Destination Discipline

“An innocent child is a beautiful thing
Secure in a Father’s arms
Sleeps while Mother sings
There’s no way to know
All the harm this world can bring
I miss my innocence
Oh to be innocent”

-Amy Grant “Innocence Lost”

I remember when I was a child and my mother would sing to me and rock me to sleep. I remember the melodies more than the words. I would try hard to stay awake because I loved her voice and the way it made me feel; safe, secure, and loved.

Much of the wonder of childhood is wrapped up in simple pleasures. The brilliance of a magnifying glass and a leaf on a sunny day. Freshly fallen snow. The gentle squeaking of a clown twisting balloons into a cute bunny rabbit.

I remember the first big disappointment I faced as a child. I was to spend the night with friends of our family and go to the zoo the next morning. I could not wait to see the animals. It was all I thought about for weeks. And then it started to rain. We drove to the friends house and prayed it would stop raining by the time morning arrived. It did not. So instead of going to the zoo I went home with a broken heart.

Innocence amplifies our responses to pleasure and pain. We develop our coping mechanisms by experience. We would not know fierce winds and billowing clouds were precursors to a violent storm unless we had previously been pelted by rain. Just as I never knew the danger of a flood until the storm sewers backed up and the street in front of my house turned into a river. I thought it was just water–like a swimming pool–until my parents pointed out the swirling whirlpool near the sewer grate and its ability to suck me to my death.

Much has been written about mental torment as a result of the pandemic. Suicide hotlines have seen an influx of callers as have child abuse hotlines and various social agencies. While some of us thought the economic impacts were the worst casualty, others grieved a loved one with no funeral. This goes without saying. But some of us are in worse shape than anyone can possibly imagine as we try to hold onto our jobs and our social circles while navigating the treacherous news cycles and social media platforms that have defined our lives in recent years. We seek out the nostalgia of pre-pandemic days as we try to evoke a sense of wellbeing, but reality comes hurtling toward us like a runaway train with all its fury and clamor. We stand staring while the conductor blares the horn but like a bad dream–we are unable to move.

So we ask ourselves, will life ever be the same? Is this our forever “new normal”?

I feel like Linus without his security blanket.

I’ll never forget my sister and brother stealing my place on my mother’s lap. This is the tragedy of being the oldest child. One day I was Mommy’s baby and the next I was the oldest and responsible for setting an example. I was no longer allowed to suck my fingers, or keep my security blanket, (yes, I had one) or climb into Mommy’s bed. I now realize growing up is a slow shedding of innocence and quite candidly, the older I get, the more awful it seems.

Yesterday I happened across an interview with Roger Joseph Manning, Jr., the founding member of a band I loved in high school: the Jellyfish. He described the song writer’s ability to make a melody that transports the listener into another reality. Even as a young song writer, he recognized this resplendent capability and leveraged a friendship to achieve the perfect album. They poured their hearts and souls into the project only to succeed musically but lose the friendship. Much to their grief, they didn’t even profit off the endeavor. Sure, they have a handful of fans but some “Benjamin’s” would have been nice too.

How many musicians and artists have leveraged blood, sweat and tears to never achieve the level of success they desired? If I were to hazard a guess, I would say too many. But I am still thankful for their sacrifice. In listening to those songs that brought me joy as a 15-year-old child, I somehow recaptured the wonder of my youth. For a few hours I listened–blissfully unaware of the pandemic or the host of other sorrows that have plagued me in recent days. I let the chords roll over me and felt the notes dissolve my pain. This kind of soul-healing salve is precious and utterly priceless. For that, Roger, I thank you.

Unfortunately, it seems that no area of life is untainted by pain but I suppose this is why lullabies exist. In our tired and fretful existence we forget the luxury of sleep and its impact on the weary soul. We need musicians to remind us to breathe and relax and rest. And so I end this blog with the lyrics from the first song on the album, Split Milk. I’ll sing it again and remember what it felt like to wonder and dream and hope for brighter days.

Hush

Jellyfish

Go to sleep and hush little darling.
It’s time for bed, time to put out the light.
Sweet dreams are awaiting behind your closed eyes
And a blanket of night.
Where the bed bugs don’t bite.
Go to sleep and hush until morning.
You’ve said all your prayers.
Time to make them come true.

Don’t worry your daddy is here
If you need him tonight.
Ease your mind.
Rest your eyes and sleep tight.
Goodnight.

