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!

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?

Not Alone

"...Our whole being by its very nature is one vast need; incomplete, preparatory, empty yet cluttered, crying out for Him who can untie things that are now knotted together and tie up things that are still dangling loose." -- C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

It's such a relief to know that I am not alone in feeling so desperate for God.

Standing Still

I don't cope well with change. I've lived in the same county since I was three years old. I've had the same best friend since I was … three years old. I've never lived more than fifteen minutes away from my parents. I held my first job for six years. And a few months ago when I got my hair cut shorter than it's ever been before, I had a mild panic attack. So you can imagine how I felt when the family whose nanny I had been since January moved out of state last month.

The first emotion I felt when I found out they were moving was grief: these two little girls I love to pieces were going somewhere I wouldn't see them every day. But on the occasions when the sadness took a break, I felt the panic setting in.

Being a control freak, I like to be prepared for everything that happens to me. I like to have plans A, B, and C in place, with a few more back-up plans prepared for each extenuating circumstance. I mentally prepare myself for each alternative. My strategies are organized flow-chart-style: If x is true, enact Plan A; if y is true, enact Plan B; if z is true, run away screaming. And so on.

I had no plan in place for being out of a job.

So I began planning. I considered all my options. I weighed each alternative. I set deadlines for myself. And I asked God to initial my proposal. His answer was an emphatic “No.”

So I went back to the drawing boards. I came up with different options, different methods, and a different time line. This time, I was hopeful that I would find approval. Again, God's answer was “No.”

Let me clarify what I mean by that. I didn't hear God say “No.” I didn't even encounter opposition that made me question myself. But every time I told God what I planned to do to amend my circumstances, I immediately felt uneasy. And even when I adjusted my methods, the uneasiness did not diminish. Each time, I thought I had come up with the wrong plan. But no plan I presented was met with approval.

Very gradually, I began to discover my error: I was taking control. I thought that if I didn't do something – if I didn't provide a solution – that no solution would be found.

My conversations with God began to take on a different tone, and slowly I felt Him whispering to me, “Do you trust Me?” Broken-hearted, I realized my answer was “No” – I had not been trusting Him.

After all He has done for me, I still think I can do better. After all He has taught me, I still think I know best. After all of the events in my life that seemed like disasters have been intricately woven into a beautiful tapestry of love and provision, I doubt He can provide for me.

That was a hard pill to swallow.

So now my methods are different. With strenuous effort, I am following the advice Samuel gave the Israelites: “Stand still and see this great thing the Lord is about to do before your eyes!” (1 Sam 12:16). I have stopped planning, and have begun to let God's plan happen to me. I will remain still until He tells me to move.

The most comforting realization is this: nothing will ever happen to me that catches God off guard or spoils His plans. There is nothing that can cause Him to say, “Oh, shucks. Now I have to go with plan B, and I'm gonna need Nora's help to do it.”

I have now been unemployed for three weeks. Nothing disastrous has happened yet.

Strengthened

I would be the first to admit that I have had an easy life. I grew up in a stable, loving environment. I was given great education. I have been spared great tragedy, and have suffered the loss only of two grandparents and one aunt. I have experienced good health, as have those in my immediate family. I have never gone hungry, never been homeless, never been poor. I do not boast in these things, for they are not of my own doing – rather, they are evidence that God's hand has been upon me since birth. For some reason I have yet to identify, He has seen fit to spoil me with ease.

And yet, in spite of this ease, I find myself - with surprising frequency - crying out like David: “My life is consumed by anguish and my years by groaning; my strength fails because of my affliction, and my bones grow weak.” (Ps 31:10) God has given me a weak heart – one that is constantly over-burdened by the groaning around me. Like any human, I have experienced my share of disappointed dreams. While my tragedies are nothing in comparison with those experienced by others – even others within my zip code – they are the only tragedies I have known. While my worst day is nothing in comparison with most of the rest of the world, I have felt pain that has broken me – pain that has pierced the deepest, softest layers of my well-protected soul. For though God has made my own burdens light, my natural ability to bear them has never been sufficient. My own strength ran out years ago.

