Destination Discipline

“Answer me when I call, O God of my righteousness! You have given me relief when I was in distress. Be gracious to me and hear my prayer!” Psalm 4:1

My friend’s brother died Sunday. He was fighting cancer. He very suddenly lost the battle. I am shaken by the news because I love my friend and I have prayed for her brother for several years. His passing reiterates to me the brokenness of this world and the tremendous pain that results from the sting of death. I also wonder why God allowed him to die when I was so hopeful he would live. While I stand seemingly helpless to mitigate her grief, I wish for nothing more than the ability to lift it from her, even though I know my shoulders are not strong enough to carry the weight.

This past weekend we made a trip to Washington, Missouri to visit with our family and celebrate Christmas. We took a shortcut on the way out through several small towns and enjoyed the sunshiny scenery. Furry cows, adorned with their winter coats, and cozy country homes with smoke billowing from chimneys made for a peaceful drive. We all stopped fighting for a few minutes (I have boys who love to torture and maim each other) and relaxed.

We passed through New Melle, Missouri and pondered. What would it be like to live in a small town? Everything looks so peaceful when one is driving through. Our mouths watered when we saw the Bavarian Smokehouse, and we marveled at the architecture of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church. We openly wondered about the sturdy hands that build the structure in 1860. What love and care they put into assembling the limestone bricks that contribute to the character of the building. As we passed out of town, we enjoyed the natural setting. The clusters of spindly trees surrounding homes well beyond our price range filled us with reverence and a bit of envy. Still, it enabled us to dream a bit, not unlike the window shopper who peruses the storefront, looking eagerly through the frosty windows and wondering how we would feel to slip on that luxurious mink coat.

But everything was different on the drive home in the dark. Drunk with the splendor of a rich meal in our bellies and the afterglow of family togetherness, we missed one of our turns. Suddenly that friendly stretch of highway was an inhospitable wilderness. We scrambled to pull up Google maps to help us reorient the direction in which we were actually meant to travel. The shoulderless stretch of road suddenly erupted with a bevy of vehicles the moment we pulled over. We anxiously turned and hoped and prayed that we would get back on the right route. It was cold, foreign, and incredibly dark.

Gone were the friendly homes, the enchanted woodlands and the sweet smelling eateries. Instead our imaginations were fraught with hobgoblins, ghouls and the idea that we could break down and get stranded in the middle of nowhere with no cell service. Then, to add to our misery, a small bladder screamed to be emptied and the spooky night was encumbered by an impending sense of urgency. My husband’s foot pressed on the gas pedal and I found myself holding onto a hand grip as we hugged a sharp turn. I hoped and I prayed, but I was also scared. First, that we could crash, and second, that my child would spill his bladder all over the back seat of my car. Strange how the absence of light created such a difference in our perspective, and all because the earth shifts in its trajectory around the sun for a few hours.

I could have prayed for the sun to come back out, even though it was only 6:00pm. I could have prayed for my son’s bladder to stop throbbing and empty without fouling the upholstery of my car. I could even have prayed for my husband to listen to reason and pull over at a gas station, even though the sun coming back out was a more likely scenario. Alas, all I could do was hold on for the ride and whimper inaudibly.

I guess what I am trying to say by writing those things is that my prayers are often unreasonable in the grand scope of what God is doing. I wanted my friend’s brother to live and be cured of cancer. He was not. God has a reason for this that I cannot possibly understand. And while I feel it is unfair, I can also concede that He is in every way wiser than myself and knows immensely better than I do about every single aspect of His creation. How can I do this? Because I trust Him. Why? Because I know how much He loves me.

When I consider my thoughts and the darkness of that ride, I think they are not unlike my thoughts when encompassed by the shadow of death. All light is eclipsed. And worse, the thick cloud of sorrow is like an airless shroud over my all-too-fragile human heart. Were I to poke at it with my fumbling fingers, I could not lift or tear it. Instead I am left to smother and sweat and sob. The absence of light is at the very least, discomforting, and were I to exclusively focus on that, I would die for lack of hope. That is what death tempts us to do; despair. It was at the heart of Satan’s temptation to Eve; separate us from the light by trickery and then laugh while we gasp, wail and moan in darkness.

