It hit me yesterday, walking through the city on my way back from church.
I can trust God.
Honestly, I was trying to prevent myself from worrying about the myriad of little details that remain to be set in stone before fall semester hits. Details like finding a second job for the summer, figuring out what housing will look like for the fall, and whether I'll take the train or drive on my weekly commute to school.
Ever the planner, I tried to remind myself that God has this figured out. I know He does, and so I rehearsed over and over in my brain just how that was. He provided a job that exceeded my wildest expectations for summer and fall, let me get my last semester down to 8 credits so this crazy scheme would even work, and, and...
The bottom line was that if God had already started paving the way, surely He was capable of the rest.
I kept walking.
But then, I asked myself a question.
If God had chosen to ask me to move in faith, to arrive in the suburbs without a job, would He still be capable of providing for me, of having a perfect plan? If He had chosen to ask me to go home for the summer with no job prospects at all, clueless about what was coming after graduation, would He still be faithful?
I paused at the cross walk, waiting for the light to turn green.
God is faithful because He is God, isn't He? He defines faithful. He would still be faithful even if I hadn't seen any of these displays of His grace. He sent His Son; that alone is far more than I deserved.
That He should offer these tangible evidences of His plan is not my reason to trust Him. His character is reason enough, and these are His grace to a feeble sinner who cannot in her own spirit muster any faith at all.
I crossed the intersection, finally seeing campus in the distance.
His provision will be perfect. I can depend upon Him for that, can I not? He who is at once the object of faith and the provider of it -- He will be faithful.
Because He is.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
Memories and Grief
Two and a half years ago, my beloved grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
Over Thanksgiving and Christmas, I came face to face with the reality that he no longer knew my name, and I accepted his wordless hugs and joyful tears as the only way he could tell me he loved me.
Today, I grieve once again as I learn that he is going to be placed in a nursing home.
His needs have far exceeded what any of my family could provide at home, and the doctors are surprised he's lived at home as long as he has. His brain no longer communicates properly to his muscles, and I once again weep over the loss of the grandfather I once knew.
Gone are the tractor rides, seated at Grandpa's feet on a paint can. Gone are the Easter Sunday dinners and the picnics at the lake. The mended bicycle tires, the road trips to see cousins, the early morning boat rides, and the hugs after every piano recital -- these memories wash over me in a flood, as I realize that Grandpa doesn't have them anymore.
And, this side of heaven, he won't be getting them back.
I went home for Thanksgiving to make new memories with him, and now, I realize that those opportunities are almost gone. Grandpa won't be at my senior piano recital in the fall, and he won't be at my cousin's wedding this June. He'll still be slipping away, while we look on, helpless to do anything.
I remember when he fixed my bicycle tire all those years ago. He would carefully make a patch, repair the tire, and inflate it. Grandpa could always make it work again, and if he couldn't, he'd just find a new one. I wish I had a patch, a way to fix the problem so we could have him back, just as good as new.
But God does. And He will, someday. I'm on tour with the women's choir this week, and the past two concerts have brought me to tears with this beautiful text:
As I watch him slip away, I am reminded that we "do not grieve as others do who have no hope." (1 Thessalonians 4:13) We look forward to a future redemption, the promise of a new life, the promise of a resurrection, the promise of Jesus.
Over Thanksgiving and Christmas, I came face to face with the reality that he no longer knew my name, and I accepted his wordless hugs and joyful tears as the only way he could tell me he loved me.
Today, I grieve once again as I learn that he is going to be placed in a nursing home.
His needs have far exceeded what any of my family could provide at home, and the doctors are surprised he's lived at home as long as he has. His brain no longer communicates properly to his muscles, and I once again weep over the loss of the grandfather I once knew.
Gone are the tractor rides, seated at Grandpa's feet on a paint can. Gone are the Easter Sunday dinners and the picnics at the lake. The mended bicycle tires, the road trips to see cousins, the early morning boat rides, and the hugs after every piano recital -- these memories wash over me in a flood, as I realize that Grandpa doesn't have them anymore.
And, this side of heaven, he won't be getting them back.
