Archive for the The Journey Category

It’s easy to take things like working vehicles for granted. We hop in the car, press on the gas and zoom, zoom! Until one day the zoom sounds more like an oom, and then an oof, until there is no noise at all other than our tears as we consider the repair bill.

I have an older vehicle and so I’ve felt my fair share of auto trouble recently. I won a “no expense paid trip” into car-lessness via a bad power train over the holidays and more recently felt the pinch of grinding brakes. But I have been particularly proud of my shiny new Michelin tires(which weren’t cheap!). They make me feel safe. And safe is important when you’re a mom transporting children and other precious family members.

So on the way home from church today when I heard a loud pop, I looked in the rearview mirror to see if we’d hit a rock. Nope. Nothing. All clear. Until the thumping and roaring started and I promptly pulled over to the side of the road feeling less than confident about the Michelin Man.

In the grand scheme of things, a flat tire is pretty insignificant. Of all the things that have happened to me over the years, this experience was one of the least traumatic, but I was no less thankful for Mitch and Nick who stopped to help free of charge thanks to my tax dollars at work via MODOT. That’s the Missouri Department of Transportation for all not living in my lovely state.

And as I stood there watching them I realized that there is something so stunningly beautiful about grace. When one is standing on the side of the road 20 miles from home and completely helpless, it’s nice to be greeted by a friendly face with a car jack and tools.

My little ones weren’t so sure, however. They had never been through that kind of experience before. My littlest guy clung to me as we waited (before the nice men showed up). I held him and reassured him that all would be well, but he wanted proof. How was he to know everything was going to be okay? We were stranded! But experience has taught me that people whose cars crap out on the highway usually don’t stay there for long. And it was only a few minutes later when the MODOT fellows pulled up with their kindly neon yellow safety gear. I smiled. How like God to send someone so quickly.

Why is it we are so quick to question our circumstances when our Father has us well in arms? Sometimes we just have to wait a few minutes. Funny how I don’t question Him when help comes so quickly!

Trust is learned over time I suppose. We fall and find that love is not the fluffy pillow we wanted but rather the strong arms fending off the hungry wolves. We hear them snarling and focus too hard on their fangs without paying the least bit of attention to the might of him who would thrash them like Hercules. Our Father is so much more than we give Him credit for.

Today I am thankful for flat tires and strong arms. I am grateful for nail scarred hands and sins I will never have to atone for. My heart is full and happy! And I am so glad to be learning the quiet, plodding way via deliverance from less than ideal circumstances. Because there is something so wonderfully delightful about the unexpected ways God lovingly chooses to reveal his grace.

I have been very angry in recent weeks. Anger is the fruit of pain, and lately there has been no shortage of it. I will not bore the reader with my physical symptoms. I don’t write to whine. Needless to say there has been less sleep, more seclusion, and many questions—not the least of which is, why? What purpose could this pain possibly have?

I have found the things that normally comfort me dry and flavorless. Reading has not stemmed the pain. Prayer has not eased the pain. Music has not soothed the pain. And when pain is at its peak, sometimes we will do anything to stop it.

Last week I made a decision to eat in the hopes that I would find an inkling of relief. But the stomach will never be satisfied–nor will the soul–with the transient things in this world, because meaning is not found in nutrients. But as I consider my anger and the actions it provokes in me, I am learning that meaning will not be found in intense emotional outbursts (temper tantrums) either.

You may have noticed my last post mentioned Job from that old book, The Bible. But this blog is not an exposition on the man nor his friends. My search is always for me, for if I am to be utterly candid, I am the center of my world just as you are the center of yours. For no one can feel what I feel nor experience my experiences but myself, just as you cannot for even one moment lend me your tears.

Still, Job asks questions of God that are important.

“Have you eyes of flesh? Do you see as man sees?” Job 10:4

“Why did you bring me out from the womb?” Job 11:18

“Why do you hide your face and count me as your enemy?” Job 13:24

Job is nothing if not direct. He doesn’t ask casual question and he even goes so far as to demand answers. Circumstantially, I have little in common with Job, but at times I still ask the same questions.

Now maybe you are reading this and thinking, “Wow, Margaret! Heavy stuff! You’re bringing me down.” To which I respond, we are all down. Some of us are only further along in recognizing our true state.

I sat next to my grandmother’s bedside a few weeks ago. I had received a call that she was possibly near death after a massive heart-attack. I visited her for what felt like maybe the last time. She was in serious physical pain and unable to eat. My grandfather sat in a chair nearby and we conversed on several topics, not the least of which was the Bible I was holding in my hands. Because when things go bad in my life I carry it with me. Even if I don’t have the strength to read it, I hold it.

I read a passage to my grandfather that he inquired about and we discussed it. And then my grandmother, tired and weak, asked me a question, “Do you read your Bible often?”

“Every day.” I said.

