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.