Archive for the The Journey Category

What we carry is sometimes much too heavy to bear. But to set it down is to feel something even heavier, the weight of failure. The path to discipline has required rigor; to stay the course, to maintain healthy habits, to push through pain and adversity. And I suppose if I weren’t so gall-darn stubborn, I would have given up long ago. But the reason I have maintained this course is because I am looking forward to future joy. It’s not pain for pain’s sake. The reward is actually very simple.

I love beauty. I love to look out on an early spring morning and see crocus pushing their petals through thawing dirt. I love when the robins arrive in their flocks mid-February to pick the darkened husks of berries from dogwoods. I love their run-and-stop, run-and-stop rhythm. And if they are lucky, the worms are waking up too.

And that is why I found myself with a box, shovel, and a digging bar on a cool Fall afternoon at the farm we are making near Salem, Missouri. For now, it is only 19 acres of land with the remnants of an old pig pen, a dog kennel, and a platform where a trailer home used to sit. I don’t know what that used to look like. It burned down before we bought it. And frankly, I’ve spent more hours picking up burned trash and aluminum cans than I have building anything, but I have a vision for what it could be. That is why I decided it was time to plant something.

It hasn’t rained in a while and the earth is nearly as hard as pavement. I know from experience the landscape is so rocky it’s pointless to dig with a shovel. One must use a digging bar or pick axe to break ground. I wouldn’t even call it dirt. The crust is clay and sandstone with flint rocks thrown in for good measure – as tough and unforgiving as the hide of an alligator. The process involves lifting the digging bar, jabbing it into the earth, and pulling back to pry. The bar weighs about 14 pounds so it takes a good heft to lift and jab. The rhythm is, LIFT-JAB-PRY, LIFT-JAB-PRY. One must do this over and over to loosen the dirt enough to pull out a shovel full. Then one stoops to pull out the rocks and throw them into one pile while the dirt goes in another. I tried to find a less rocky place to plant, but in the Ozarks that’s like saying I was looking for a less salty ocean in which to swim.

My father recently gave me a great treasure; a box full of iris that had been thinned from their flower beds. I suppose in my mind there is nothing that holds more promise than a box of old bulbs. When I looked into that box, I didn’t see cruddy, brown tubers with little green fringes of growth, I saw majestic purple iris with white frills unfurling. I saw little splashes of yellow on velvety tongues. But more than all that, I could almost smell the sweet aroma of impossible flowers made possible by the mighty hand of an invisible God.

If he could make all that, I suppose I could forge a flower bed from some rocky dirt.

It took about 2 hours to pick out a 4×3 flower bed and another hour to move and scatter dry, rotten wood from an old wood pile into the hole. Only then did I feel the iris had a chance of surviving. I scattered them around in the bed, turned their green edges up, and pushed the pulverized clay back on top. To complete the display, I moved some large rocks around the bed. Then I stood back with pride and began to hope the flowers would grow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To be honest, I don’t always enjoy this type of work, but I love beautiful flowers more than I hate back-breaking labor.

Why do I share all of this?

I love Jesus but I struggle to love His church. I have encountered some people there that are just as tough and unforgiving as the ground on my farm. From careless words spoken to callous platitudes intended to force me to submit, those sinners have caused some mighty deep wounds. Worse, in my fury I’ve sinned right back at them. I am both perpetrator and victim. But while I know plenty of people who’ve given up on attending a local church, I’m not one of them. The church is the bride of Christ and heaven forbid He return and not find me among its members because I was nursing wounds over something I should have forgiven and let Him heal.

That is why the day after my rock picking frenzy I found myself sitting at the table of a Fall Festival at the local Baptist church. I’ve been attending there for a few months and trying hard to find Christian community. I was there because my teenage son has plugged into the youth group and was out rough housing with a group of boys on the football field, as happy as I’ve ever seen him. But I was uncomfortable and lonely. I knew hardly a soul. And for all the friendly faces, many refused to meet my gaze and instead moved on to their familiar friends. I thought to myself that it took a lot of courage for me to attend, but that didn’t make me feel any less lonely or sad. A few people said hello and one woman stopped to compliment me on my flowery hat, but after years of being at churches where I knew almost everyone, it was hard to stare into a sea of strangers.

Don’t read me wrong, they weren’t rude or unfriendly. And to my credit, I did try to strike up conversations with a few people. It’s just that I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. Relationships take time and work. And if there’s anything I’ve come to realize over the years of attending church, it’s that finding a real friend in a group of Christian people is no different than finding a friend anywhere else in the world. It takes vulnerability on both sides and some kind of conventional commonality. Older people like me, people with old rusty wounds, are much too guarded, which is probably why none of the elderly people at the church would even look at me. It was only the younger women who dared to ask my name.

I remember the adage, “One must be a friend to have a friend.” Making new acquaintances takes time and energy. So why am I wondering if it’s worth the effort? Talking to people I don’t know feels like LIFT-JAB-PRY, LIFT-JAB-PRY. If I plant the seeds of kindness, will the flower of friendship grow?