I went home for Thanksgiving to make new memories with him, and now, I realize that those opportunities are almost gone. Grandpa won't be at my senior piano recital in the fall, and he won't be at my cousin's wedding this June. He'll still be slipping away, while we look on, helpless to do anything.
I remember when he fixed my bicycle tire all those years ago. He would carefully make a patch, repair the tire, and inflate it. Grandpa could always make it work again, and if he couldn't, he'd just find a new one. I wish I had a patch, a way to fix the problem so we could have him back, just as good as new.
But God does. And He will, someday. I'm on tour with the women's choir this week, and the past two concerts have brought me to tears with this beautiful text:
There's a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith, we shall see it afar
Where the Father waits over the way
To prepare us a dwelling place there.
In the sweet, by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.
In the sweet, by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.
We shall sing on that beautiful shore
The melodious songs of the blest
And our spirits shall sorrow no more,
Not a sigh for the blessing of rest.
As I watch him slip away, I am reminded that we "do not grieve as others do who have no hope." (1 Thessalonians 4:13) We look forward to a future redemption, the promise of a new life, the promise of a resurrection, the promise of Jesus.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Indiana Jones and chicken noodle soup
I was in the mood for Indiana Jones last night.
My family is bursting into uncontrollable laughter right now, so I suppose I'll have let the rest of you in on an inside joke. As much as I like Indiana Jones, and as much as I enjoy watching a good movie, evenings at home look something like this:
"What movie are we going to watch?"
Dad suggests a John Wayne movie, and I adamantly protest. Movies are art... and early John Wayne films don't quite measure up to the artistic standard buried deep within. (You can debate that point with me later.)
My sister suggests watching "The Great Escape." Mom points out that it's far too long, and we have a history of saying we'll finish the movie another night, and always end up staying up far too late when people have to get up and go to work the next morning. (She words it much more succinctly than that.) I make no protest, because I really don't want to watch it, either.
I go over and look at the movie options. I really don't have any brilliant suggestions.
Then Mom suggests Indiana Jones.
"I'm not in the mood for that!" I protest this time.
"But I thought you liked Indiana Jones."
"I do... really, I do. I'm just not in the mood for it right now."
This conversation happens almost every time. Sometimes, the argument is settled by turning on an episode of NCIS or Star Trek, or an old Don Knotts film... sometimes, we put in Indiana Jones anyhow. The same discussion happens the next time, with always the same response from yours truly. "I'm just not in the mood..."
Last night, while battling sniffles, exhaustion, and low brain power, I flipped through my roommate's movie case to select the requisite mindless entertainment. After bemoaning the fact that she has the second Men in Black movie, and not the first, I finally settled on Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Movie inserted, three brain cells engaged, and I managed to stay awake enough of the evening to make sure I'd sleep through the night.
Maybe it was the fact that the movie was accompanied by chicken soup instead of ice cream, or that my brain couldn't process high-level art. (Although, let's be honest. Indiana Jones does a far better job in that department than John Wayne. Sorry, Dad...) Maybe it was simply exhaustion clouding my vision, or maybe I felt nostalgic.
Or maybe, just maybe, I was right all along, and this is simply my vindication. I do like Indiana Jones.
I just have to be in the right mood. :)
My family is bursting into uncontrollable laughter right now, so I suppose I'll have let the rest of you in on an inside joke. As much as I like Indiana Jones, and as much as I enjoy watching a good movie, evenings at home look something like this:
"What movie are we going to watch?"
Dad suggests a John Wayne movie, and I adamantly protest. Movies are art... and early John Wayne films don't quite measure up to the artistic standard buried deep within. (You can debate that point with me later.)
My sister suggests watching "The Great Escape." Mom points out that it's far too long, and we have a history of saying we'll finish the movie another night, and always end up staying up far too late when people have to get up and go to work the next morning. (She words it much more succinctly than that.) I make no protest, because I really don't want to watch it, either.
I go over and look at the movie options. I really don't have any brilliant suggestions.
Then Mom suggests Indiana Jones.
"I'm not in the mood for that!" I protest this time.
"But I thought you liked Indiana Jones."
"I do... really, I do. I'm just not in the mood for it right now."
