen the friendships I have, and to invest myself entirely in those around me, no matter how long they may remain nearby.

“We shall draw nearer to God, not by trying to avoid the sufferings inherent in all loves, but by accepting them and offering them to Him; throwing away all defensive armour. If our hearts need to be broken, and if He chooses this as the way in which they should break, so be it.” – C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

There are two dear friends – one near, one very far away – who have helped me cope with this season of goodbyes, along with many others who keep the lonelies away. To you I owe a great chunk of my current sanity. Thank you. Of course, without the constancy of my Almighty Creator, Redeemer, and Friend, I would be but a tear-drenched heap on the floor. It is You I need close to me, it is Your face I must see each day, and it is only You who will never leave me for something better.

Musings on Paper

Forgive me, as this blog is entirely off-topic, but I think it's time for some lighter material.

Currently, my mind is on paper – both literally and figuratively. I just spent several hours pouring my heart into my journal. When I was finished filling 13 pages, I stuck the journal back into my bag, where it is currently keeping the company of a second journal, three paperback books, an NIV Bible, and my planner. Also in my immediate possession are one laptop, one iPhone, and one iPod touch – devices capable of storing and accessing infinitely more information than these 7 items contain, in a fraction of the space. In fact, most of what I have in paper format I also have in digital format – right here, at this precise moment. So why do I bother to bring anything besides my electronics with me? Why do I insist on reading a paper Bible, instead of reading from my Bible app, or even reading the Bible online? Why do I refuse to buy kindle copies of new books, and instead insist on the paperback? Why do I insist on journaling in a paper journal, instead of typing my words into a Word document? And why, oh why, do I even possess a paper copy of my calendar, when exactly the same information is contained in my iPhone calendar?

I cannot adequately explain the need for a paper planner. My life has suddenly gotten much busier (because God provided a full-time job for me), and I have a kajillion things to keep straight. I guess I'm so busy that the iPhone calendar provides an insufficient visual image of just how busy I am. I like to be able to glimpse my whole crazy week in a single moment, as opposed to <swipe><swipe><swipe>. That, and I don't trust technology with something so critical as my schedule.

As for journaling, well that part makes sense. There is just something so wholesome – so real – about putting a pen to paper and creating words where there were never words before. There is something so freeing in seeing a literary work of art – or even just a simple letter to a friend – in one's own handwriting. There is magic in using my own hand to design the curvature of the letters that frame my inmost thoughts – for that is how I learned to love to write.

The natural human desire for tangible permanency leaks into my passion for paper books. I like to feel the paper that contains these words – words some author spent sleepless nights and frustrated hours perfecting just for me. I like to see the thick stack of pages I've already consumed, and the hopefully smaller stack of pages I have ahead of me. I like to flip easily back a few pages, to where I used a physical pen to make a personal note, without fearing I'll lose my spot. And that act of using my own hand to comment on another's work and mark the parts I absolutely adore makes me feel more alive than <menu><highlight><yellow><note><yes><"I wish this were made of paper">.

And then you've the issue of distraction. I can give my whole attention to this book without fearing it will start vibrating or flashing memos across the top. Don't get me wrong – I am tethered to my phone because of its practical necessity. But I am not fond of this necessity. I am ever so fond of reading. And there are times when I want to forget the world that is contained in my little Apple task master and immerse myself in literature without being reminded of the meeting tomorrow or the likability of my most recent facebook status.

And there's something so final – so permanent – about reading a paper Bible. The words on page 972 will still be there tomorrow, and they will be exactly the same. I need not rely on internet connectivity or the whimsy of an Apple device in order to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that God loved me so much that He sent His only son to save me. It's right there, on page 972. And it will be there, rain or shine, winter and summer, blackout or zombie apocalypse... though in a blackout I would have to use the light from my iPhone to read it.

So I shall continue carrying my giant bag with my laptop and several books. Life is just better with paper in it. So, all in all, I guess I'm thankful for trees. 

Victory Amidst Defeat

Discouragement is one of the concepts that crosses all sectors of humanity. It's the result of being human in a broken world. So, because I inhabit planet Earth, I've experienced my fair share. I won't for a moment pretend that the situations that have brought about my discouragement would even register on the tragedy scale – but as I've explained before, my heart is frail anyway.

In my short life, I've experienced discouragement ranging from mild to severe on several occasions. Some was the direct result of a life happenstance, some was mere emotional turmoil – a gift from my enemy. Typically, this discouragement is confined to one realm of my life and does not bleed into the others, making it easier to handle.

Recently, an onslaught of discouragement afflicted all three major realms of my life simultaneously – Logistical Trivialities (into which my employment falls), Personal Relationships, and Ministry. Immediately after the last discouraging puzzle piece slid into place, I flew into my bed and vowed to stay there until God finally saw fit to take me Home.

There's really no way to describe what happened next. It consisted of many tears and much prayer. I said a lot and heard very little in return. I called up the Prayer Troops and begged for their intercession. There was a fair amount of bargaining, and some begging for time to rewind. The bottom had dropped out; life was unraveling; I had become a messy puddle of a person.

Then God blessed me with sleep. And when I awoke – whether the result of mental recalibration or the prayers of my prayer warriors, I shall never know – peace was mine once again. Mental clarity ruled, and for a brief instant I recalled the blubbering fool I had been less than an hour before. That Past Nora was not a Victorious Nora; that was a Defeated Nora. But defeat is not one of the fruits of the Spirit, nor is it a characteristic of a child of God. My flesh had won – but now I was on to it. Now I was aware of its little game.

