Archive for the The Journey Category

On a recent morning I rode my bicycle down a windy two lane road. I was struck by the beauty of the sky which shone with particular splendor. The deep blue hues contrasted with fluffy white clouds, creating this opulent–almost transcendent–canopy. It is one of the reasons I love riding my bike in the morning. Looking at the landscape fills me with awe and peace. There is a distinct temptation to worship the sky in all its transcendent glory, and were it not for the knowledge of the one who made it, I would easily slip into bowing down before it.

While traveling down any road, it is of the utmost importance to keep one’s focus on the path ahead, or in my case, the cracked concrete. One false turn of the handlebars and I will tumble into a ditch or worse, oncoming traffic. If I have learned anything over the years it is this: there is no love lost between harried drivers and pokey cyclists. And so on this early morning outing I was enjoying the relatively car-free road when I almost ran over a very large, but dead, frog. It wasn’t mashed to a pulp(as they usually are), but rather splayed out across the white line, as if it had leapt at just the wrong moment and bonked into a bumper. Its limp carcass lay motionless, a singular portrait of that final act of self-preservation. And I do not know what will happen next, whether it will be eaten by birds or simply rot into the dirt, but I do know that this frog-loving cyclist was deeply grieved to see it.

Now this may be the moment where you say, “Margaret, are you seriously grieving a dead frog? That’s just weird.” I get it. I’m weird. Sorry about that. I just like frogs because my daddy used to catch frogs for me when I was a little girl. He would hand a toad to me and say, “Look at that. Isn’t he cute?” So every frog is a reminder to me of the love my father has for creatures and for me. Dead frogs ignite within me a certain sadness no matter how many I see on the side of the road. Death disturbs me—as it should. And here is a certain and sustainable truth, death is a horrible reality for the living.

Andrew Peterson writes in his song, Come Back Soon that “every death is a question mark at the end of a book of a beating heart.” Those words resonate with me because I wonder about dead creatures. What happens to them when they die?

Now you have to understand that my mother is reading this saying, “Margaret, you anthropomorphize animals too much.” Or rather, I give human qualities to them as if they had the same value. And I want you to know that I’m rolling my eyes because that is my job as an ornery daughter. But importantly, I see animals through the lens of the beauty of creation. I see the tiny working legs, the moist skin, the intricacies of pupils and a mighty yet wordless tongue that can grab an insect from the air in the fraction of a breath. These things amaze me. I think animals are beautiful. And when a beautiful thing ceases to be beautiful, it makes me sad.

I sat on the floor of the emergency vet’s office a few years ago with my friend, Hodges. He was suffering terrible pain due to tumors in his belly and advanced age. I had been trying to prepare my heart for the moment he passed from this world, but I have since learned that nothing can prepare you for that. I felt my lungs close up even as tears streamed from my eyes. I remember that distinct feeling of wanting to hold onto his spirit as it left his body, but there was nothing to grasp. And I felt this chasm open up in me such as I have never experienced before or since. It was a loss so painful I literally felt as if I was being split open. Hodges was a kindred spirit to me, a beacon of light, my best friend. He knew my sadness and always sought to assuage it, so the loss of him rendered me desolate. All I could think was, who will comfort me now? Maybe because it was the first great loss in my life, I didn’t handle it well. I remember waiting in the lobby to settle the bill and seeing other pet owners with their friends. A vicious thought entered my mind, “At least they get to leave with their animals? I don’t. And it’s not fair.”

This is the feeling death produces in me, the absolute unfairness of it. My soul cries out for an answer to this mostly unspeakable question, “Why must living things die?”

I have been trying to prepare my children for it when I hardly know how to prepare myself. And so when I found myself talking to a friend recently about the loss of her child, I felt so foolish. She said, “Two years have passed and it never gets any easier. The pain is just as fresh today as it was the first day. My thoughts run in circles and I can’t escape the fact that I won’t see her again in this life. It is unbearable.”

We can distract ourselves with baubles. We roll around in nice cars. We buy fancy new boots. We eat a bowl of ice cream. We run. These simple pleasures may placate our lust for whimsy, but they don’t address the flaws in our affections. They direct our gaze to the aesthetic rather than the soul. Death cuts through all that. It is an assault on our fundamental identity as living human beings. Because at some point we all have to deal with the reality of losing someone we love. Maybe you can hide your question. Maybe you can even pretend you don’t ask it. But death doesn’t care. It just goes on killing.

