Destination Discipline

Life in the shadow of pain is dark. I feel as if I am standing beneath a monstrous cloud which inherently blocks the golden rays of the sun. Even worse, I can see the sun shining on things around me. Purple and yellow Violets dance, butterflies drink deep of their nectar, and the creek bed giggles and frolics in the warm and inviting rays. I have stretched wide my arms to reach into that golden and glorious realm but I cannot touch it. I am alone. Forsaken. Broken.

Despair has called my named. It is not the wretched gurgle one would expect, but rather the sickly-sweet song of respite. It promises relief by a thousand vices, but I know they are all lies. I know because I have tried them all, and none of them have given relief.

Where is God? Is He is hiding? Is he is tied up with more important matters? Maybe He doesn’t exist. I mean, I don’t feel him. He isn’t answering my prayers. Obviously this Christian thing is crap.

On Sunday morning I rode my bike beneath this cloud and listened to Dr. Bernard Leikind address the problem of pain and suffering. You can read more here.

The more I listened, the more I began to question my own faith. A question popped into my mind, “Is Christianity really nothing more than a hopeful wish?” This question led to other questions.

“Have I hung all my hopes on a fantasy?”

“Is pain and suffering really all there is until I die–interspersed only every so often when the clouds of pain dissipate?”

I considered the wheel-crushed bullfrogs on the road as evidence of this. There were hundreds. And I thought, “This is my life”. I’m just hopping down the road waiting for the truck tire to smoosh me into oblivion.

And this is how Dr. Leikind addresses the problem, “To confront human evil, to respond to human suffering—our own or others—and to cope with natural disasters, we’re on our own. We must deal with these afflictions individually and collectively. We can’t rely on supernatural powers to help us.”

How am I supposed to respond to that?

So I considered all the different shapes and sizes of pain in the world and I asked myself more hard questions.

“Is there any drug powerful enough to wipe away the shame of being raped?”

“Is there any pleasure known to mankind that will erase the discomfiture of being wheelchair-bound for life?”

“What human being(much less an entire community) can salve the wound of infertility?”

Honestly, I imagine collective humanity holding hands and singing “Kumbayah”, except when the song ends, I still hurt.

This must be why we—as human beings—long for help. Otherwise, why do we tell stories about super heroes? Why else would do we look to the sky and wonder if our moments have meaning and purpose? If God is nothing more than an invention borne out of hope for relief of pain and suffering, a nice little myth to give us peace in knowing that when we die we don’t simply cease to exist, then I am absolutely terrified. If God is not real, I feel totally screwed.

What about Karma?

I have a few friends who believe very strongly in Karma. So I researched what Karma actually is. And to be honest, it’s a nice thought, actually, until I follow it through to its logical conclusion. For how could I ever do enough good to make up for all my mistakes? Wouldn’t I always be paying for my actions or in-actions. And, how many lives will it take to get it right? 5? 10? 1,000? Eesh.

And how does Karma comfort me when I face of the man who murdered my child? Does the thought of him as a dung beetle in his next life help me deal with the echoing void in my heart? How do I deal with the fact that my mistakes probably earn me the life of a dog that is chained in a backyard at the next go-round?

Amazing Grace

After the events in Orlando, a friend of mine told me she couldn’t stop crying. Her brother is gay. And the pain(born of fear) is just too much for her to bear. She told me, however, that she was comforted by the song, Amazing Grace. I was surprised to hear that, especially since she is not a Christian. And I wondered why. Is it the melody? It’s actually not a very upbeat song musically speaking. If not the melody, then it must be the words. So, even though I’ve sung that song before, I looked up the words. You can read them(and listen to the music) here.

I asked my friend if she knew the story of John Newton—how he was at one point a very wicked man(slave-owner, drunk). She did not. And I wondered why she was so comforted without knowing the story behind it. John Newton knew he was a wretch and had been forgiven by God for all of his transgressions. That’s why he wrote the song. He even went on to participate in the abolition movement, after participating in the slave trade for years. That is why the song chokes me up. It would be like the perpetrator of the Orlando shootings coming out and saying, “I know I killed all of those people, but hey, I’m saved now. God forgave me.” That kind of grace is hard, right? I mean, I don’t know that I could give grace to someone who took the life of my child.

It’s interesting to me the different reactions people have had about the shootings on social media. My favorite was the quote from Fred Rogers. I saw it on page after page. Now, maybe my feeds are different than your feeds, but most of the people I know posted encouraging words of prayer and solidarity for the families. Mrs. Rogers was right—there are so many helpers! But where was the grace for the family of the perpetrator of the killings?

Crickets

And yet my Bible seems to indicate that God is there with them too. If grace means “unmerited favor”, and Jesus took that terrible transgression(murder!) and would forgive even the murderer… Wow. When I consider that God himself paid the price for the murderer’s sin so that even he could be forgiven… Why, I don’t know anything more amazing than that.

But I’m still hurting. And he still hasn’t taken away my personal pain. Yes, pain asks the hard questions and pain demands real answers, and not just a fluffy pillow(by way of a bottle of pills, an ice cream cone or even a smaller waist).