This conversation happens almost every time. Sometimes, the argument is settled by turning on an episode of NCIS or Star Trek, or an old Don Knotts film... sometimes, we put in Indiana Jones anyhow. The same discussion happens the next time, with always the same response from yours truly. "I'm just not in the mood..."
Last night, while battling sniffles, exhaustion, and low brain power, I flipped through my roommate's movie case to select the requisite mindless entertainment. After bemoaning the fact that she has the second Men in Black movie, and not the first, I finally settled on Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Movie inserted, three brain cells engaged, and I managed to stay awake enough of the evening to make sure I'd sleep through the night.
Maybe it was the fact that the movie was accompanied by chicken soup instead of ice cream, or that my brain couldn't process high-level art. (Although, let's be honest. Indiana Jones does a far better job in that department than John Wayne. Sorry, Dad...) Maybe it was simply exhaustion clouding my vision, or maybe I felt nostalgic.
Or maybe, just maybe, I was right all along, and this is simply my vindication. I do like Indiana Jones.
I just have to be in the right mood. :)
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Elevator Music
This post was originally published on Thrive80, a millenial-generation blog with a variety of contributors. Check it out and write with us!
“Two, please.”
I didn’t know the other person in the elevator, but I could feel his frustration as he punched the button. He leaned against the wall, not making eye contact. He was probably late to class, and I had just made him later by asking to get off after one floor. I heard him slam the button to close the door as soon as I left, but didn’t turn around to watch.
This reaction was commonplace, though it was a different person every time. Sometimes I knew them, sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I pretended I didn’t care. Sometimes I was mad at them because they didn’t care. Sometimes I just wanted to break the awkward silence and scream. Don’t you dare judge me. I hate this as much as you do. I’d give anything to be able to take the stairs right now. I have to keep breathing.
I remember vividly the day the elevator broke. By the time I reached the top of the first flight of stairs, I was winded. Flight two was okay, but I began feeling the tightness in my lungs at floor three. Just one more to go… I can make it. I reached the top panting, my breaths growing shorter and more shallow. My inhaler, my safety net, was in my backpack. I debated briefly whether to take a couple puffs, but if I used it now, I couldn’t take a full-on breathing treatment after class. I opted for a drink of water instead, spending the first half of class feeling light-headed and short of breath.
This was life. Don’t take stairs, don’t go to bonfires, don’t laugh too hard, and whatever you do, don’t cry. Carve out ten minutes to take a breathing treatment anywhere from one to four times a day, and if you so much as sneeze, it’s time to retreat to your room with canned chicken soup and a movie. You have to keep breathing. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out.
Most days, my frustration with God and my own body was shoved aside. As much as I wanted to seek support from those around me, I couldn’t physically handle being vulnerable. I remember telling a friend one day that I couldn’t feel anymore. The anger, the frustration, the pain, the joy — I had locked it up so long that even my music was suffering from a lack of emotion. I was afraid if I once allowed myself to feel, I would be consumed by pain. If I didn’t develop a thick skin, every stare from someone in the elevator would be a knife wound. I wasn’t ready to face that, so I continued functioning, just trying to maintain the facade of normalcy, telling myself that if I could keep breathing, maybe everything would be okay.
All I needed was another ride in the elevator to remind me that something was wrong. No matter how hard I tried to pretend I was fine, a simple request for the second floor would jolt me back to reality. I was helpless. I couldn’t even take the stairs like a normal person, and the others riding with me didn’t know or care. I began to wonder if God was just like the person in the elevator, along for the ride, but not paying attention to my pain or my silent pleas for mercy.
Over the course of a year, I fought what seemed to be a losing battle with asthma. Some days were easier than others, and there were even whole weeks at a time when I could take the stairs. I would praise God for His healing and faithfulness, thinking the trial was over. Then, my lungs would react at the worst possible time, leaving me questioning God’s goodness once again. I remember sitting in a cafe on a ministry trip to Israel, face to face with the reality of my physical frailty. This time, it wasn’t about riding the elevator or taking the stairs. It was about watching my sickness prevent me from ministering to others.
How could God be faithful when I couldn’t breathe? When the battle with asthma first began, I had trusted His faithfulness and purpose in allowing it. Month after month was a different story. If I was going to believe that God was there and that He cared, couldn’t He at least give me some evidence of it, rather than snatching away my ability to function when I needed to serve Him most?