“No one will see if you stop believing.” – Mark Hall

The mines of Moria are dark. The small group, led by Gandalf the grey, had tried to go over the mountain, but an evil wind blew in snow that nearly froze them to death and forced them to go under. Gimli  was excited. He longed to know what became of his friend, Balin, who had gone there years before in search of treasure. Boromir longed to turn away. Who knew what lurked beneath the mountain? But Frodo insisted they move on. There was still that pesky issue of disposing of the ring.

They traveled the dark corridors for some days without trouble when they encountered Balin’s tomb. It was surrounded by bones and helms–remnants of the dwarves who had tried to recapture the wonder of ages gone by. A charred book detailed their fate; orcs had risen from the deep and trapped them in the small chamber.

“We cannot get out. The end comes. Drums, drums in the deep.”

In true dramatic fashion the drums of the orcs begin to thrum.

Boom, doom. Boom, doom. 

“Trapped! cried Gandalf. “Why did I delay? Here we are, caught, just as they were before. But I was not here then.”

If Balin was guilty of greed and the ruthless pursuit of glory and treasure, Frodo and Aragorn were not. Their noble task to destroy the ring of power and end the reign of Sauron was most noble. Yet there they stood in the dark–trapped just the same. Evil does not discriminate.

Sometimes the evil we face is so great we are driven to despair. Our fears rise up like malevolent gargoyles and we are pinned down and crushed. We want to run away, but like Frodo and his friends, we are trapped, and the dreary whispers of our enemy drown out any speck of hope.

A few years ago, a good friend of mine was pregnant and endured a horrific birth experience. When her water broke, they went to the hospital only to discover the baby was not progressing. They gave her Pitocin, which induced excruciating contractions. In her agony, they administered pain medication via an epidural, which promptly stopped the labor. She endured hours and hours of painful contractions and physicians and nurses who were not helpful. Like many women, she bears the scars of that experience.

My friend is pregnant again and due in a few weeks. Her fear and dread of labor has grown into a monster of epic proportions. Even though she has selected a different hospital and has a more caring doctor, she is–quite frankly–terrified. No amount of prayers and reassurance will give her peace. I suspect its fair to say she has labor and delivery PTSD. And the only way out of her situation is to endure it.

My friend feels like a handkerchief blowing in the wind and in some respects, she is flimsy. There is nothing more vulnerable than a pregnant woman who is near term. She is beset by hormones, physically exhausted, and without the regular support system one needs because her family is out of state. The coronavirus has robbed us of so many comforts, why wouldn’t it steal our sense of security as well? But no matter the fear–our God is stronger than flint and He will sustain her.

How can I say such a thing?

I recently asked a friend if we could trust the bible. We were discussing some really tough situations in our lives, and while we believe in God, suffering has a way of eroding faith and trust in Him. We want to know why He doesn’t stop hard things from happening. In short, we want practical solutions to esoteric problems. I asked her, “Can we really believe and trust in these old texts? I mean, it is thousands of years old.” I’m not the first to question its authenticity, and in the heat of cruel emotions, it’s very tempting to throw it in the dirt.

The disciples had a similar dilemma in response to the teachings of Jesus when he said he was “the bread of life.”

“It is the spirit who gives life; the flesh is no help at all. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life.” – John 6:63

“After this many of his disciples turned back and no longer walked with him. So Jesus said to the twelve, ‘Do you want to go away as well?’ Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know that you are the Holy One of God.” John 6:66-69

We place our trust in something we cannot see, and while it often befuddles others, it sometimes befuddles us too. But the reality is, whether I like it or not, I do believe it. And not in the “I believe in Santa Claus” kind of way. I’ve staked my life on it.

There is no guarantee my friend won’t suffer another horrific labor and delivery. She might even die in childbirth. It pains me to write that and I pray it doesn’t happen. But I’m thinking of my other friend whose son is suffering terrible mental health issues. She said, “God never promised us we would be “whole.” And he didn’t. He sent Jesus to die for our sin, not so that we would have perfect, pain-free lives.

“Trapped! cried Gandalf. “Why did I delay? Here we are, caught, just as they were before. But I was not here then.“

Of course Gandalf protected Frodo and the rest of the fellowship. Unlike Balin, they made it out of Moria alive. Alas, Gandalf fell to his death due to the machinations of the balrog. I may be remiss to make this analogy, but it does feel the same way with God. He sent Jesus to bear our sin and shame. He suffered and died. Then he rose from the dead. If I believe the bible–that’s probably the most important thing to believe. Because without the resurrection of Christ–my faith is worthless.