And it’s true. But I didn’t tell her about all the days I read it and it doesn’t take away the pain. I didn’t tell her about the times (like that moment) when the Bible did not stop my sorrow. Or fear. Or anger. In hindsight, I must have appeared pious and holy, as if I never get angry with the author of my faith because my circumstances are not to my liking. Intense pain does this: it causes us to ask hard questions. That is why finding the correct answers is so darned important.

Because even though I believe the Bible is true, even though I believe there is a God who created hippo’s, crocodiles and human beings, I frequently doubt his goodness. The thing is, I sincerely want to believe that all things work together for good, but sometimes I can’t because I incorrectly associate my pain with the goodness of God, as if He is somehow dependent on how I feel about Him at any given moment. Pain does this too–it robs us of memories of the good times. I say that because in recent days I have forgotten what it felt like to feel okay.

And maybe that is why God’s answer to Job really ticks me off.

“Who has a claim against me that I must pay? Everything under heaven belongs to me.” (Job 41:11)

Sometimes I wish the God of the holy scriptures read more like the genie who is rubbed out of the bottle, “You’re wish is my command!”

I sometimes meet others who also feel this doubt in the midst of pain. They too quietly wonder where God is and why He lets their agonies continue. When I looked into the face of my grandmother—-one of the truly good people I know—-and watched her labored breath and pain-stricken face, I ached. Anesthetics, yes. Permanent healing? No. Because there is no cure for death. Somewhere in the tension of broken bodies, broken hearts, and resounding “no’s” I get a little stuck.

But I am learning something really important about discipline in this area: pain is not the end of the story.

If pain was the end of the story, Jesus never would have risen from the dead.

For that matter, the creator of the universe wouldn’t have left the throne room of Heaven and put on human(pain-filled) flesh. All of Job’s questions were answered in the response of the King of Heaven to our pain. He was called a Man of Sorrows. The Bible tells us He created the Universe. (Hebrews 1:1) But He too experienced hunger, sadness, loneliness, and grief. He attended weddings and funerals. And His drastic response to the problem of pain was to give the one thing that could save us all, his life.

So when I stand with my fists balled and stamp my feet at him, he gets it. And he lets me rage.

When I am angry enough to eat myself into a stupor…

When I am angry enough to run down to the motorcycle dealership and hop on a new bike so I can roar down the highway while cursing…

When I am angry enough to scream at my boys for bad grades and misbehavior and thoughtless shenanigans…

When I am angry enough to leave my husband and find a mate who doesn’t annoy me…

When I am angry enough to scream at the top of my lungs because I am sick to death of pain and suffering…

God is strong enough to handle my anger and loves me enough to listen and respond in love.

So when I have cried all the tears I can, and shouted all my anger out into the night, I find that He is still there… loving me and patiently waiting to take me into His arms and comfort me with His words.

In the stillness of that love, as I consider him being flogged…
As I consider the nails in his hands and feet…
As I consider the cross and each agonizing breath…
I stop raging, and I weep.

Jesus is nothing if not the God of hope. And hope defeats rage every time because hope defeats pain.

Amy Grant wrote a beautiful song that talks about this moment called, “After the Fire”. She says, “After the fire is over, after the ashes cool, after the smoke has blown away, I will be here for you.” And He will. Praise God, He always will! Because my anger is not the end of the story. He is. And the hope of Him gives me immense peace.

I woke this morning in the funk of disappointment and frustration. And while I wouldn’t normally share a dream with my dear readers, this one holds an object lesson for us all.

I dreamed I was getting a massage and the therapist spent the whole appointment talking to me instead of massaging. She was a very nice person and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I let her go, but at the tail end of my appointment, she rubbed a few muscles and then said, “I’m sorry, but we are out of time.” I tried to argue but she said she had another client waiting. So I got dressed and went to the front desk to pay for my appointment. I mentioned my frustrations to the receptionist and she offered the services of two massage therapists who happened to have time free because she didn’t want me to leave dissatisfied with my experience. When I told her my time was committed elsewhere she smiled and shrugged. “Well then, how will you be paying today?” To which I did not respond in a way that is appropriate for this blog. When I pay for services, I expect services to be rendered and I refuse to pay for my own wasted time.

I realize this is just a dream, but it mirrors many of the frustrations I face in everyday life. It’s bad enough when I waste my own time, but I get very frustrated when others waste it. On a small scale this looks like waiting in a doctor’s office for an hour and a half only to be told by said MD that my symptoms “aren’t that bad” and he will not refill a prescription that has been the only helpful medication for a miserable skin condition. On a larger scale this looks like working overtime for months on a project only to have the work dismissed by the leader who asked for it because they didn’t know what they needed in the first place. It is increasingly apparent that our self-focused society is waging war on community to the detriment of the human psyche. The majority of the time we seem to so value our own thoughts and feelings to the detriment of others. And we wonder why so many people are angry all the time.

But since we can’t change the disrespectful behavior of others, we are left to manage the damaged feelings caused by wasted time that our fellow human beings carelessly dish out. Be it the woman who cut me off in traffic on the highway yesterday and then slowed to a crawl so she could more fervently inhale her cigarette or the tantruming adolescent who spoiled family dinner because the meal wasn’t to his liking. We are always free to choose how to respond, but living in the tension between “love thy neighbor” and “smack the stuffing out of my neighbor” is quite the tight-wire walk.

