Destination Discipline

We bought our house a few years ago and it was a handyman’s dream (or nightmare—depending on how much you like to work). While my husband attacked the inside (new floors, new walls, new plumbing, etc), the gardener in me longed to remove the rocks in the yard. I wanted to see flowers growing instead of beds of rock. The previous owners may have had good intent with their rock arrangements but any semblance of beauty had long ago departed. Out of the neglected rock beds grew hacked up stumps and unruly trees. It was utterly distasteful to my artistic-inclined eyes.

The brown Meramec River rocks lined not only the exterior walls of the house, but also much of the back yard. And while I have hauled away several truckloads of rocks, I still have tons (literally!) left to remove. I use a hoe for the easier piles, but I mainly use a long, heavy metal bar which I thrust into the compacted rock beds with sharp jabs. Once loosened, I pull out the rocks and throw them into buckets and then carry the buckets up a steep hill and dump them in my carport. Once that gets too full I load them into the pickup truck and haul them away. It is a grueling process and I am beginning to wonder if it will ever end.

It’s easy to rage at the rocks. I curse the people who put them in the yard in the first place. I curse the people who later moved in and weren’t brave enough to remove them, instead choosing to put layers of pea gravel and sand over them. I curse the heat and humidity that conspire to slow my progress. I even curse my husband for insisting we buy this God-forsaken house because it was “cheap.” I didn’t want this house. I wanted my old house. And every single rock is a reminder of what was, and what now is not. In some ways I have come to realize that my fight against the rocks is part of the continuing battle against my selfish desires. I have this notion that once all of the rocks have been removed, maybe I will have triumphed over myself.

The other night I was raging against the rocks as I contemplated my real-world problems. I speared at the hard-packed earth as tears muddied the dust in my hands. I knew my anger was not fruitful but I couldn’t un-feel it. Like those unforgiving rocks it was lodged in the hard-packed clay of my heart. I was searching for someone to blame for the circumstances that were causing me pain, but found myself only slipping into further into despair. As is often the case with people problems, I could see no easy solution. We really have very few options when we truly love someone. We can despise them and walk away from the relationship or we can forgive them and accept them for who they are. When the relationship involves our children, we are forced to realize there is an inescapable bond that restricts our freedom in this regard. Our natural tendencies to protect and teach get muddied as those younger ones lash out with hatred and frustration. Because they are, after all, little human beings with wills and desires of their own, they rarely want their parents poking their noses into their business, especially when it relates to discipline. What we think protects, they perceive as harm, and all manner of messiness erupts in the process.

Somewhere in the midst of my frustration, anger and grief I started to believe that God wants me to suffer. I started to believe He is punishing me for the wrongs I did in my own youth, and a flood of tears ensued.

Anger is awful and undeniable in its force, but even though it is not evil in and of itself, it must be handled with wisdom lest it completely consume.

“A man of wrath stirs up strife, and one given to anger causes much transgression.” Proverbs 29:22

As I worked at the rocks in the soil I began to pray about the rocks in my heart. In those moments of fiery temptation I found that nothing in me was good. I realized that raging and roiling over circumstances beyond my control would only fuel the fire. And so I went searching for water—living water—to quench my agonies because I knew from past experience that I would find no solace in letting it burn out of control.

I have learned that scripture—God’s Word—is a cool fountain that quenches even the hottest flames. And so I emptied my mind of my thoughts and filled them with verses instead. As I memorized each word I felt the angry “rocks” in my heart wrench free and fill with refreshing peace. The problems I wanted to solve are really unsolvable anyway and so I found that focusing on what really matters—God’s tremendous love and care for me and His absolute, unshakable sovereignty—inexorably quenched the burning anger in my heart.

When we neglect the Word of God, we deny ourselves the resolution we seek. We grope about for solutions and find only Band-Aids for our gaping wounds. We struggle with anger, exhaustion, sadness and frustration without the proper salve that will bring lasting relief from our pain.

“For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart.” Hebrews 4:12

If you have only imagined that the Bible is full of boring and dry verses, you have not truly mined the treasure of God’s word. Every problem known to mankind can be solved with the most important book you can possibly possess. People in other lands risk their lives to acquire it while we in America frequently let it collect dust or dry rot at the bottom of a book shelf. This should not be so! But lest this sound like a lecture, let me assure you that I only want to reiterate the truth about the most beautiful gift human beings have ever been given. I know it because I have lived it, and never more so than a few nights ago when I thought anger would literally break me in half.

I foresee a lot of rocks in my future, both literal and metaphorical, and it helps to know I have good tools as I begin each excavation endeavor. If you have read this, now you do too. The discipline of learning to turn the pages in ones Bible and read the word is probably the most worthwhile discipline there is and I am exceedingly glad to learn it.