By the grace of God, it will.

And when I look at it that way, the better question seems to be, “Does anything good happen outside the grace of God?”

I am looking forward to a reward I can’t see. Right now, I see drought. I feel hard ground beneath my feet. I see leaves falls and trees preparing for a cold winter. I smell the smoke from a wood burning fire and I know snow will be here soon. But with my inner eyes I smell the thaw, I hear the robin song, I see the red bud in bloom. The signs of the seasons remind me that the rhythms of discipline, perseverance, and fortitude are the LIFT-JAB-PRY of forbearance. And I know the reward is worth the wait.

“I love to movie-cry. It’s so cathartic. I love that heartache when something is so moving, you see yourself in the movie, but it’s not your pain. You empathize so much there is a well of emotion.” – Zach Braff

I was watching a video recently about a family who rescued a young crow. Darling touched the hearts of this family after they rescued her, and she adopted them. You can watch the video here.

The reason the story touched me is because of my own experience. I rescued a baby bird, and she has had an incredible impact on me. When I watched the video of the crow playing with this woman and her dog, I was so delighted. I find so much wonder in watching the birds out of my kitchen window and to see a creature so in love with humans is truly beautiful. Over the years I have formed bonds with the birds at my feeder, but nothing is as special as having a sparrow that loves me and lives in my house. It is a special gift.

“Wonder is a gift that makes the mundane extraordinary.”

I recently stumbled across a podcast that I really enjoy called, “Inside of You” with Michael Rosenbaum. I didn’t realize who he was at first. After a few episodes he mentioned Smallville, and I remembered him as Lex Luthor. I don’t remember him as particularly remarkable in that role (probably because I don’t like bad guys) but his podcast is.

Mr. Rosenbaum has a gift for bringing out the vulnerability in his guests. Maybe that is because he is quite vulnerable himself. This doesn’t make him seem weak or feminine or [insert other negative adjectives here]. He is simply real, and with a gift for generosity of spirit, he asks questions of his guests in a way that suggest they really are his friends, and he really does care for them. It doesn’t hurt that he also asks good questions and listens to the answers.

I always liked Zach Braff as an actor, so I listened with interest to his interview with Mr. Rosenbaum. He said many things that resonated with me, but what struck me the most was his humility–something rare in Hollywood. He too has a generosity of spirit for his fellow actors and directors. But there was a moment in the podcast that struck a chord in my own heart. The men were discussing Mr. Braff’s newest movie, “A Good Person,” which Mr. Rosenbaum couldn’t recommend strongly enough. When discussing why he wrote the movie, Mr. Braff said, “I wanted to write something for her (Florence Pugh) because I was so in awe of her.” The way he said it made me believe he was very much in love with her. Unfortunately, the relationship did not last.

It takes a great deal of time, stamina and perseverance to write a story and execute it well. Mr. Braff did that with “A Good Person”, which in itself is a moving portrayal of the aftermath of an accident and how the people involved rebound and evolve. They were discussing how natural Morgan Freeman was for his role when Mr. Rosenbaum asked Mr. Braff the question, “Do you think if you and Florence had broken up before you made the movie it would have been just as easy?”

Mr. Braff said something very authentic. “No. That would have been hard. I don’t recommend directing someone you’ve just broken up with. I think that would be tricky because it’s so emotional. I mean, it’s so hard and stressful period directing a movie in 25 days. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Then the idea of folding an emotional hurricane on top of that would have been impossible.” And then Mr. Rosenbaum asked Mr. Braff about also losing his father. Mr. Braff related how dear his father was to him and how he influenced his love of theatre which has resulted in a passion for acting, storytelling, and directing. As I watched it, I ached with Mr. Braff. He had been dealt several terrible blows by grief in a very short period of time.

You can see the interview here.

While telling their stories, both Mr. Rosenbaum and Mr. Braff seemed so raw. I found myself forgetting they are popular actors famous for the roles they played in television and movies. They are just people who have experienced sorrow and grief and walked through it with courage. The candor they offer is a gift that helps others continue to walk when the path seems too hard or too steep. They inspire me, in part, because their stories are stories of hope.

The crow video and Mr. Braff’s personal story have something in common. In both stories, something beautiful has died. And I have so many questions.

How do they recover from such loss? How do they get up the next day and move forward? How do they let go of what was and embrace what is? And most importantly, why?

I have been through devastating break-ups and lost beloved pets, but I have yet to lose a parent so I am wondering how I will get through it. Still, I hope I will remember my faith in God who holds the power over life and death, wonder and beauty. I hope I will trust Jesus to comfort me and give me spiritual and physical peace to grieve and let go. And I hope I will fight forward and tell the stories in such a way as to inspire others not to give up.