Money doesn’t make us safe. A good job doesn’t make us safe. Even consuming healthier food doesn’t make us safe because, quite obviously, there is no cure for death. The implication of that knowledge cries out for some kind of response and so it’s interesting to me that people get so uncomfortable when I try to talk about it. In fact, if you’ve read this far, it is probably only because you have recently dealt with death or maybe you happen to know me and wonder why I’m writing about it. The reason is very simple, I think about death a lot because it bothers me so much. When confronted with death, I always say to myself, “That’s not right. It should not be this way.” And then I start asking questions.

I don’t consider myself much better than the frog when it comes to death. In many ways I am just another unfortunate creature with the capacity to stray into an unforgiving street. Turn on the television or read any newspaper and what is the headline? When Ferguson happened, what was the headline? I remember asking a reporter, “Why can’t you tell all of the good stories about Ferguson?” And this petite blond woman just smirked at me like I was stupid. It interests me the way the media distills their stories into punchy headlines.

Am I the only person in the world who wants hope? I can’t be.

But even while we are (not) asking the question about the wrongness of death I think we are ignoring the more important questions about life. What if we really are eternal creatures? What if heaven and hell are real places? And what if our choices today determine our future existence in another realm? I have learned in my journey that today’s decisions determine tomorrow’s consequences. And while it is not very popular to talk about the reality of hell, (Jesus said it was a real place) I sure as hell don’t want to go there.

I don’t know what happens to frogs when they die any more than I know what happens to people. All I really have to live by are the words of an ancient book that seems to address an awful lot of life’s burning questions. Some people think that book is malarkey. I happen to think it’s not. But most of my opinions in that regard are shaped by this mystery man who said he was the son of God, namely Jesus. Encountering him changed the trajectory of my life. He is my only hope. And so when the question of death arises, I run to Him for answers.

Maybe today you are dealing with the crushing blow of losing someone you love. Maybe you are searching for meaning in life and hope in death. Maybe you have tried to use a crutch to help you limp along, but like the loss of an arm or an eyeball, you find that dealing with death is like living with an amputation, and this altered state of reality is totally unbearable. Don’t lose heart. It’s never too late to start asking questions.

Today I laid alone in bed and stared at the ceiling. I stared at the crisp white paint and the uneven lines in the corners where color met it. I remember the hours spent painting a year and a half ago, and how exhausted I was–how eager I was to be done–mistakes or not. My shoulders ached and my back–well–it grumbled. But today is a different story…today–it screams. And that is why I laid there on this beautiful Autumn day, oscillating between an ice pack and a hot rice sock, because every movement reminded me of the inescapable pain in my lower back.

I sometimes feel like life moves in these odd kinds of rhythms. There are moments of expectation where I look forward to something wonderful and am instead greeted by disappointment and pain. That is how I hurt my back. I woke up early and decided to skip my workout and stretch my tired muscles instead. It was to be a relaxing start to my Tuesday. Instead, my hamstring stretch turned into my worst nightmare; my sacroiliac joint twisted out of place. And while I tried desperately to move it back, it was lodged like a button in the throat of an unsuspecting toddler.

As Bugs Bunny would say, What a maroon!

Never. Ever. Stretch cold muscles that are sore and tight.

I visited the chiropractor yesterday with the expectation that he would right my SI joint and I would walk out of his office pain free. Wrong. Instead, the pain continued to build until I was forced to nearly crawl from my place of employment. Getting into my car was another matter entirely. And by the time I arrived home there were tears streaming down my face. Pain is, well, painful.

And it’s odd how pain seems to clarify the mind. My brain ebbs and flows like waves, pushing thoughts of despair and loneliness onto the beach, and pulling with them any sense of hope or joy. And all I could think about was when I would be able to exercise again and what a huge setback this kind of injury is and how is my family going to manage without me at full capacity. And so it was in the middle of all that jargon(which threatened to pull me fully into the Slough of Despond) that I made a conscious decision to just stop analyzing my recovery and rest easy in the knowledge that I am loved.