So I have vowed never to let myself be so defeated again. I won't be arrogant enough to vow never to be at all defeated, because unless sweet relief from life comes this instant, that vow will soon be broken. But I will not surrender as easily next time. Next time I fly to my bed, it will be because something far worse has happened to me than has ever happened to me before. And next time I meet this same amount of discouragement, I will blubber for a shorter amount of time and waste fewer words in bargaining. And if I am made to live long enough and endure enough disappointment, one day I will experience complete victory over the urge to fly to my bed and blubber and bargain. One day I hope to meet discouragement head-on – unflinchingly.

Until then, Lord, I ask only for victory amidst this defeat.

Ever Weaker

There are a couple modern science-fiction stories featuring a giant spider – a spider so big that it could lift even a hefty human off the ground. Such spiders do not exist in the real world – which is fortunate, because if they did I would have sealed myself into a concrete bunker years ago. Recently, however, I have realized that I treat several of my problems like fictitious giant spiders.

In my last post, I compared my biggest fears in life to spiders – tiny, fragile creatures next to God's giant steel-toed boot. If God is as powerful as the Bible says He is, then He is able to crush them as easily and as swiftly as a boot crushes a spider. I am fully convinced that God could handle even a tarantula of problems without any struggle whatsoever.

But recently, I have found myself beginning to believe that giant spiders exist – spiders larger than life, against which God may struggle in His fight. Take my employment, for example: I'm a Registered Nurse who graduated from school in 2010, and I've had zero experience since. As I feared, this makes finding employment rather difficult. So I have begun to doubt that I will be able to find a nursing job. God is powerful, of course; but this is a giant spider problem. So if nursing was in the plan, I had to take action. Knowing I am too tiny to help fight this giant spider, I looked around for ways to shrink it. First, I lowered my expectations and started looking around for a less-enjoyable, less-skilled position. And then, when that didn't work because I found myself still so very unqualified, I started looking around for ways to make myself appear more qualified. Now we would have a more manageable, tarantula-sized problem. These, of course, are not wholly unnecessary courses of action, but stick with me and you will see my error.

I approached God again, this time with a smaller problem. I said, “God, last time I was here I asked too much from you by asking you to fight a giant spider, so I totally understand why you didn't come through. But now, all I want is for you to take care of this tarantula.”

This is when I was slapped in the face by the Holy Spirit. He got my attention, and when He was sure I was listening, He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor 12:9).

Giant spiders do not exist, either in real life or in metaphorical terms. There is no spider that could pick me up and carry me off; neither is there any problem I could ever face that would make my God break a sweat. With God fighting for me, even I am not too unqualified to find a nursing job. He may ask me to settle for a less awesome position or pursue further training, but it will not be because He is unable to succeed otherwise.

Many times over the last several months, I have uttered the phrase, “I don't know whether God will do this, but I know He can.” God's answer has been, “Do you?” He has challenged me to believe fully that He can do all things. And I issue this challenge to all of you.

I don't know what God has in store for me, but whatever it is, it will not be a second-rate future that He settled upon because the other futures were impossible to acquire. My God is bigger than everything – all of it, all at the same time. Whatever your situation, God is bigger. Whatever your burden, God is stronger. He is bigger than death – even death of your dearest. He is bigger than illness – even incurable cancer and AIDS. He is bigger than divorce. He is bigger than same-sex attraction. He is bigger than unemployment. He created this entire massive universe, after all. Your plight cannot overwhelm Him - He can squash it like a bug.

This does not mean He certainly will. But don't for one second stop asking Him to help you – and don't let the deceiver convince you that He can't.

“Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor 12:9-10). Today, I am content with my under-qualification, and I will not stop setting my sights ever higher. Lord, make me ever weaker, so that when I succeed, the world will know I did not do it on my own.

Spiders and Fuzz

Spiders freak me out. I have an irrational fear of tiny eight-legged creatures who are so fragile I have managed to kill a few accidentally. It's one of those fears that cannot be rationalized away, try as I might. If I live to be ninety, I will be a tiny ninety-year-old woman who can't kill a spider without wearing four flip flops, counting herself down, and smashing the poor spider three or more times, just to be sure it's really dead. And I'm sure the victory dance will still be as loud and dramatic as it is today.

Sometimes, this fear of spiders causes me to experience mild paralysis and elevated heart rate at the sight of a cleverly-disguised ball of fuzz. Without my contacts in, these wads of fabric become very convincing spiders. I often wonder whether the spiders who live in my walls spend hours contriving these practical jokes and then sit back and watch me freak out. I can't say I'd blame them – I'm sure it's quite a sight to behold.

I wish I could say spiders and fuzz are the only causes for mild paralysis and elevated heart rate. Being a worrier, I often worry myself into full-blown fear. Listing all the causes of such fear would take way too long, and would actually be quite unnecessary. With the possible exception of the irrational spider fear, the rest all have one common factor: I don't trust God enough to take care of ___. Usually, that blank contains the word “me.” Occasionally, it contains the name of a friend or family member I'm afraid of losing in one way or another, or who happens to be going through a tough time. This lack of trust in God makes all of my fears irrational fears – no different from my fear of tiny arachnids, and no less ridiculous than my fuzz paralysis. These situations I experience are mere fuzz in comparison with God's power. Even the more serious circumstances are tiny spiders next to a giant steel-toed boot. Even if I were to meet the tarantula of problems – the death of a loved one, poverty, cancer – God is big enough to squash it like a bug. “So we say with confidence, 'The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me?'” (Heb 13:6, NIV).

So even if I live the rest of my life petrified of spiders, I should be able to handle real life with grace and dignity – for what can mere spiders and fuzz do to my God?