I am thankful for Mr. Rosenbaum, Mr. Braff and Caolaidhe. They bravely shared their stories, fostered empathy, and reminded me I’m not alone when I grieve. If you are reading this and feeling sad over a painful loss, neither are you.

Have you ever dreamed you were falling and then woke up with a shock wave running through your body? Did you sit up in bed and put your feet on the floor just to feel something steady and secure? Did you thank your lucky stars it was only a dream and quickly fall back asleep? Or did you lay awake in fear that you would have the dream again?

The fear of falling ranks right up there with the fear of spiders, snakes–or in my case, bears. When I am afraid, I just want someone to hold me. I want steady arms wrapped tight around my shoulders and a soothing voice to say, “Margaret, you are safe.”

We often live with the illusion of safety.

For instance, I thought I was safe from bears. Sure, I know there are bears in the country by our cabin, but I’ve never seen one. A few nights ago I was searching for cell service near dusk on a gravel road when a neighbor casually mentioned that I should be very aware of my surroundings. She said she recently watched a big, brown bear snuffle around in her front yard and then meander down the road and down my driveway. You could have stuck a fork in me. I was DONE. I said, “Well, I am armed. If any old bear comes charging at me, I’ll just shoot it.” But the neighbor told me it’s against the law to shoot a bear unless it’s within seven feet of me and it is charging. I imagined a large mouth with sharp, white incisors and a murderous look in some big brown eyes walking in my direction. Then I imagined trying to reconcile the notion of not being able to defend myself because of a law written by a staunch, wildlife conservative. Then I quickly walked straight back to my cabin and locked myself inside.

I am afraid of bears, but I am also afraid of the strange dystopian future I am living in. A few months ago, I finally felt I had enough historical knowledge to read Animal Farm. I have done a little studying on socialism, communism, and collectivization. When I finished “the fairy story”, I decided it might be important to read 1984 as well. These are books I’ve heard about for years, but nothing could have prepared me for the actual experience of reading them. The closest thing I can equate it to is watching a car crash in slow motion from inside the vehicle. I concurrently know what is happening, I physically see it happening, I want it to stop happening, but I am powerless to resist the thrall of seeing it through to the end. Neither story had a happy ending, by the way. That was the point. Mr. Orwell wrote them as a warning to future generations.

One of the most interesting components in the book was the telescreen. It is described as “receiving and transmitting information simultaneously.”

“Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was, of course, no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment.” 

Every time I read about the telescreen, I self-consciously felt my android phone listening to me and watching me. Everything I do is tracked by the device “for my benefit” so they can “customize my experience”. And by using the device I consent.

I recently had a terrible scare with a scammer. A police detective told me afterwards, “There is no longer any expectation of personal privacy.” The evil man bent on robbing me got a few tidbits of information and called me on my cell and proceeded to scare the living daylights out of me by pretending to be a Sheriff saying I had a warrant for my arrest for missing Federal jury duty. It was so convincing it took me several hours to stop believing in the lie.

Fear is everywhere all the time. And worse, much of what George Orwell wrote about has come to pass. We make light of “Big Brother” with a television show as if we are immune. I cannot stress enough the impact this book had on me. It was terrifying. There was literally no hope.  (Spoiler alert!) The Party had complete control over the population. End of story.

Except that in real life, that isn’t the end of the story.

The culture we live in is so saturated with a godless ideology that many times we forget the author of life. We fear bears forgetting the One who made them. We fear the government, forgetting the ultimate sovereign power that rules the universe. We fear sickness and death because we have neglected to remember that when our bodies die, life goes on.

I frequently suffer from nightmares. Sometimes they are so real as to cause me intense physical anxiety. This morning was one such morning. First, I dreamed I was in a parking garage watching a maniac stab a co-worker to death. He then began to chase me. Then I dreamed a terrible thing about one of my sons. I woke up in shaking and crying. I felt the fear all over me like a second sticky skin I couldn’t schluff off. It took me some time to calm down, but when I got down on my knees and began to pray, a snatch of a bible verse quieted my soul. It began, “Fear not, for I am with you.” (Isaiah 41:10) And I remembered that God is still God. And with that, I felt tears of relief quiet my troubled heart.

“He is real.” I whispered. “He is good. He is God. And He loves me!”

I am not free-falling. I am never alone. I am His and He is mine. I am safe in His arms.

I feel as safe as this little bird does in my hand. She trusts me because I rescued her and care for her. Whenever she is afraid, she flies directly to my hand and snuggles down. I keep her safe. That is how I am with my Father.

I wonder what will happen if I ever meet a bear. I pray the day never comes. I wonder how George Orwell’s books would read if he had believed in a good and loving God. They might have read something like Corrie Ten Boom’s biography after a “bookkeeping” error saw her released from a death camp a day before the rest of the inmates were gassed. Upon release she set out to exemplify God’s message of forgiveness and love – evidenced by her sister, Betsy (who died in the camp).

Today if you are fearful, fly to the One who will make you safe. There is no need for free-falling fear!