Now maybe that seems simplistic, but for me, it is a fundamental truth. I have fought long and hard to get here to this place of trusting God to show up. And I have learned through tears and anger and physical agony that my temporal situation matters to the sovereign God who stoops low to meet with me. He is real. And He loves me.

That was today. Yesterday—-I ate ice cream!

And that is usually how I deal with pain or sorrow or anger. I default to food every, single time.

Today I am giving myself the grace to accept that my body will not always perform the way I want it to. I am giving myself grace to love God for who he is and not who I want him to be. And I am giving myself grace to skip the pizza my family is having for dinner because I ate ice cream yesterday. We all stumble and fall. And if we are smart we realize that we are fragile and broken people who can only be made whole by a loving God. And I am so glad He loves me just as I am. Cookie loving, ice cream imbibing, despairing and still hopeful, Margaret.

And I suppose this is why the lines from an old hymn come to mind when I feel most hopeless… I know that while in Heaven he stands, no tongue can bid me thence depart.

I have recently been immobilized by fear. I say recently, but to be completely transparent, it is an ongoing issue. It has taken me some time to see that the muscle I must most purposefully develop is courage. As I progress down the path of learning discipline, facing my fear is quite a big cliff to climb. I stare up at the stark sheerness of it and gasp. For there are crevices my fingers won’t fit into and heights heretofore unknown to this humble walker. I like to pretend I’m a climber, but in reality I’m skirting the edges, shuffling my feet, and shirking the really true tasks that determine my ultimate destiny.

Now maybe you are reading this and thinking, “But Margaret, you are brave! Look at what you have accomplished!” But, my friends, I am not always brave. In fact, I am frequently in league with the Cowardly Lion; snuffling and crying because I haven’t the courage to face my deepest, darkest problems. Because self-study can be terrifying. And the thing is, I have known for some time about my crippling insecurity, but I don’t think I actually realized why until today.

There is a narrative of my life that I share with casual friends that paints me in the best possible light. In this narrative I am the victim – whether it be genetics(my weight/body issues), oppression(how I have been bullied by various people), or infidelity, I always seem to come out glistening with the halo of innocence. But I am not innocent. I am as guilty as we all are—sons of Adam and Eve—eaters of forbidden fruit—transgressors extraordinaire.

The reason for this is clear….it is because the human heart(including mine) is a wasteland.

Disclaimer: If you are reading this and consider yourself blameless, you probably won’t like what I have to say next and are dutifully excused to visit another website that will make you feel good and strong and wholesome. But if you are motivated to change, if you want to see yourself as you really are, take my hand. Cinch your belt. Ready your fingers and toes. I implore you, dear friend: climb the cliff with me.

It is always easier to take the easy path. And truth is relative—relatively speaking. But real truth exposes the great fallacies we live. Gratefully, I am always under the holy eye of a personal God who does not allow me to proceed without a warning. Love warns because love seeks to save. And even upon saving, love seeks most desperately to heal.

3/5ths of my family recently went on a camping trip. We were desperate to escape the noisy city and shake off the dust from our world-weary feet. We wanted to relax. We needed to rest. But finances didn’t allow the kind of vacation we wanted(a child-free beach where all meals are prepared and we need not lift a finger). So we went where we could afford.

Primitive camping has a way of configuring life into its most simple formula; nothing in this life is free. For every pleasure there is a price. The simple pleasure of warmth comes at great cost to the wood. The growling belly is appeased only at the cost of the plant or beast. Sleep is the price for the labor because even the human body must pay for energies expended. In the woods where we camp, we find no toilet, no electricity and no running water. We carry in big blue jugs and everything we eat fits into a cooler. (We were extravagant this trip and purchased a new, larger cooler for convenience).