If we allow ourselves to be separated from God by rejecting his light, we will all die in darkness. But God demonstrated His deep and abiding love for us by sending His son to pierce the darkness forever. Jesus Christ has conquered the grave. It is the only hope I have in the midst of my sadness over the death of my friend’s brother.

“O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” I Corinthians 15:55

“The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” I Corinthians 15-56-57

Our response to death is important, as it is to every instance of adversity we face. We can wish the pain away. We can pretend it is not happening. We can even try to anesthetize it. We can even throw unreasonable prayers at it but—and this is important—only God can heal it forever.

I remember when I read about the tragic death of Stephen Curtis Chapman’s young daughter, Maria Sue Chapman. I wondered how he would respond in the face of such a devastating loss. I am encouraged to read that he is still walking with his Savior. The path has not been an easy one, but his faith in God has sustained him.

Dear reader, if you have suffered tremendous loss today, reach out and take His hand. Cling not to your feelings. Cling not to your hopeful wishes. Cling not to your own understanding of the situation. Cling to the God who (quite unreasonably) left the throne room of Heaven to walk on earth and die an agonizing death, carrying the weight of your sin so that He could enjoy fellowship with you forever. When we are faithless, He remains faithful. We are precious in His sight and never without hope.

As we drove somewhat blindly through that dark and winding road on Saturday evening, I looked out across a field and saw a home whose roof was illuminated with bright white lights shining out into the darkness. In the center of the roof was a bright white cross.

“Look, Mom!” My children cried. “Look at that!”

I said, “I see it.” And I marveled.

The cross shines brightest in the darkness of night. We are not abandoned. We are not without hope. When shrouded by the darkest of moments, remember this truth and rejoice!

I was riding my bike through the hills and flatlands of St. Charles, MO on a warm and sunny day recently with a cavity of darkness in my heart. Everywhere I looked I saw the beauty of Fall. Sweet gum Maples shivered in various stages of undress and pin oaks held tight to crisp brown leaves while a lone falcon stood stalwart on quivering power line watching for prey. I pedaled my Jamis hybrid as hard as I could, but not as fast as the other cyclists who passed me with ease. I had awoken with a blackness in my mind and was pedaling with the hope that I would find some peace from the terrible tremors that shook me in the night. Sadly, all I felt was the numbness in my toes from a cold and callous breeze, and an ache in my sternum from hunching and gripping the handlebars of my bike. In addition to these physical pangs I experienced a loneliness I cannot quite put into words. I grasped at sanity like an arthritic woman grapples for her pain pills, but sanity would not be found and I was left with few options but to keep pedaling.

Sometimes we find ourselves on lonely highways with only a long stretch of cracked pavement in front of us. So it is with a friend of mine who is facing an unexpected surgery. So many of her hopes have been dashed by the cruel circumstances of life that this proposed surgery now rises up before her like a hoary giant with a spiked club ready to smash her skull to bits and pieces. Often it is not the sudden freakish illness that destroys our confidence, but rather the slow and steady drip of adversity over days and months that robs us of peace. As I listened to her trembling voice, I felt the echo of a thousand questions pulsating through my own mind. I prayed for words but came face to face with my own doubt instead.

Why doesn’t God answer our prayers the way we want (or need) him to? Why does he let the husband die suddenly from melanoma? Why does the womb of the woman longing to be a mother remain empty? Why does the infant die in the night? Why must we suffer with physical ailments that cripple us? These questions and more plague my mind on days when the sun is shining but my heart is heavy.

I recently read an article about The Hallmark Channel. The writer expresses her frustration with life and offers the sappy, Christmassy feel good movies offered up as a nostalgic escape from reality. I like these movies too! The handsome fellow always charms the girl, there is usually a sweet kiss at the end, and everybody lives “happily ever after”. These warm stories provide a way of escape from the real world. My problem is that when they are over, I look over at my husband and tend to feel I’ve lost out. I begin to question why he isn’t like the guy on the flashing box? Why aren’t my children perfectly manicured and articulate? Why doesn’t I wake up in the morning looking as fresh and crease free as the heroin? These same stories once led me to believe beauty was the antidote to loneliness, money was the cure for poverty, and romance was real love. Now I perceive these misshapen assumptions as broken down vehicles on the real highways of life.