It had been a long time since I had let myself cry, but there in the little museum cafe, the reality of what I was facing washed over me in an overwhelming flood of emotion. From a place of brokenness, I laid my pain before God, and sometime during that hour spent with coffee and a journal, He began to move my heart to a state of acceptance and willingness to walk the road of chronic illness. Somehow, recognizing the very pain I had been ignoring was the first step in learning to surrender it to God.
I had been seeking healing, not the face of God. As I had focused on my endless list of limitations, I had completely missed His faithfulness. I looked back over the past year, trying to count the tangible ways I had seen His grace through each limitation. The night I’d had to miss a bonfire, God had sent along a friend who needed encouragement as badly as I did. Laughter and tears could induce an asthma attack, but there had been times when I had managed to stay up late, laughing with my roommates. Even now, in the cafe in Israel, I was letting the tears come, and this time, they were healing. I remembered how professors were gracious when I’d gotten a cold and needed to rest before it became worse, and how breathing treatments had doubled as time with my Bible or a textbook. Perhaps the greatest blessing of all was that I was still breathing, even when surrounded by an environment my lungs despised.
As I reflected on God’s grace, I saw the problem was in my own expectations, not a lack of His faithfulness. I wanted to be healthy, not just better than I was yesterday. In a moment of surrender, I realized that God could be faithful even if that didn’t happen.
Back at the hostel that night, I took the elevator to my third floor room. Friends carried my bags, styled my hair for the choir concert, shopped for me, and lifted me up in prayer. Instead of strangers who wished I wouldn’t inconvenience them, these were friends who chose to see past the inconvenience. They were not there to judge me for avoiding the stairs. They were there to ride the elevator with me, supporting me at every moment in the little, tangible ways. Their hugs, actions, and words of encouragement demonstrated Christ, providing a bedrock that enabled me to endure the pain and frustration.
There in Israel, through the faithful friends riding the elevator with me, I caught a glimpse of God in the midst of my pain. He had been with me all along, but for the first time, I saw His face reflected in the people around me. He was like the people in the elevator, after all — He was riding the pain of chronic illness with me, embracing me and loving me with a faithfulness not bound to the staircase.
“Two, please.”
I didn’t know the other person in the elevator, but I could feel his frustration as he punched the button. He leaned against the wall, not making eye contact. He was probably late to class, and I had just made him later by asking to get off after one floor. I heard him slam the button to close the door as soon as I left, but didn’t turn around to watch.
This reaction was commonplace, though it was a different person every time. Sometimes I knew them, sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I pretended I didn’t care. Sometimes I was mad at them because they didn’t care. Sometimes I just wanted to break the awkward silence and scream. Don’t you dare judge me. I hate this as much as you do. I’d give anything to be able to take the stairs right now. I have to keep breathing.
I remember vividly the day the elevator broke. By the time I reached the top of the first flight of stairs, I was winded. Flight two was okay, but I began feeling the tightness in my lungs at floor three. Just one more to go… I can make it. I reached the top panting, my breaths growing shorter and more shallow. My inhaler, my safety net, was in my backpack. I debated briefly whether to take a couple puffs, but if I used it now, I couldn’t take a full-on breathing treatment after class. I opted for a drink of water instead, spending the first half of class feeling light-headed and short of breath.
This was life. Don’t take stairs, don’t go to bonfires, don’t laugh too hard, and whatever you do, don’t cry. Carve out ten minutes to take a breathing treatment anywhere from one to four times a day, and if you so much as sneeze, it’s time to retreat to your room with canned chicken soup and a movie. You have to keep breathing. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out.
Most days, my frustration with God and my own body was shoved aside. As much as I wanted to seek support from those around me, I couldn’t physically handle being vulnerable. I remember telling a friend one day that I couldn’t feel anymore. The anger, the frustration, the pain, the joy — I had locked it up so long that even my music was suffering from a lack of emotion. I was afraid if I once allowed myself to feel, I would be consumed by pain. If I didn’t develop a thick skin, every stare from someone in the elevator would be a knife wound. I wasn’t ready to face that, so I continued functioning, just trying to maintain the facade of normalcy, telling myself that if I could keep breathing, maybe everything would be okay.
