Destination Discipline

How often have we used the phrase, “What goes around, comes around?” Like a giant cosmic boomerang, we sardonically point at those who persecute us and celebrate the hope that their offences will “come back around” to whack them upside the head. This is especially pertinent in the workplace when we who have no power are taken to the woodshed over minor incidents and made to feel as if our efforts are—if not worthless—then at least completely trivial. The project we expended so much energy on, lost sleep over, and poured our life’s blood into is discarded with a simple, “That’s not what I asked for. You’ll need to start over.” We crumple. We retreat. We embitter. And we seethe with disappointment because we really have no recourse for retaliation.

Those who know me well know that I used to work for a bad boss. He was the epitome of casual heartlessness and made my days at work a passive hell because I never knew exactly when, like a poisonous viper, he would strike. He was proud of his nasty reputation (yes, he would actually boast about how everyone hated him) and took great delight in torturing those who reported to him.

One fine winter day we were in the process of planning a spring training conference to which most of our department would travel. I was responsible for logistics and general administrative responsibilities. I very much liked the other fellows on my team and wanted to play a practical joke on them while we were on the trip. Namely, I wanted to put plastic bugs in their hotel rooms. This stemmed out of their stories from travel all over the continental United States and some of the horrors they had experienced in low-budget motels (leftover toenail clippings and assorted skin scrapings-oh my!). I asked the hotel if I could gain entrance to my co-worker’s rooms in order to place the roaches, spiders and ants, but they told me I needed approval from my boss, to whom I will affectionately refer to heretofore as “The Toad.” (there’s a story behind that as well but I’ll save it for another day)

And so I went into The Toad’s office and asked if I could do this prank for fun. And he said, “Only if I get to play a little prank too.” He described the prank he wanted to play on the gentlemen I worked with. I personally thought it was awful and I wanted to say no, but I really wanted to have fun on the trip and so I awkwardly let him do that terrible thing. And I can still see the men walking out of his office with their faces completely dismayed after having been notified that their careers were over because their co-worker, Margaret, had accused them of sexual harassment.

20 years have passed since this seemingly minor workplace event. There are days when I wonder why I allowed The Toad to torture my friends (for they were surely my friends) in such a despicable way. Why didn’t I somehow thwart his evil plan? Or why didn’t I find another way to have fun with my co-workers on our trip? I can chalk the experience up to my youth and inexperience and a handful of other excuses that make me more comfortable, but when applied to the Karmic response of the boomerang, I have to admit I’m a little nervous.

I’ve been taking some lumps at work lately and when I consider past workplace indiscretions (of which this is a very minor example), I think shoot, maybe this is what I deserve. For it sure is comfy to say, “what goes around comes around” when it applies to someone else but it doesn’t feel very nice when applied to me.

I had lunch with a friend recently who told me that he very much strives to live a perfect life. He is kind, generous, thoughtful and caring. He lives in such a way as to make a positive difference in the lives of those around him. He said, “God created people as imperfect. I don’t know why, but he did. And so I hope that when we die God judges us on intent, knowing that we did the best we could.”
I’ve thought a lot about that conversation since we had it, not the least of which was one morning this week after my son sent me a text message to notify me that he was driving to the courthouse to get married. I was shocked and disheartened because I wanted to witness that sacred event and I felt robbed of being present. Worse, I learned later that he had told others this was planned for months, but he had not shared it with me. And while I knew he was engaged and that they were planning a ceremony of sorts, his 4-word text sent me reeling into a state of broken heartedness.

So when I found myself jogging through my neighborhood the next morning while thinking about my own youth and all of the vain seeds I sowed in blissful ignorance, I felt this whack upside my head. I thought about my own mother and the tears she shed over the many ways I disregarded her advice, railed against her wishes and better judgement, and rejected the love that would have spared me future pain. I thought, is this what happens when what goes around comes around? And I wept bitter tears of regret.

For there certainly was a time I did not strive to live a life that served others but rather spent all my time and energy serving myself. And if there is a scale that weighs all of my mistakes and willful selfishness against the good deeds I strive to do (many of which are pridefully motivated), I figure I’m pretty much doomed.

Have you ever had such thoughts? Have you ever walked a dark path and considered how very much you deserve the hurtful thing that has been done to you? Have you experienced the guilt and shame that accompanies it? If you have not I will tell you something; it is a double wound! And it throbs like ones bowels are spilling out. And if the only hope I have is that, like Earl Hickey, I must rectify my former sins in order to avert the baleful repercussions, I am just really, really worried.