“And my heart is yours. And what a broken place it’s in. But you’re what I’m running for. And I want to feel the wind at my back again.” Switchfoot – Back to the Beginning Again

How does it feel to live in a land where the worst enemy you face is yourself? The enemy knows every weakness and can cut you down at the knees with a thought. Outwitting this enemy takes grit, but not the kind that comes from within. For there is no weapon known to man that can defeat this sickness of soul. Not will power, not self-control, not determination or even fortitude. The grit of which I speak is grace and it’s a gift, one I all too often refuse.

I find myself in desperate need of grit via grace lately. Waves of depression and anxiety have scrambled my brain. I find my perspective and thinking aren’t clear or even accurate at times. I am paranoid, distrustful, resentful and bitter. I try to control my impulses only to find myself slipping and stumbling down another binge-eating hill. My journey to learn discipline seems to stop entirely while I nurse my wounds and try to gather enough courage to take another step. I won’t sidestep the truth, it’s daunting.

Today I feel like I’m suffocating beneath the weight of these burdens. The crushing weight of despair is a black veil twined round my face. In these moments I am ugly to those around me—thinking and sometimes speaking the darkness to life. I am guilty of trying to distract away the darkness, but no amount of television or food or wishful dreaming removes the veil. So I’ve been thoughtfully sorting through books that might shed light on my affliction, but the only book that seems to offer any comfort at all is the Bible, and even that is faint.

I feel like I’m back at the beginning again. I’m clinging to an old and tattered piece of cloth and praying that God will make it new. I’m praying for peace—that the pain will relent—and for hope for a future free of depression. And I’m cognizant it may never come in my lifetime. I’m standing at the bottom of the well with only a pinprick of light and praying for someone to throw me a rope and pull me out. Grace is all I’ve got left….

but He is more than enough.

On the days when I find myself back at the beginning, I consider that the beginning is a good place to start. At the beginning I realize just how desperately I need God’s grace and that He is capable to abundantly provide it. At the beginning I realize I have no strength in myself to take a single step forward, but He loves me anyway. Love isn’t a sentiment of affection from afar, but an actionable event He is holding me and telling me I am precious and dearly loved. My darkness doesn’t scare Him. He doesn’t flinch at my tears or push me away to wipe the snot from his shoulder. He loves me in all my messiness.

Today if you are struggling with something, whether it is the crippling pangs of food-addiction or alcoholism, or drug addiction, or anxiety, or depression or wayward child syndrome, or fill-in-the-blank, you are not alone. The God of the universe is closer than you imagine. Before you gasp the words, “Help me!” he is there.

I can’t see the light yet, but I know that light exists. I can’t feel the hope yet, but I know his arms are wrapped around my chest. I feel like the waters are closing over my nostrils but I know He is breathing through me. He is for me. He loves me. And so I hope in the God of grit and grace and I rejoice. Let these dead bones dance. I am His and He is mine. Hallelujah! Hosanna!

The television series, “This is Us” has sucked me in. I love it for the same reason many people do; the writers facilitate a discussion about issues that resonate with our culture. Race and sibling/parent relationships are at the forefront of the conversation and–interestingly enough–the show takes a very candid look at what it feels like to be overweight in a thin-obsessed society.

One of the main characters, Kate, is an obese woman who attends OA meetings and discusses her insecurity about her size. Chrissy Metz, the actress that portrays her, has been open with multiple publications about her struggles with weight in real life. I find her candor refreshing. She doesn’t minimize the impact obesity has on identity, and I believe she is charting new territory by not selling the fat-acceptance message in deference to the importance of living a healthy lifestyle. Our culture too often takes sides in this matter and rarely arrives at a meaningful resolution.

I live in this tension. I know what it feels like to be helplessly fat and I know what it feels like to find success in losing weight and keeping it off. I know what it feels like to feel the pinch of “too tight pants” and to experience gut-wrenching hunger as I deny myself the foods I desperately crave. I fight on the side that accepts people for who they are(pounds and all), and I fight on the side of living as healthy a lifestyle as possible. In my reality I find these sides are not opposing at all, it’s just that we consumers have become so hopelessly conditioned to the lure of good marketing.

Don’t believe everything you read.

Americans are fat. The studies tell us so. These studies prepared by reputable organizations tell us everything we never wanted to know. We know the fattest and healthiest cities to live in. We have studies on studies, proving or disproving every theory known to mankind. (Bacon vs. no bacon, butter vs. butter-free) Today I read this headline. In the article Mike Stobbe states, “The researchers estimated more than 107 million children and 603 million adults are obese. I guess fat children scare people. Why is that? Are fat children somehow more worrisome than hungry children? I pulled up information on world hunger and read, “The United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization estimates that about 795 million people of the 7.3 billion people in the world were suffering from chronic undernourishment in 2014-2016.

I’ll be honest, every single time I read about people who are hungry or “wasting”, I feel like an idiot for talking about food addiction. Because, really, how can we possibly compare the two? But I digress.