In our church culture, it is unpopular to appear weak or broken. Somehow we have convinced ourselves that a relationship with Christ brings only joy and comfort in this life. Perhaps this started as an evangelistic ploy, as part of the “health and wealth Gospel” that was so popular. But now we are buying into it ourselves. Have we forgotten about the forty-two chapters of the book of Job?

God is the God of all comfort (2 Cor 1:3). This fact has become the foundation for the idea that a spoonful of Jesus removes all discomfort from life. Comfort, however, is not exactly the absence of discomfort; rather, comfort joins discomfort to make life more bearable. Life with the God of all comfort is not a life of ease. God can provide relief – He is all-powerful. He can ease our pain or change our circumstances. But sometimes He chooses not to. And who are we to challenge His motives? This was Job's error, and in response to such pride, God said, “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” (Job 38:4)

This pain we experience is an unavoidable fact of life in a fallen world. Some comfort may come from our hopeful future, and this joy amidst suffering is discussed at length in the entry titled Pit of Despair. Yet for many of us, the pain lingers. This is the thorn that remained in Paul's flesh, despite his pleas for its removal (2 Cor 12:7-8).

The song Praise You In This Storm by Casting Crowns describes life with the God of all comfort so beautifully. With tender pain, the song tells the story of mankind – opening their eyes after prayers for relief only to find more rain. The obvious defeat brings tears of remembrance to my eyes each time I hear it – tears that only increase when I hear what comes next: “But as the thunder rolls, I barely hear You whisper through the rain, 'I'm with you.'”

There will be times in life when you feel you can't go on. There will be times when you beg God over and over to remove the thorn from your flesh and He sovereignly, silently refuses. But this God of all comfort does not leave you to languish alone. Instead, He provides the strength to carry on in spite of the pain. The Old Testament is sprinkled with numerous instances where God tenderly promises to strengthen His people. In Isaiah 41, God tells His people, “I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand... For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.” (verses 10b, 13) Most precious to me is Isaiah 46:4 - “Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.” God's strength is not an afterthought – it is His promise to “those whose hearts are fully committed to him.” (2 Chron 16:9)

In the Psalms, God's strength is compared to that of a fortress. “You are my strength... my fortress, my God on whom I can rely.” (Ps 59:17) I love this image. The word “fortress” does not conjure images of peace and restfulness, but rather images of war. In the midst of the longest, hardest, fiercest battle – smack dab in the middle of the action – stands a fortress. Its walls are impenetrable, its doors hold fast. Never in all civilization was a fortress as strong as this constructed by human hands. And inside, weary yet safe, injured yet bandaged, I stand. I cannot rest long, for battle still rages around me. I cannot live like a queen, blissfully ignorant of the realities of my world. My fortress has not removed the actuality of war. Rather, when I stand upon its walls I find strength to fight this battle. And within its walls I find protection from the evil one (2 Thes 3:3), so that when his attacks reach my heart, I know it is not a mortal wound. This is what the God of all comfort is for His people – a refuge and fortress, and strength to fight on.

A few weeks ago I heard a song for the first time at church – a song that caused me to cry a few subtle tears in public, which is something I try to avoid. It's an old hymn that I'm sure many have heard. It has been adapted to modern English by C. Kardinal, and the two verses read like this:

He gives more grace when the burdens grow greater. 
He sends more strength when the labors increase.

To added affliction He adds His mercy.

To multiplied trials, multiplied peace.

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,

When our strength has failed ‘ere the day is half done,

When we reach the end of our hoarded resources,

Our Father’s full giving is only begun.

There have been many days in my vapor of a life when my strength failed me before my feet ever hit the floor. My only hope on those days – and, indeed, on all of the others – was that my Creator lifted me out of bed and carried me in His arms from dawn 'til dusk, and often long past that, until I once again drifted off to sleep. I've made it through the pain, and I still harbor plenty of thorns. These burdens I carry – this weight of the world I continually heap upon my shoulders – feel anything but light. But I must remember that, compared to the sin-laden cross Jesus bore for me, my cross is barely a toothpick.