But, dear reader, this is why I love the gospel message. The gospel is a message of peace because it teaches me that if (it reminds me that though my sins be as scarlet, they will be as white as snow) I surrender my will to God—my will to do things my way—Jesus takes the punishment/repercussions for my mistakes/transgressions instead of me. Yes, human beings are imperfect! I believe this is the curse of sin and we just cannot get away from it. Sin is constantly maligning all of my wishes to do good things and twisting them into absurdities. I was born into a dreadful curse from which my only hope of escape is through the free gift of God—his only son—who takes my sins and crucifies them on his cross. Surrendering my will is often much more difficult than I anticipate but the freedom from guilt, shame and the “cosmic boomerang” is immensely gratifying.

Today if you find yourself beaten down and despondent because it feels like what goes around truly does come around, please know that God sees your predicament and grieves with you. And then know that because of his love and care for you, He made it possible for the boomerang you deserved to be thwarted into the heart of his very own son. And all you have to do is accept his free gift of grace and then rest in peace. And dear reader, if you have never experienced it, please know that the peace of God truly does transcend all understanding.

There are so few people who are willing to visit the lonely and afflicted. To sit with the suffering person requires courage that most of us lack. We wonder, will we say something that causes them further distress? Will we somehow make them angry? What if they yell at us? Throw things? Weep unabashedly? We don’t want to wander into dark hallways where cobwebs lurk and so we wait for them to heal and return to our frothing play in the sunshine. But there is One who goes to such places and his comfort is sweet. And so for those who long for comfort, know this, you are never forsaken nor alone. If you invite Him to come close, he will.

I remember listening to Jason Gray on the radio not too long ago. He is a musician I enjoy and from whose music I take solace. He described a moment in his life where he confided to a friend that his marriage was crumbling. It was a fearful confession and a deeply painful one. His friend opened his arms wide and said, “Come here.” Then he wrapped his arms around Jason and just held him and let him cry. I remember thinking that there is nothing more profound than one who will hold us in our suffering and say nothing. There are times when words only inflict more damage when all we really need is the safe and protective arms of a friend.

I have been struggling with depression again. It is a frustrating condition, one which removes all the good feelings that make life fun and replaces them with darkness. I can remember the happy days, the carefree words to friends and co-workers, and the silly jokes. But now I’m drowning. I can’t catch a breath. My every thought is, “Swim! Swim! Swim!” because if I don’t, I’m going down and I may not make it back to the top.

Depression is a thief. And it’s really hard to be around someone who battles it. The day in and day out struggle of fighting for ones life is a grueling endeavor, and loved ones often get tired too. This morning that happened to me. I tried to talk to my husband about the pain I was feeling by sharing a deep wound I have carried since childhood. He said, “I want to help you but I can’t. And honestly, I can’t deal with this today. I’m leaving.” And he went out to enjoy the sunshine while I sat in silence wondering when the dark clouds will lift.

There is something immensely healing about tears. I think tears are natures way of rooting out the emotional poisons that lurk in our bodies. When we cry we release not only our emotional pain but all of our pretentions. I don’t believe tears are a sign of weakness, but rather of strength. Maybe that is why when I cry I feel relief.

I rode my bike and wept. I wept for what was and what will be. I wept for the wounds I have bourn in my body and the wounds I have caused others. I wept over my fear, my anxiety, my disquietness over relationships past and present. I wept because I wanted someone to hold me and not say anything and that somebody is nowhere to be found. Pain is that omnipresent human experience. It takes only a tiny needle to remind us just how wimpy about it we really are. So when I consider how important it is to have a friend who cares deeply about my sorrows, I am filled with gratitude.

“You have kept count of my tossings, put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” – Psalm 56:8

I have a lot of people in my life who tell me how to heal depression. They tell me I need more faith, more healthful food, more rest, a positive attitude, or the least helpful thing of all, “to just get over it!” I’m trying, I say. And they get frustrated when I’m not instantly healed and ready to go play. But God never responds to me that way. He meets me in my disquietude and pulls out his bottle. Then, he gently places it next to my cheek and begins to count, “One, two, ten, fifty-six…” And he never says the wrong thing. He encourages me to rest and know that I am loved and cared for.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can flesh do to me?”
– Psalm 56-3,4

Maybe there are people who have never experienced the kindness of God. Maybe they don’t think he’s real or that if he is, he is judging them or hating them or just waiting to put the whammy on them. But in our weak moments, when all of the frivolities of life crumble and the intense throb of a hammer on our thumb reminds us of our frailty, he is there. And when we are brave enough to admit our weakness, he expressly enters into our suffering and comforts us with his grace.

God met with me this morning. He whispered words of love to me once again. He looked on me with favor and said I am his precious child and that I am deeply and desperately loved. He proved it on the cross so I have no reason to doubt it. My pain is not the end of the story. God is my hero, my cornerstone, my refuge and strength. And if you are suffering or struggling today, reach out to him and he will help you too. Depression is a sickness but there is a great Healer and I trust him. Even in the pain, I trust Him.

