Archive for the The Journey Category

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and roll over. I don’t bounce out of bed to workout. I don’t cheerfully kiss my husband and make his coffee(okay that actually never happens—for various reasons). I don’t greet my children with a sonnet. I don’t sing in the shower. Plainly speaking, some mornings suck.

This morning was one of those mornings. I ate too many raisins last night and had a hangover. Now you can laugh, but I do actually get raisin hangovers. Too much sugar of any kind makes my body wonky, or more aptly described, cranky as a dark, hot and smoky place. And so I laid there in bed with my black and twisty thoughts as I wondered what the point of it all is. Why bother to eat healthy? Why bother to exercise? For that matter, why bother to go to work? Why bother to make money so I can pay the mortgage? It’s meaningless. All of it. And truthfully, I’m just tired of the merry-go-round. I want to stay in bed. I want to get off.

I stumbled grumpily down the hall and into the kitchen to make tea when I heard the shuffle of little feet behind me. The high-pitched whine of a dejected child was my first indication that I was not alone in my unhappy land. Suddenly, I found said child wrapped around my waist, shaking and sobbing. He said, “Mommy! I had a bad dream.” And I thought, I really don’t have the time or patience for this, but I’m his mom and I need to show up. Because dreams about killer clowns that are on fire and still chasing you surely call for some kind of positive intervention. And since I was once a child with vivid nightmares(and an adult who still suffers from them occasionally) I knew how important it was for me to set aside my woes and speak life into my little boy. Whether I felt like it or not. Because that’s what mom’s do.

But as I drove to work my brain was churning. I was thinking about life and living, and how doggone tiring it is. I thought about the struggle to survive and the longing to thrive. How we end up working so we can eat, but that same work can leave us feeling like we are dying inside. And then at night we try to rest only to be tormented with nightmares because our harried brain is still trying to process the nightmare of everyday living.

I write this from suburban America. From my cushy home with indoor plumbing. From a sturdy chair I bought at Wal-Mart. With clean skin and no physical evidence of deadly pestilence. Shouldn’t I be dancing in the streets? Why do I wake up with this feeling of meaninglessness?

In 1979 The Clash released a song called, “Lost in the Supermarket”. Joe Strummer gave voice to this longing for meaning. “The kids in the halls and the pipes in the walls make me noises for company. Long distance callers make long distance calls and the silence makes me lonely.”

I don’t think I’m very different in my longings. I tried to sate my palate with food, but I was still hungry—hungry for meaning—and once morbidly obese, hungry for hope to be free of the extra weight. Once I lost the weight, I found I was still hungry. I began to feel this hunger to validate my journey. I wanted my struggle to have a purpose. I felt a need to be known for more than just the shape and size of my body. Because I feel like I am more than what I look like. I am a soul in possession of a body not the other way around.

“Thieves in the temple. Eve and the apple. Everybody’s twisted baby, trying to fit.” – Matt Nathanson

So on mornings like today when I feel empty inside—when I feel the need to reach for the donuts or ice cream or cookies to stop the noise that makes me feel lonely, I pause as I look for an answer. The cookies and ice cream are a symptom—a distraction if you will—of the real problem. I wish nightmares only happened at night. I wish killer clowns weren’t real. Deep down I wish I had someone to hold me and tell me that one day everything is going to be okay. Because the idea that my life has no meaning, that my suffering is not valid or that it is random and purposeless does not comfort me. I want to know that not only is evil real, but that there is a cure. I see evil all around me, but I also see it in my own fractured and self-seeking heart. I no longer want to walk through life blissfully unaware of my self-destructive nature. I want to face up to it and see it fixed. I want to be healed of my brokenness. I want to see others healed of theirs. I want an answer to the problem of evil of and suffering. And I want it right now.

Psalm 46
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way,
Though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea,
Though its waters roar and foam,
Though the mountains tremble at its swelling.
The Lord of hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our fortress.
Be still and know that I am God.

I clung to my little boy this morning. I prayed over him. And then I left him to face the cold and cruel world alone. Sure, there are teachers. There is a bus driver. There are other adults who would try to protect him. But there is also a cacophony of noise clamoring to distract him from the truth. And the truth—as I shared it with him this morning—is this: You are uniquely created and precious to me. I love you. You are beautiful and brave. And though I can’t be with you, God is. And God is bigger and better than me. And he loves you even more than I do. Because of that, you are safe.
And I took a mental picture of his innocent face. His slack-jawed smile and his wide open eyes reminded me how I must look to my father in heaven when I take my bad dreams to him and He tells me I am safe.

He is the conquering King. Death is dead. He killed it once and for all on the cross. His death gives my life meaning. For today, tomorrow and even after I am gone. I am loved. And if you are reading this, so are you.