All I needed was another ride in the elevator to remind me that something was wrong. No matter how hard I tried to pretend I was fine, a simple request for the second floor would jolt me back to reality. I was helpless. I couldn’t even take the stairs like a normal person, and the others riding with me didn’t know or care. I began to wonder if God was just like the person in the elevator, along for the ride, but not paying attention to my pain or my silent pleas for mercy.
Over the course of a year, I fought what seemed to be a losing battle with asthma. Some days were easier than others, and there were even whole weeks at a time when I could take the stairs. I would praise God for His healing and faithfulness, thinking the trial was over. Then, my lungs would react at the worst possible time, leaving me questioning God’s goodness once again. I remember sitting in a cafe on a ministry trip to Israel, face to face with the reality of my physical frailty. This time, it wasn’t about riding the elevator or taking the stairs. It was about watching my sickness prevent me from ministering to others.
How could God be faithful when I couldn’t breathe? When the battle with asthma first began, I had trusted His faithfulness and purpose in allowing it. Month after month was a different story. If I was going to believe that God was there and that He cared, couldn’t He at least give me some evidence of it, rather than snatching away my ability to function when I needed to serve Him most?
It had been a long time since I had let myself cry, but there in the little museum cafe, the reality of what I was facing washed over me in an overwhelming flood of emotion. From a place of brokenness, I laid my pain before God, and sometime during that hour spent with coffee and a journal, He began to move my heart to a state of acceptance and willingness to walk the road of chronic illness. Somehow, recognizing the very pain I had been ignoring was the first step in learning to surrender it to God.
I had been seeking healing, not the face of God. As I had focused on my endless list of limitations, I had completely missed His faithfulness. I looked back over the past year, trying to count the tangible ways I had seen His grace through each limitation. The night I’d had to miss a bonfire, God had sent along a friend who needed encouragement as badly as I did. Laughter and tears could induce an asthma attack, but there had been times when I had managed to stay up late, laughing with my roommates. Even now, in the cafe in Israel, I was letting the tears come, and this time, they were healing. I remembered how professors were gracious when I’d gotten a cold and needed to rest before it became worse, and how breathing treatments had doubled as time with my Bible or a textbook. Perhaps the greatest blessing of all was that I was still breathing, even when surrounded by an environment my lungs despised.
As I reflected on God’s grace, I saw the problem was in my own expectations, not a lack of His faithfulness. I wanted to be healthy, not just better than I was yesterday. In a moment of surrender, I realized that God could be faithful even if that didn’t happen.
Back at the hostel that night, I took the elevator to my third floor room. Friends carried my bags, styled my hair for the choir concert, shopped for me, and lifted me up in prayer. Instead of strangers who wished I wouldn’t inconvenience them, these were friends who chose to see past the inconvenience. They were not there to judge me for avoiding the stairs. They were there to ride the elevator with me, supporting me at every moment in the little, tangible ways. Their hugs, actions, and words of encouragement demonstrated Christ, providing a bedrock that enabled me to endure the pain and frustration.
There in Israel, through the faithful friends riding the elevator with me, I caught a glimpse of God in the midst of my pain. He had been with me all along, but for the first time, I saw His face reflected in the people around me. He was like the people in the elevator, after all — He was riding the pain of chronic illness with me, embracing me and loving me with a faithfulness not bound to the staircase.
Monday, February 13, 2012
"Share" if you love Jesus?
Internet communication goes through fads. First, it was the e-mail forwards. (Pass this on to ten of your friends and your wishes will all come true...) They were this warped version of the prosperity gospel that taught that God blesses all who clog up the Internet with useless e-mail. It might have had a purpose initially, but by the time I realize I'm number 57 in the chain of people to receive it, I don't feel quite as loved and singled out.
Right now, the current fad is to post a photo. Rather than simply writing a status about what you think, you shamelessly repost the photo someone else creatively developed and spread it to the Facebook world as your opinion. I've done this, too... sometimes the photo is just too creative to pass up. Recently I shared this one from "Classical Music Humor":
Admit it... it's pretty funny. :)
As with any craze that starts with posting funny nuggets like this one, people have tried to use it for the good. I recently came across a pro-life photo a friend had shared, one that made a poignant statement.