Real and true sorrow does not abate on the wings of fantasy. Fake it until you make it only gets one so far. So when our loved ones are lying a hospital bed and the prognosis is grim, we fly to them and pray, “God, where are you? We need you to show up right now!” And because we are so accustomed to the fantasy happy ending we expect our fairy godmother god to show up and bippity boppity boo us to good health and happiness. The problem is, the real God doesn’t work that way and he wants more for us than our temporary, transient, easily pleased fancies could ever dream of.

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible.” (Hebrews 11:1,3)

There are some who believe there is no God. They reason that a “loving God” would not allow suffering, pain and death. I understand this sentiment but do not ascribe to it. Instead, I believe in a being who created everything and then allowed us to not choose him. He granted us autonomy and we are living in the sludgy mess of what that actually looks like. We told him to kiss off and then we wonder why out lives are bleak and grim. But the most wonderful truth is, he is not far from any of us. He is close. He loves us. And He is only waiting for our hearts to wake up and realize our blunder and run fast into his arms where he waits to comfort us.

I picked up a few cds at the thrift store a few weeks ago and have been listening to them. My favorite is Handel’s Messiah by the London Symphony orchestra. I was driving to work this past week and wondering how to keep going. When the darkness of physical and emotional pain consume my soul, often music is my only comfort. I was aiming at Christmas cheer on the drive to work and instead heard “He shall feed his flock like a shepherd.” When the soloist sings, “and He shall give you rest,” I felt the dam break. The words come from Matthew 11:28, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

The rest that He offers is so much better than the schmaltzy stuff offered by the Hallmark channel. His rest is soul-satisfying and sweet. It comforts, consoles and heals the broken heart. It promises that one day we shall suffer no longer–not with physical ailments, empty wombs, or life-threatening seizures.

“And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.” (Matthew 10: 28-31)

So, dear friend, if you are reading this and feel defeated and without hope or solace, take heart. There is one who longs to comfort you and give you rest. He has promised to come if we call. He sees us traversing the cracked and broken highways. He knows we are pedaling hard and not really getting anywhere. And He is only waiting for us to invite Him into the empty cavities in our hearts.

Beloved, if you follow Jesus on the cracked highways of life, please know that you are never forsaken and you will never walk alone.

“Turn around bright eyes…but every now and then I fall apart!” – Bonnie Tyler

Did you ever have one of those days that turned into one of those weeks that turned into one of those months? Did you ever wake up one morning and say, “Enough!” only to experience the distinct feeling of Déjà vu? After about a month of these kinds of days, I’m feeling more than a little put out. All my coping mechanisms have been exhausted. I’ve eaten and exercised and prayed and screamed at my children and kicked my husband in his sleep and I don’t feel any better. So today, for the sake of my sanity, I’m opening my can of sarcasm and letting all the worms go free! And you, dear reader, are invited along for the journey.

Life is not like a box of chocolates – it’s like poo.

We pulled up to Tae Kwon Do practice last night and nobody was there. I take that back. There was a young guy in his white uniform standing there with his hand up saying, “Go home, class has been cancelled.” I was agitated because I had been looking forward to listening to The Ambassadors of Harmony practice their songs (they practice in the same facility as my son practices Tae Kwon Do and let folks listen for fun). They have been singing this song about Pirate Harmonies (part of their Christmas program line-up) and I enjoy it immensely. No practice meant no pirate harmonies. No scallywags, only, “Argh’s!” So as I was driving my teenage son home I suggested we stop by the library and get a book. Books make me feel better when I’m unhappy. But he refused to go into the library with me because he was self-conscious about his uniform. So I had to walk into the library by myself. In the cold. With no coat. Where the librarian reminded me that I have a $9.54 late fee.

Teenagers are stupid

Listen, I know what it feels like to be a teenager. I used to be one many moons ago. And I specifically remember my mother giving me a hard time about the poof on top of my head that I spent considerable time curling and hair-spraying in order to fit in with the “in” crowd. Only to have HER tell me I looked like a peacock. Now, I knew back then that she was a moron so that was okay. And there was nothing she was ever going to say to me that would convince me otherwise. As evidenced by her strict adherence to distasteful rules like putting ones laundry away the day it was washed, or picking up ones room, or not torturing ones siblings. She didn’t seem to understand that the whole reason siblings were born was to be the rump-squishing receptacle for my maniacal pinchers, which is why my sister cannot climb a flight of stairs today with someone behind her due to serious psychological childhood trauma.