And so it was this morning after the dreadful dream. I was cranky and irritable as I started my daily routine. I felt the black cloud hanging over my head from my prone position on my yoga mat and no matter how much I tried to “pep talk” myself out of it, the cloud just got drippier and more clammy with each crunch. Right about the time I had decided to quit my job and join the circus, my youngest child arrived on the scene. I had turned on a television program I hoped would encourage and inspire me but he did what all behaviorally challenged children tend to do; he began to make noises and create distractions that would make even the most stoic person want to yank their hair out in chunks. And rather than kindly say, “Honey, could you take it down a notch?” I turned into Miss Hannigan from the movie Annie and started shouting, “Kill! Kill! Kill!”

“Mommy, why do you have to be so mean?”

So after I failed one of the people I love most in the world, I finished my workout and climbed into the shower. I felt the surge of anger growing as I considered all of the injustices I deal with in life and that I was justified to scream at him the way I did. Emotions don’t generally listen to common sense though and today was no exception. Except that it did occur to me that I didn’t have to go on raging against the world because I was in a bad mood. I could in fact “turn that frown upside down” and just pretend to love everybody until the feelings followed. The problem is, that course of action felt shallow and false. So I stood there weeping while hot water (a tremendous blessing that millions of people on the planet would love to have the pleasure of and never will) streamed down my (not starving or nutritionally challenged) body while I cried because I’m in a bad mood because I don’t get what I deserve from the world.

Ahem.

It would be funny if it weren’t so sad and despicably true.

But my emotions were still crummy because I can’t turn them on and off like a light switch. And so I had to decide something very important. I could either proceed into the world full of darkness and vitriol or I could pray to a God who loves me, thundercloud heart and all. Because I had no hope of overcoming the frustration, sadness and despair that racked my person. It was too big for my faint heart. As I considered how I would face the work day and the stresses and challenges that were sure to overwhelm me, I knew I couldn’t. The reasons are many.

My life is not as I planned it. I don’t have the dream job or the dream spouse or dream children. I don’t have money to cover all the bills and a swanky vacation planned this summer. Shoot, I can’t even afford to send my children to summer camp! I’m scraping by on gristle and bone while others are eating steak and it’s just not fair! So maybe, just maybe, I do deserve a break today! Maybe I need McDonald’s fries and Chick-Fil-A ice cream and homemade chocolate chip cookies. Except that those things don’t make me happy either. So maybe I should go shopping and buy a new outfit. Except that won’t make me feel better either. And so I wept more, because if I have learned anything on this journey toward discipline it is that I can take the long and drawn out path to peace by way of sampling anesthetics or I can run to the Heart-Healer whose embrace will offer true solace during life’s most tender moments. The choice is mine. But some day’s this choice is just really, really hard.

Some emotions are too big for the standard Bible fare. This felt like one of them. And lest you compare your pain to mine, remember, pain is pain and we all bleed. Job was a man who lost all his children in one day. He lost his fortune. He lost his health. As he lay sobbing on an ash heap, his three friends came and heaped more shame on him. Regardless, he said some of my favorite words in scripture, “Though he slay me, yet I will hope in him.” (Job 13:15) I can relate to a man like that because I know that suffering produces grit. Anyone who can suffer as he did and say the wise things that he did has something to teach me. Today running to Jesus meant reading the words of Job. And I will be candid, it was much more satisfying and peace-filling than chocolate chip cookie dough.

Too many times have I visited the doctor or the grocery store and been the unwilling victim of some unhappy person spewing their unhappiness all over me. More frequently I have been the King cobra spewing my toxic venom at anyone who comes too close. The world needs fewer of us. We need more peace-proliferators and fewer peace-snatchers. We need more healers and fewer wounders. We need more forgivers and fewer seethers. But we can’t do it on our own. We can’t manufacture peace. We can’t breed love. Maybe we can pretend for a while, but when we stumble and bash our big toe, the truth comes out. And that is why I run to the Prince of Peace. He is the source of all my joy—yes, even when something as small as a bad dream sets my head on backwards. But more importantly, when I fail the ones I love most. Today if you are reading this and the cold and clammy cloud of frustrating circumstances has perched about your head, don’t lose heart. There is One whose love is mighty and pure. If you let him, He will give you the grace to endure it. And grace, when applied properly, is an not an umbrella that will stop the circumstances altogether, but rather the strong arms of a father who holds you and weeps with you.

And now I’m heading off to soak in an Epsom salt bath because I have torn something in my back and a massage is not in my price range. And while I’m doing that, I’m going to listen to Elisabeth Elliott read the words of a man I greatly admire who died at the ripe old age of 28 while seeking to share the message I’ve written in this blog with a bunch of “savages”. Would that I could be more like Jim, who was no fool; because he gave what he could not keep to gain what he could not lose.