People like to use the word courage in conjunction with climactic images on motivational posters. Be it a steep cliff someone is climbing with very little gear or a fluffy orange kitten staring into the face of a ferocious dog, they splash the word courage on the page as if to say, “All you have to do is face your fear and everything will be fine.” But lately I am wondering what happens after the picture? What happens after the kitten faces the dogs? If no one intervenes, does the kitten whip out his boots, hat and sword? Does he stand on two legs and whip those dastardly dogs into a frenzy of flying fur and cartoon stars? Does he stand back with his arms crossed and a cool grin on his whiskery chin?

If you are reading this, maybe you are wondering too. What does real courage look like? Does the hero always win? Does he walk away with a few scratches, maybe a couple of bruises, but lives to tell the tale? Or does he die?

I reached to open the microwave door when a saw him, the fuzzy, little jumping spider. I was amused by his presence and held out my finger for him to crawl onto. Then I called out to my children.

“Look! It’s a cute little spider!”

And they said, “Kill it!”

And I said, “Why? It’s a living creature? Why take its life if I don’t have to?”

I proceeded to show them how intricate was its design. The furry little mandibles moved up and down as it turned right and then left. I surveyed its spritely legs and mysterious eyes(of which I assumed there were eight but were too small for my own to perceive). Curiously, the little spider turned and faced me. It stared up at me defiantly and then began to move its mandibles in a menacing manner. I was narrating its movement to my children when suddenly the little spider leapt at my face. I screamed and then looked to see where it had landed. To my amazement, the spider was dangling from a thin filament that was attached to my finger. It hung there defiantly—refusing detach—refusing to die. And my children hollered all the louder, “Kill it! Kill it!”

But I did not.

I carried it outside and placed it on one of my plants where I knew it would be safe. And then I watched it crawl away. That little spider was courageous, and I did not think it deserved to die.

My Marine son called last night with momentous news; he has received new orders. He did not disguise the dread in his voice. And, like his mother, he paused for dramatic effect. Out of all the new Marines on base, he alone was chosen to fulfill a most important responsibility. Disappointment and frustration trickled through each halting word he spoke. It was an assignment he did not choose and did not want. He went so far as to say the past six months of training were wasted. I listened with that fear I often face as a mother and wondered, how do I respond? Because I know my words matter to him, otherwise he would not have called me.

I find it interesting how we choose the people to confide in. So often we go to the people who will tell us what we want to hear. But it’s different with children. Children call their mothers because they want reassurance. They want to know more than anything that they are loved. And while soft and gentle love is often appropriate, bold and audacious love is necessary too.

Courage is not always what we think it is. We have this idea that the only way to be brave is to put up our fists and fight. Society tells us to chase our dreams, and while you’re at it, DREAM BIG! But what happens when the dream is not achieved? What happens when you do everything humanly possible to succeed and the business still fails? The marriage ends. The child flunks. Or more frequently, the job you took turns out to be very boring. You lay in bed each morning. You sigh and wonder how you can possibly do it even one more day. And then you consider the consequences if you don’t. So you climb out of bed. You step into the shower. And then you realize the water is cold because the pilot light in the water heater went out.

Is courage standing in a cold shower and going to a job you don’t like?

I love my neighbor. She is beautiful and kind. Did I mention kind? Shoot. She’s probably one of the kindest people I know, and as sweet as a hibiscus flower in bloom. Her smile lights up the room with a fragrance so bold I can’t help but be infected and smile in response. But her tears slay me. Her tears have wet my shoulder more times than I can count. And to my dismay, I don’t have all the answers to her questions. Why did he abandon her? Why did he find a new woman? Why the divorce? Her pain is like a raw sore that won’t heal. I think she thought that once the divorce was final, life would get easier. But it has not. The pain is like a shape shifter, one moment a tiger, the next moment a bear. Finally it takes shape as a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Except this isn’t Jurassic Park and she doesn’t have a means of escape. She has been devoured by grief, and suffering, and shame. She frequently uses words like, “depression” and busies herself with tasks to defray the sorrow. She has no peace. And all I can do is listen and watch as she suffers.

But she is braver than she thinks. Each day she rises and chooses to live. Each day, tears or not, she proceeds one step at a time. She fights for her daughter, for her dogs, for her friends. And though she hurts, she still smiles. Make no mistake, it is often a halting smile. It is often etched with sadness. But still, she smiles. And I think there is no better picture of courage than hers, the smile that smiles through tears. The smile that says, “I’m not quitting.”

She is not unlike that spider, dangling by a filament. She is courageous.