As I built the fire and prepared our meals, I found great peace in building large coals over which to cook our food. But after each meal was cooked and consumed, I found that satisfaction quickly waned and hunger reappeared. I suppose I might have been frustrated by this scenario were I not a food addict. But I considered several times that I could easily live that way forever; simply making more fires, preparing more food, and sleeping off the exhaustion from exertion. Life is easy in the woods. The fire is not dishonest. It only seeks to burn the wood. The frogs are not altruistic. They chirp and croak and mate with no great purpose other than surviving until the morning. And the chiggers that infested our bodies are just hungry–like me. And while there are consequences, like full bladders after big drinks and smoke that stings the eyes when the wind blows the wrong way, they are just natural responses from the earth and not artifices contrived to wound those in close proximity. This simple rhythm of cause and effect comforted me.

So what—you are asking—does this have to do with fear?

I was sitting in the outhouse my husband built around 2:00am Saturday morning when I heard footfalls outside the structure. And having listened to my husband warn us on more occasions than I care to recount about the activity of bears, I got it into my mind that there was one such creature prowling about outside. In my mind I could see his paws—massive and strong—padding through the dry leaves. And I knew he was hungry. Hungry and awake. And I knew he was coming for the poor unfortunate girl in the large brown box. I would be not unlike a tasty Ding Dong to be plucked from its wrapper and devoured with glee. Suddenly hunger took on a whole new meaning.

And I wondered if I screamed would my husband rouse from sleep fast enough to stave off the dripping jowls? Or would he merely snore on as the bear chewed the meat from my bones? And I wondered if my demise would hurt very much. And then I wondered what the newspaper headline would like and if anyone would even care to read it. And while all of these thoughts were racing through my head I remembered that I had unzipped the tent for my friend Tank(my boxer dog). So when I found the courage to step out of the tent with my flashlight and scan the perimeter I saw him standing there guarding me. And I realized that the running bear narrative in my mind had all been a huge mirage brought on by darkness and shadows, and cobwebs of the mind.

But I have to admit, as scared as I was over my dog pretending to be a bear, there are so many other things I do in my life(creating false narratives and making mountains out of molehills) that drive me to fear and trembling and immobility.

And that is when I realized that so many of my decisions are based not on reality, but rather on feelings and assumptions and misperceptions about life and people. My heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. And my natural tendency to cower and hide–to withdraw from people–is making it impossible to make a very important decision. Because I think the thing I fear most–under the guise of relationships with human beings–is myself. And it’s a trumped up charge because I am not as bad as I think. This idea that I’m a wreck and so flawed that I’ll never fit in with church people is just like the bear – a figment of my wacky imagination. And it’s time to stop making decisions based on feelings and just do what’s right. It’s not about comfort, it’s about accepting myself as okay and learning to forgive and love all human beings, especially myself!

I have been fumbling miserably all summer as I tried to build new relationships, but once the glow wears off, once its time to do the hard work of lasting relationships, when it’s no longer easy and fresh and clean, I totally freak out and withdraw. Because I’m so afraid people will see the messy Margaret and reject me that I create all these reasons why I can’t do life with them. Or I see their weirdness and want an easy exit. It’s so easy to love people from a distance and pretend to be normal and good, but real relationships are risky and come at great personal cost. And that’s really, really scary for me. Because deep down, I’m so petrified of hurting or getting hurt.

Last night I faced my fear because my body had let me down. My depression was so overwhelming(as it has been for several weeks now) and I couldn’t reach my main people. So I called someone I knew would speak truth into my situation, even though they were a little outside my comfort zone. As I was dialing the number I started to panic and all these crazy thoughts went through my head. Like what if they call the police and tell them I need to go to Crazy Town? Or what if they hang up on me because I’m so weird? Or what if they make me commit to something just because I needed someone to talk to in the moment? Or what if I don’t like what they say? But I told the thoughts to vamoose and I made the call. And that is when I realized that all these irrational fears are really hindering my personal growth and it’s time to shut them down.

What are you afraid of today? What is holding you back? What is stealing your joy? Your peace? Your future? Ask God to help you face it and then move forward. I cried this morning when I walked around my neighborhood and asked the Lord to help me remember my purpose. I had lost my way and I’ve been trying desperately to find it. I have been so overwhelmed with all these thoughts and fallacies and I felt Him ask me, “Margaret, what are you striving for?”

And I thought about it. And in a few moments it became very clear… It’s the gospel. The gospel is sufficient. God is sufficient. I am not, but He is. In any and every situation, He is more than enough. And if that is truly the case, what in the world am I so afraid of?