So, while I find this fad rather annoying in its overall implementation, I've seen enough little nuggets of truth or amusement that I've grown accepting of it, at least for the time being. Since it's a fad, I probably don't need to get used to it long term, anyhow.
But then, just today, I saw this photo, and I was bothered:
Really? My love for my Redeemer is now contingent upon whether I'm "bold" enough to share a photo on Facebook? The One who sought me from eternity past, who breathed life into my very being, who took the wounds for my sin, who rose victoriously from the dead and will one day return to judge the universe is being reduced to a Facebook fad?
Please don't get me wrong. If you're a believer and you never even mention Christ in your Internet presence, that's a problem, and you probably should be confronted about it. Our lives should be so saturated in Jesus Christ that it pours out, regardless of the setting. If you don't talk about Christ's faithfulness on your blog or Twitter because you're ashamed to admit you follow Him, that deserves careful examination.
The problem isn't sharing a photo; the problem is that in all these fads, we fail to draw attention to the things that make Jesus unique from all others. A Jehovah's Witness or a Mormon could just as easily be "thankful" to Jesus and share because they "love him." Equating boldness with sharing a photo like this is a mistake. Boldness is declaring that Jesus Christ is the Son of the Living God, come in the flesh to redeem sinners and save them by His grace alone.
I'm not saying that I successfully live out this boldness in my own life; I'm sure that I reject opportunities every single day. All I'm saying is that hitting the "share" button doesn't fix that problem. Should my boldness extend to Facebook? Absolutely. But it should do so in a way that doesn't simply spread the cultural, feel-good, watered-down image of Jesus that we can convince our Facebook friends to accept.
I'm not sure exactly what this true boldness looks like in our Internet day and age. I'm guessing it might look different for different people... so please comment and offer some thoughts. :)
Oh... and feel free to share... :-P
Right now, the current fad is to post a photo. Rather than simply writing a status about what you think, you shamelessly repost the photo someone else creatively developed and spread it to the Facebook world as your opinion. I've done this, too... sometimes the photo is just too creative to pass up. Recently I shared this one from "Classical Music Humor":
Admit it... it's pretty funny. :)
As with any craze that starts with posting funny nuggets like this one, people have tried to use it for the good. I recently came across a pro-life photo a friend had shared, one that made a poignant statement.
So, while I find this fad rather annoying in its overall implementation, I've seen enough little nuggets of truth or amusement that I've grown accepting of it, at least for the time being. Since it's a fad, I probably don't need to get used to it long term, anyhow.
But then, just today, I saw this photo, and I was bothered:
Really? My love for my Redeemer is now contingent upon whether I'm "bold" enough to share a photo on Facebook? The One who sought me from eternity past, who breathed life into my very being, who took the wounds for my sin, who rose victoriously from the dead and will one day return to judge the universe is being reduced to a Facebook fad?
Please don't get me wrong. If you're a believer and you never even mention Christ in your Internet presence, that's a problem, and you probably should be confronted about it. Our lives should be so saturated in Jesus Christ that it pours out, regardless of the setting. If you don't talk about Christ's faithfulness on your blog or Twitter because you're ashamed to admit you follow Him, that deserves careful examination.
The problem isn't sharing a photo; the problem is that in all these fads, we fail to draw attention to the things that make Jesus unique from all others. A Jehovah's Witness or a Mormon could just as easily be "thankful" to Jesus and share because they "love him." Equating boldness with sharing a photo like this is a mistake. Boldness is declaring that Jesus Christ is the Son of the Living God, come in the flesh to redeem sinners and save them by His grace alone.
I'm not saying that I successfully live out this boldness in my own life; I'm sure that I reject opportunities every single day. All I'm saying is that hitting the "share" button doesn't fix that problem. Should my boldness extend to Facebook? Absolutely. But it should do so in a way that doesn't simply spread the cultural, feel-good, watered-down image of Jesus that we can convince our Facebook friends to accept.
I'm not sure exactly what this true boldness looks like in our Internet day and age. I'm guessing it might look different for different people... so please comment and offer some thoughts. :)
Oh... and feel free to share... :-P
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