This morning my little boy woke up crying. His bad dream had been filled with dead people and he was terrified they were going to get him. His biggest concern was the warnings he gave to his older brother who—in the dream—refused to believe him. As I considered how best to comfort him, I remembered the book I had bought recently called, “Miracle Man: The Story of Jesus” by John Hendrix. Each picture

tells the story of a man filled with magic. A man who healed broken people. A man who comforted them by giving hope to their hurting hearts. On the last page of the book it shows the greatest miracle of all. After the beatings, after hanging on the cross, after his own father turned his face away, after his body had died, Jesus performed the greatest miracle of all. He lived. The hero lived! And that is the story I read to my little boy this morning as he trembled with fear. This story—more than any other—seemed to me to be the best story to tell him. Death is dead! Jesus killed it once and for all.

I am not very courageous. I bury my fears in plates of cookies. I fight panic attacks. I “manage” my physical pain. By myself I am the spider dangling by a filament. Sure, I was bold enough to jump, but Jesus was strong enough to save me from certain death. He is a real hero. And he did that, not by standing idly by and waving his hand in bored amusement (not like me!). He conquered death by walking through it himself.

Today if you are walking in pain, maybe you do have enough courage to keep walking through it. But maybe you have run out of strength and can’t hold onto the filament any longer. Don’t lose heart. There is a Miracle Man, a real live hero who wants to rescue you. He is audacious and bold. And he did something no one else could ever do. And maybe you think I’m antiquated, or weird, or just plain crazy. I assure you I am. But the story is bigger than me. And let me assure you…

I know what it is to suffer. I have even enjoyed suffering, and to an extent, being a victim. Years ago I read about a mental disorder called Munchausen syndrome and secretly wondered if I was afflicted because of my flair for the dramatic. Portraying the victim elicited sympathy from those around me and I liked the attention. One day I began to realize that my problems not only caused my friends to be concerned, but also to abandon me. Suffering is exhausting, not only for the sufferer, but for anyone in close proximity.

In that regard, temptation was for me the penultimate source of my suffering. Whatsoever my heart desired I strove to consume. And since my heart was a very dark and twisty place, I can with some clarity recognize that it was a very deceitful organ. For each desire I sated, five more manifested. While chasing each new and salacious longing I only found my hunger gnawing with increasing vengeance. No wonder my internal monologue was a ticker tape parade of despondence.

Someone once told me I was a wimp. It was a word I would never have self-associated with. I thought I was strong. But being stubborn does not necessarily equate strength. In fact, stubbornness is usually a more frequent ally of pride. I am recently learning that my refusal to submit to authority, regardless of how cool it looks in the media, is actually a serious personal flaw. And since my rebellious nature has been influencing my decisions my whole life, it’s pretty doggone difficult to be objective with my story. It’s the reason I have a phoenix tattoo on my back; the penultimate symbol of my youth, or as Frank Sinatra might have sung it, “I did it my way.” I always say I got that tattoo to symbolize my rise from the ashes when the authority figures in my life tried to burn me down. But looking back through the lens of time, I now see a foolhardy girl intent on pursuing frivolities rather than a life of significance or substance or purpose.

And that is how I came to weigh 310 pounds.

The temptation to pursue the desires of my heart when what my heart wanted was a lie is the great tragedy of my life. It wasn’t until I began earnestly seeking out truth that I started to see myself as I was. And to be honest, I wasn’t very impressed.

Make all the excuses you like, gluttony is a curse. I have learned that living by the stomach does not satisfy the soul, but food still tempts me. That which gives life and health is a constant threat. The impulse to salve my salt-water heart with savory substances pulses through my veins. And how does one excise such a fundamental flaw?

I began this journey with little hope for success. I had hoped to make it 30 days without sugar. And I did. So I strove for 30 more. And I’m still striving. I’m still making goals and clinging to a thread of hope that I can maintain the balance necessary to prevent massive weight gain. But interestingly, it’s not really about gaining or losing weight anymore. My journey has truly become a daily struggle to learn how to discipline my body, my mind, and most importantly my heart.

This world has a thousand temptations for the wander-lusting heart, and I have been a master of chasing after many of them. I have dwelled in the dark places where the shadows rule, and I have searched for a light–a flickering hope–that would deliver me from them. And on the days when I feel most lost–most helpless. On the days I forget why I’m fighting, or even worse, when I don’t care, I force myself to stand up and seek out the truth. If my heart is desperately wicked and beyond cure, and if everything inside me is marred and distorted by my traitorous heart, then I must seek something outside myself if I am to be saved. And maybe that something is not a “thing” after all, but rather, a person. And what if that person loves me, traitorous heart and all? So much so that he personally bore all of my indwelling shadows in order to make my treacherous heart clean forever?

Funny, I suddenly find the resounding chaos of my whimsy has dwindled to a whimper. Why? Because Jesus is victor.