Pit of Despair

A few months back, I wrote an entry titled Empathetic or Pathetic? These words were the result of a conviction that I was worrying too much, and this worry had started depleting my joy. Since then, I have had frequent, unavoidable contact with the intrusive sufferings of this world. Even when God gave me the grace to fight off worry, life threw real, unimagined suffering in my face. It was as if Satan realized that worry was on its way out, so he devised another plan to steal my joy. As imagined suffering lost its potency, real suffering slammed into my consciousness. Despair ensued.

In one of these despairing moods, I found myself washing dishes. The mundane chore gave my hands something to do while my mind fought the emotional attack. Conscious of very real suffering quite near at hand, I mentally searched through the hundreds of Bible verses I had locked in my memory for a verse that promised reprieve in this life. I found none. The hopelessness deepened as I realized that this specific pain – indeed, all pain felt in this life – has great potential to endure until those who suffer from it leave this world. I was taught long ago that the promise made in Jeremiah 29:11 – a verse often quoted by individuals wishing to claim it today – is a promise specific to Jeremiah. God's plans – plans for prosperity and protection, plans for “hope and a future” – are not universal plans for all of His people. Any story about a modern martyr will tell you that. God never promised ease or comfort this side of heaven.

Wrapping my mind around this fact was extremely difficult. I love God deeply. More than that, God is daily making clear to me the depth of His love for me. Even the suffering I have seen has not shaken the hold His love has on my heart, and for that I am eternally grateful. I am unable to ignore God's love. But neither can I ignore the fact that many suffer – and some suffer for the entirety of this life. Now I am faced with the task of placing these two irrefutable facts side by side and somehow making sense of what seems like a giant contradiction. This task is a weighty one, because many have undertaken it and become unconvinced of the first irrefutable fact – God's love.

The fact of suffering has its origin in the fall of man. When Eve and Adam chose to depart from God's perfect design for humanity, God withdrew His perfect presence from mankind's world, and every fiber of its being began to decay. Their rebellion warranted death, and now our lives are steeped in it. As rejecters of our Creator, we deserve such a fate. In response, we must run from this death toward the Creator we rejected and finally accept His offer of life.

The fact of suffering does not refute the fact of God's love. Instead, this well-earned fate provides the perfect backdrop for this perfect love to evince itself. God Himself came in human form – down into our man-made muck and mire – to provide an escape from our perpetual pain. Through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, we have a promise that a day is coming without any pain or suffering.

So how do we continue here? How do we live well among this suffering now? How do we maintain a constant joy amid so much pain? Jesus spoke of life more abundant – did He speak only of suffering well until death provides relief?

Paul spoke often of joy amidst his suffering (2 Cor 7:4; 8:2). James even goes so far as to say that the two are related: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds.” (Jam 1:2, NIV) Even Jesus, when foretelling the trials His disciples would endure, told them to rejoice (Luke 6:23). Perhaps this life more abundant is joy amidst the pain, not reprieve from it.

Joy is necessary for the life of a believer. It is listed among the fruits of the spirit, coming directly after “love.” Joy is one of the defining characteristics of a person redeemed by the death of Jesus. Joy is what caused the unborn John the Baptist to leap inside his mother's womb in the presence of the unborn Jesus (Luke 1:44). Joy is what the shepherds felt when the skies filled with angels proclaiming the birth of their Savior (Luke 2:10). Joy is the emotion Jesus used to describe the appropriate reaction to finding the kingdom of heaven (Mt 13:20, 44). Joy sets Christians apart from the world – “God, your God, has set you above your companions by anointing you with the oil of joy.” (Heb 1:9) If we are going to wander about on this decaying planet claiming we know the Way, the Truth, and the Life, we'd better have a smile in our hearts that occasionally reaches our faces. No one wants to subscribe to misery.