Parental failure is inevitable

Rather than respond kindly to my son’s insecurities and encourage him appropriately, I devolved into juvenile behavior and began goading him. My poor, disappointed 16 year old was then put on the receiving end of the most juvenile of all adult behavior—manipulation therapy. Truth be told, I was only picking on him because I was in a bad mood and decided he should be too. If you have never done this to your child, well, you are a far better parent than I am. It’s shameful and wicked and I repented profusely this morning while pleading with him to forgive me. He gave me the grunt of acknowledgement so I know that he at least heard me, but it didn’t really make me feel any better.

Self-torture isn’t nearly all it’s cracked up to be

This morning I found myself on the elliptical machine of doom, panting and sweating and really regretting that late night bowl of butter-laden popcorn, because once again, I’ve gained 5 pounds. It’s not my fault of course, but rather stress, lack of sleep, and afternoon unhealthy snack breaks. All of these gremlins have conspired to fatten me, much the stern consternation of my pants. And since the pants hold the power of the universe in their sharp, zippered teeth, and have a way of making one’s life an absolute living hell, I resolved to appease them with 70 minutes of leg swishing, feet numbing, butt-busting activity that will ensure I won’t be able to walk at all tomorrow.

My children will be in therapy forever

After my workout and a litany of prayers, I resolved to be a better person and have a good day. And yet, not 30 minutes after begging my teenager to forgive me, I nearly ruptured my vocal chords hollering at my youngest child because he wouldn’t stop messing with the dog when I needed him to take his blood sugar. And then, because I was frustrated, I ran outside, slipped on ice that had formed overnight in the carport from the tipped-over bucket containing the real-live-Christmas tree my husband insisted on buying even though I told him it’s a terrible waste of money. I mean, we could get a used tree at any thrift shop for half the price and not have pine needles poisoning our nostrils, but I digress.

Now maybe at this point in the story you might be wondering why I didn’t just give up and go back to bed. I mean, obviously I am failing in every single area of my life and therefore the best decision of the day would be to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and protect the unsuspecting masses from the little black rain cloud over my head. The problem is, Friday is the busiest day of the work week and I have serious, grown-up stuff to do so I can make enough money to pay the mortgage. I can’t go around flopping in bed and pretending to be sick no matter how screwy my brain nor how sincere my psychosis. Nope! Time to pull up the big-girl britches and push through, Baby!

“Don’t be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, be the straw that feeds the camel.” – Randall Goodgame

So when I arrived at work and saw the blue screen of death on my boss’s computer, my eye twitched just a little bit. And when he asked me to try and reboot it, but it only blinked and crashed again, that was it. Game over. And it was only 8:00am.

So I decided that rather than take my aggression out on my co-workers, I would get coffee. I really know better than to drink coffee, after all, it provokes my anxiety. Still, I was really feeling crabby and I knew coffee would help. Of course I was interrupted 6 times and by the time I got to drink it, it was luke warm and mealy. But hey, it was still caffeine, and so, down the hatch!

And that is when I discovered that crabby + coffee = feisty!

Why are you looking at me like that?

Sometimes life is disappointing. It’s completing repetitive tasks that make us crazy, being nice to meanies, and working long, arduous hours that make us question why we ever wanted to grow up in the first place. We find ourselves dragging our buns across the finish line at 5:00 or even 6:00pm, only to run errands, make dinner and muster just enough strength to climb into bed and fall asleep just so we can wake up the next day and do it all over again. We say things we don’t mean, scream at the people we love and eat too many cookies, only to anger our pants, and end up torturing ourselves on glorified hamster wheels. Or is it only me?

I ran into a friend of mine at work this afternoon and she shared her own story of the little black rain cloud that could, only hers involved viruses and vomit. And I have to say, it’s awfully nice to know I’m really not the only one.

Sometimes our only recourse against the days, weeks and months of drudgery is comedy. Laughter is surely a simple solace for the suffering soul.