There was a scene in an early episode of “This is Us” where Kate berates a thin woman for discussing her body issues(the woman was anorexic). It was vastly unfair. Kate was exasperated with her own inability to lose weight and the show justified her shaming the thin woman. I have learned that the very same emotional issues that cause obesity also cause anorexia (when in doubt read Portia De Rossi’s account in “Unbearable Lightness”). And while we’re being honest, we should at least acknowledge that we all have a disease. But rather than treat only the symptoms(obesity, anorexia, alcoholism, greed), why aren’t we working harder to fix the major malfunction inside our bodies, and—could I be so bold as to suggest—our hearts?

You Hypocrite!

I met a young guy named Zack at Sam’s Club the other day while spending more money on dog food than it would cost to feed three children for a month. We were discussing music when he introduced me to an artist who sings under the name, Father John Misty(Josh Tillman). Zack explained to me that he really likes Josh’s music because he points out the hypocrisy of Christians. When I asked him why the music resonated with him, he told me that the people who claimed to be Christians in his life had rejected and wounded him. I was curious and I went home and listened to a few his songs.

“Oh, their religions are the best
They worship themselves yet they’re totally obsessed
With risen zombies, celestial virgins, magic tricks, these unbelievable outfits
And they get terribly upset
When you question their sacred texts
Written by woman-hating epileptics” – Father John Misty

The thing is, Josh Tillman is right. Christians have done great damage in the name of Jesus. They have not loved rightly, or served humbly, or self-sacrificed properly. We have Jim Baker and Clyde Fant and Darrin Patrick and many more. But Tillman’s aptitude for pointing out the hypocrisy of Christians is really no different than Kate’s in pointing out the lunacy of anorexia. The truth is that we are all broken. When we stand around pointing out the brokenness of others, we do ourselves a great disservice by ignoring the real disease that plagues all of us. I feel like we’re trading in band-aids while standing around bleeding to death via our gaping wounds.

I need a Cure!

My problem is I’m hungry. I’m hungry even when I’m not hungry. I hunger for love; acceptance, companionship, and the gift of selfless admiration. I hunger for hope; depression-free days and anxiety-less nights. I hunger for faith; to know that my life has a purpose, that there is meaning for my existence, that I won’t evaporate into nothingness when I die. I hunger for forgiveness; to undo the harms I have inflicted on the innocent, to be absolved of the debts I didn’t mean to incur, to recapture the wonder of the first date, the first glance, the first kiss—all of the before’s that have been tainted by my harsh words and unforgiving nature.

The only place I find the cure to all of those things is in the person of Jesus. Jesus claimed to be the Son of God. I would like to echo C.S. Lewis when I say that Jesus was either a lunatic or he was who he said he was.

I am a hypocrite because I am a sinner, but Jesus was neither hypocrite nor sinner. His whole life was love. He taught people to love their neighbors more than they loved themselves. He asked those who followed him to forgive their enemies and bless those who persecuted them. He modeled that love by going to the cross and in his final breaths uttered these words, “Father forgive them for they do not know what they are doing.” He offered the only real cure to our tumultuous existence: peace with God. Peace where there was enmity. Peace where there was a broken relationship. Peace when we rejected the good He offered because we thought we were gods and knew better.

But I object!

When I was younger I felt persecuted by Christians who expected me to be good. I had failed to live up to their expectations and so a pastor and a panel of elders suggested I did not know Jesus because I had “sinned”. They heaped despair onto my already guilty and grieving heart. I walked away disgusted and sickened by their hypocrisy, but years later I can see that they were only men. Humans. Fallible and weak, just like me. I bear the scars of their words but in Jesus I find forgiveness and peace. I don’t trust men, but I do trust Jesus.

Us and Them

Statistics paint a poor picture of the real landscape of the human heart. We fail when we try to generalize the human body and the human spirit. We stand on battlegrounds with fists and swords and fail to recognize we are fighting the wrong war.

Dear Fellow Christians:

God’s grace was never meant to be kept to ourselves. Why are our love muscles so weak?

Dear Unbelieving Friends:

Forgive us! We have failed to love as we ought. We are broken, just like you. But Jesus is still worth knowing.

Hope

We are more than our bodies. We are more than our (Obese! Sinner!) labels. We are more than statistics. We are in fact sacred souls seeking a path through a polluted wasteland. We are hungry and not satisfied, grieving and not comforted, bound with chains of addiction and longing for liberation.

If I were writing for the show, This is Us, I would write Kate finding hope in Jesus rather than food. I would give her the realization that true satisfaction comes not from losing weight, but rather from finding peace with God and with her body. I would give her hope in having an identity that rejects stereotypes and discovers joy in pure and beautiful love that extends grace through the living person of a God so lovely He left the throne room of heaven to live among stinking Pharisees and helpless tax collectors in order to make a way for her to know true and lasting peace. Peace that is so rich that she would know she is wholly loved even if she never lost a single pound.