So we walk with faces unflinching into the fire. No matter how flimsy we feel, God is not. His strength will sustain us–even unto the end.

I was sitting quietly at my work station when I heard the “thwack” of a large object hitting the door to my office. My co-workers stood up and looked at me, “What is happening?” I imagined the worst; the mailman threw a package and broke the glass–but no, it was worse.

I opened the door and saw a tiny Junco. The little gray and white bird lay gasping on my doorstep. I could have left it there–after all, there was nothing I could do. She was either stunned–would revive and fly away, or dying. And since I am not a veterinarian or a miracle worker, I could have closed the door and went on about my business. Instead, I kneeled down and gently scooped her up. Her tiny heart was beating so fast, but she did not blink or move. She simply lay there staring at me.

I sat at my desk with her for a few minutes and prayed for her. I thought, maybe God will spare her. So I prayed more fervently as I sensed the struggle in her to live. It was as if I could hear her whispering, “Help me! Save me! I don’t want to die!”

So I prayed, “God, please heal her neck. Have mercy! She’s just a little bird. She is so beautiful and lovely. Surely you don’t want to see such a wonderful creature pass away.” Because the truth is, I believe in miracles. I believe Jesus made the lame to walk and the blind to see.  He also said he sees every sparrow that falls.

Back before Christmas I was really struggling with the weight of despair. The oppressive nature of isolation was really getting to me, along with fears about the election process. I don’t watch a lot of television but I felt the need for something inspirational and positive. I identify with true stories that illustrate courage in the face of adversity but I was having a hard time finding one that wasn’t cheesy. Then I stumbled across the documentary, Rich Mullins: A Ragamuffin’s Legacy.

Rich Mullins

I have heard a lot about Rich Mullins over the years but never really listened to his music. By all accounts, Mullins was an odd duck. He struggled with alcohol addiction, depression, and a painful history with his father. He was a square cog shoved into a round music industry hole–going so far as to abandon Nashville to live on an Indian reservation because he wanted to minister to the poor. He was moody. Rude. Weird. And he was talented as all “get out”. Mostly importantly, he loved God.

Over the past few weeks I’ve been listening to his songs. I happened across a few cd’s while Christmas shopping at the thrift store. And since I don’t believe in coincidences, I bought them all. It’s the best $3 I ever spent.

And this is the point in the blog where I wax eloquent about how awesome good music is and how healing it can be. But also how hard it is in this day and age to find music with powerful, relevant lyrics.

“And I know that the gates of hell are not as prone to prevail as I thought that they were. And I pray it won’t be long until your kingdom comes.” – Rich Mullins

“There is a loyalty that is deeper than mere sentiments.” – Rich Mullins

“So if I stand, let me stand on the promise that you will pull me through. And if I can’t, let me fall on the grace that first brought me to you. And if I sing, let me sing for the joy that has borne in me these songs. And if I weep, let it be as a man who is longing for his home.” – Rich Mullins

I’ve been listening to these songs over the past few days while a shadow passes over my country of origin. And since I have been reading, “The Fellowship of the Ring” to my son, I think of Mordor and wonder, “Where is Aragorn? Where is Gandalf? Is anyone coming to save us from the Nazgul?”

And then I remember; He already has.

“Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, who do people say that the Son of Man is? And they said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, others say Elijah, and others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’ He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?” Simon Peter replied, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus answered him, “Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” Matthew 16: 13-19

I have to remind myself that it is during the darkest of hours of our lives that we lift our eyes to the heavens and put our trust in God. He doesn’t always answer our prayers the way we want Him to, but that makes him no less powerful. He loves us and He hears us.

The little Junco did not revive. She slowly turned cold. Rich Mullins also died. His jeep rolled over on his way to a concert in 1997. He was 41–only a few years younger than my grandmother who also died in a car crash. Meanwhile, people are dying of illness and tragedy all around us and our government is in upheaval. Where is our hope?

My co-workers–my dogs, Annabelle and Tank–watched as I buried the little bird in my yard. I committed her body to the maker of all good things. He gives and He takes away. Blessed be His name. There is so much peace in knowing He is absolutely in control of each and every situation on the planet at all times. It boggles the mind, but this is where I put my faith and my trust. Where do you put yours?

“There is such a thing as glory and there are hints of it everywhere.” – Rich Mullins