“Blessed is the one who considers the poor! In the day of trouble the Lord delivers him; the Lord protects him and keeps him alive; he is called blessed in the land; you do not give him up to the will of his enemies. The Lord sustains him on his sickbed; in his illness you restore him to full health.” – Psalm 41:1-3

“Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. The troubles of my heart are enlarged; bring me out of my distresses. Consider my affliction and my trouble, and forgive all my sins.” – Psalm 25:16-18

I stood weeping on the bank of the river while my children splashed in the water. Their effervescent spirits were directly juxtaposed to the well of suffering I was drowning in. They leapt. I sobbed. They laughed. I mourned. Still, I praised God for His glorious creation, even as my tears gave way to sighing.

What enables the grieving person to praise God as tears drip down her nose? What mysterious power saturates the senses with pure joy even as heartache throbs in the chest? What kind of “crazy” religion comforts the mourning person in the midst of crippling sorrow?

I have not discovered a magic potion, nor have I stumbled upon the perfect pill to erase suffering. I cannot make light of the throb that comes when the hammer falls on the heart. If you are reading this and think that I offer you a makeshift splint when you need a plaster cast, please reconsider. I do not write this to offer a little distraction from the pain. I am in the pain and I have joy, and I want to share with my dear reader the reason why.

I have never experienced such a swell of emotion in response to memories. When one loses a loved one, the tidal wave of sorrow is utterly overwhelming. I stood on the bank of that river where we once played and saw my grandmother. The woman who I loved so deeply was etched in every ripple. I heard her voice calling my name and speaking such tender words of affirmation and care. Wave after wave washed over me and I struggled with how to reconcile the terrible aching loss with the beautiful memories that made her so special. I have personally found great comfort in nature when life goes awry and so finding no solace in the trickle of water or the sway of the trees, I grasped hopelessly to find solace and meaning after her death.

I suppose everyone responds to grief differently. I have seen charts that map the stages of grief but they aren’t especially helpful to me. First, the knowledge of what should happen doesn’t mitigate the pain. Second, what do I do when my symptoms are all out of order? All the charts taught me is that something must be wrong with me because I’m not doing it right.

All of the little pleasures that were once easy distractions have lost their appeal. The frivolous idioms that acquaintances have offered as condolences don’t console. Food has lost its savor and sleep has offered no respite. Worse, I find myself apologizing for my weariness. Why am I so doggone tired? I force myself out of bed and through my workouts because I must, not because there is any semblance of pleasure in waking or walking. And when I scan the heavens, tracing the clouds with my eyes in search of some kind of sign from my grandmother that she is looking down on me, I despair when I find none. All I feel is the restless echo my broken heart makes as it continues to beat like a lonely drum.

A few days ago when in the grasp of that sad stupor, I finally collapsed beneath the weight of my grief onto the only place that offers any kind of cushion; God’s word. Once there I found the sprout of something lovely, precious, and uncommonly fragrant.

“There is none holy like the Lord: for there is none besides you; there is no rock like our God.” 1 Samuel 2:2

As I read I remembered that my grandmother was a great bandager of wounds, but God is the great healer of broken hearts. I remembered how gladly my grandmother listened to me as I shared all of my emotional ouchies, but realized God can actually take them away if I offer them to Him. As a kindness to her family, my grandmother liked to bake sweet treats, but God offers his words and they are like honey to my soul. My grandmother loved to cuddle babies but God creates the babies to cuddle and cherish. As I pondered all of the attributes that made Ruby Allen so unique and lovely, it occurred to me that God created her that way. My grandmother was a gift from God to me (and so many others). And as I fully realized this, it felt like flowers, not unlike Surprise lilies, began to sprout from the dark and lonely soil of my heart.

So what does one do when thinking about a person who has had such a tremendous impact on ones life? How does one respond when contemplating each kiss, each handmade gift, and each unwarranted “I love you”? If you think that I responded by saying “Thank you” to God, you would be correct. And with that expression of praise I felt a measure of peace. Not to say all the pain was instantly removed, but the sting of death was certainly mitigated. My grandmother was a gift and her death is the not the end of the story.

Gratitude is a beautiful thing. A grateful heart has no space for anger, bitterness or regret. A heart that is thankful sings songs even when tears are forthcoming. A grateful heart can look into the chasm of death–see beauty–and smile.

God is always good. His words remind me of that time and time again. And while my feelings do not always match that great truth, it is nice when the grace of God intervenes and reminds me.

“Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.” Matthew 5:4

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.” Romans 15:13