Joy is possible, even alongside this present suffering. This life doesn't have to be one of misery. Our joy is not dependent on our circumstances. (At this point, I must make note of a slight difference between “joy” and “happiness.” Happiness is a superficial emotion, based primarily upon immediate circumstance. Joy is a foundational emotion, and can be felt alongside sadness, whereas happiness usually cannot.)

Joy amidst suffering is a daily struggle for me. I have a horrible habit of piling burdens too heavy on shoulders too frail. I will not pretend to have mastered this conundrum. Here are just a few helpful tips I have learned along my journey:

We can have joy amidst suffering because of what Jesus has done. He endured the most dramatic suffering – He was beaten and nailed to a tree, an innocent Lamb murdered by those He came to save. In death, He endured separation from the Father, as God ostracized Himself to bestow holiness upon undeserving people. “For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame” (Heb 12:2). He didn't stop there. After three days, Jesus defeated death. This pinnacle of suffering, this power feared by all mankind, was powerless to stop the Son of God from bringing joy to those He loves. All of the words in red ink are precious to me, but perhaps the dearest to my heart are these: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)


We can have joy amidst suffering because of Who Jesus left with us. Jesus has conquered this world and left us with the Holy Spirit – the person, fully God, who lives with each believer. With the Spirit living inside us, the sufferings that we experience allow us to grow. This may not make suffering any more enjoyable, but the big-picture perspective may allow joy to permeate. In the midst of this suffering, the Spirit provides the comfort of direction and correction, as David expressed so beautifully in Psalm 23: “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” On top of the joy that comes from growth, the Holy Spirit, being fully God, has the ability to simply fill us with joy. Several times throughout the New Testament, joy is stated directly alongside the Holy Spirit (Luke 10:21, Acts 13:52, Rom 14:17). In 1 Thessalonians, Paul tells the church that the Holy Spirit can give joy even in suffering: “You became imitators of us and of the Lord, for you welcomed the message in the midst of severe suffering with the joy given by the Holy Spirit.” (1 Thes 1:6)


Finally, we can have joy amidst suffering because of the hope we have for our future. Paul used the words “joyful in hope, patient in affliction.” (Rom 12:12) Jesus said to His disciples, in an attempt to prepare them for His coming absence, “Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.” (John 16:22) This same joy can be ours – joy based on the same hope. Some day unbelievably soon, we will stand or sit or bow at the feet of Jesus, having been redeemed from our well-earned eternal suffering. “Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we boast in the hope of the glory of God.” (Rom 5:1-2) This glory of God which gives us hope is the glory belonging to Jesus that was graciously bestowed upon us at the cross. When your joy is based on this hope, “no one will take away your joy.” (John 16:22). Nothing can separate us from the foundation of this hope – the love of Christ (Rom 8:35, 38-39). His love has provided for us a future without pain – eternity with no tears.


The well-known lyrics to the beloved hymn “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus” lay out these truths much more beautifully than I ever could:

O soul, are you weary and troubled?
No light in the darkness you see?
There’s light for a look at the Savior,
And life more abundant and free!

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.
(Helen H. Lemmel)

In order to have true joy in the face of true suffering, we must maintain a constant understanding that this life is short and its troubles are slight in comparison to the glory that awaits us at its end (2 Cor 4:17). Paul, who suffered much for the cause of Christ – and suffered joyfully – did not consider his trials even worth comparison with the coming glory (Rom 8:18-39). When he did compare the two, he concluded that the things of this present life are rubbish (Phil 3:8). I have never met anyone who has suffered more than the apostle Paul, though I'm sure such a person may exist. However, I am convinced that if Paul managed to suffer his trials joyfully in the light of the glorious future of seeing Jesus, we can endeavor to do the same. Paul may have been extraordinarily blessed by a face-to-face with Jesus on the road to Damascus, but we have been blessed with the Holy Spirit – a direct line to the throne room.

There is no ignoring the fact that on this side of eternity, there's going to be more total brokenness than total healing. “Even in laughter the heart may ache, and the end of joy may be grief.” (Prov 14:13) This fact, though ponderously gloomy, can “grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace.” The Gospel does not promise to eliminate the sufferings of this world, but instead brings joy into its midst.