This morning I opened my devotional book because its a habit, not because I really wanted to. I was directed to read Genesis 3, in which the curse imposed on mankind is described. It describes the story of an otherworldly beast(Satan), who, for no other reason than because he can) tricks Adam and Eve into forfeiting paradise with God forever. And then, in that moment of discovery(by God), where he curses Adam and Eve and the whole planet, the Creator of human beings also promises to defeat Satan and deliver men and women from the same curse(sin) because He love them so much and He knows they can’t save themselves. My devotional book reminded me that God loves to rescue me. So why am I still waiting for relief?

I think it’s because the world is still cursed. I think it’s because sin is so real. The Bible says(and it seems about right to me) that all of creation is groaning as in the pains of labor because of sin. And until Jesus returns(as he promised when he walked the earth), we will continue to deal with pain and suffering. The good news is, even in the midst of pain, fear, uncertainty and ghastly sorrow, if we choose to love and trust Him, he promises to walk through it with us. So even though I’m still hurting, I feel his presence. He is telling me, “Margaret, I love you. And that is enough.”

This world certainly feels cursed to me sometimes(especially today). And when I consider all that the Bible says – about a God who loves people and desires to save them from a mess of their own making—going so far as to bridge the gap himself—all so I can have a love-relationship with Him…. Well, its kind-of humbling. And wonderful. And when I consider that Satan keeps working every day to destroy humanity, (because he hates them), but that God has already defeated him(through the birth, death and resurrection of Jesus), and all I need to do is love God and trust Him…. Well, that kind of grace really is quite amazing.

And I suppose I could believe in Karma, or in myself and the ability to be good, or even in collective society(as Dr. Bernard Leikind says I should), but the thing is, those things suck. Because I know myself. And I know the people in society. And the idea of Karma really freaks me out(I would totally end up as a spider beneath someone’s shoe).

So today, after all the questions, I still arrive at the same answer: Jesus. It’s not always easy or intuitive to do so and it sure doesn’t always come naturally. But I choose to believe in him and love him because I feel loved by Him. He is my super hero—my ‘so-much-better-than-Superman’—superhero. And when the pain is deep, long-lasting and cruel, He doesn’t leave me or forsake me.

Today if you are hurting, consider that there is a love so strong and able, that it can forgive the unforgivable. And not only forgive, but make it possible to be forgiven.

Isaiah 53:5 “But he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and by his wounds we are healed.”

Today I didn’t reach far enough to feel the sunbeam. My arms are too short and the cloud was too big. But Jesus joined me under the cloud. He made a way to be near me so that I could feel the warmth of his love on my face. And the warmth of the Son is so much brighter and more beautiful than the sun in the sky that I completely forgot I ever needed it in the first place.

I took a bite of the muffin. I felt the quickening of my heart and the desire to gobble it up as quickly as possible. Each crumb melted in my mouth even as it stimulated my taste buds. I tried to slow down. I took a drink of hot tea. I waited 10 seconds. Then I inhaled—-and it was gone. The moment the view of my empty plate stared back at me, I felt the compulsion to run to the refrigerator and get another. And another. And another. I paused and considered how best to respond. My shoulders sagged. Today was a good day. I stopped after 2 muffins. But tomorrow? This is my conundrum… There is always tomorrow.

I don’t want to be a compulsive eater. Sometimes I wonder if I will always struggle with food. Even though the vast majority of the time I make healthy choices, the impulse to eat foods like (my absolute favorite) Pantera’s Pizza is always there. I don’t remember the last time I ate Pantera’s Pizza. I only know that sometimes the thoughts of thick, chewy crust come to me as I consider my next meal. Maybe it’s because I have so many good memories of eating it as a child. Or maybe it really is just that good. Either way, there is nothing inherently nutritious about it and so I try to be intentional and not put it into my body.

Now maybe you are reading this and thinking, “But Margaret, you have to live a little! I mean, come on! You should have a cheat day now and again. You can eat Pantera’s Pizza. Just eat one piece.” Queue the sigh and more sagging shoulders. Food is a no win for me. Let me explain why.
When I stare into the halls of my heart, it is not unlike a hall of mirrors one sees in the movies. I look into the infinite number of selves reflected and wonder which one is the real villain. Now maybe you are thinking none of them should be the villain but I know the truth——they are all the villain. Each self-reflection has the capacity to eat uncontrollably if given the option. So when I consider eating a trigger food(like pizza) I gaze down the hall of mirrors and see the first Margaret taking a bite and then the next Margaret taking a bite, and well, you get the idea. Because that is how food addiction feels. There is no satisfaction in eating one piece of pizza. So while it is physically possible to eat one piece and throw the rest away, I also see each Margaret reflected groaning over and over again as she considers how painful that will be. I can’t win.

So often we look at the choice(to eat or not eat) as the only two options. We stare at the menu. We see French fries or salad, and we bite our lip in frustration. Maybe it’s because of the conflicting messages we see daily via advertising. One ad tells us we should indulge(by way of a picture of gooey, chewy pizza) while another advertisement tells us we should all look like Gisele Bundchen. To be quite frank, it makes me want to find an advertising executive and punch him in the gonads. I mean seriously, what a jerk! (but I digress). What we don’t often realize is that there is a third option.

What is the first lesson we learned as children when we ran towards the street? If we had good parents who wanted to protect us, they would shout, “Stop! Look and listen!” I use this same principle when I consider the roller coaster ride of living a healthy lifestyle. I have learned over time to pay attention to how my body responds to certain foods. Whether it be environmental(pesticides), factory added(artificial colors), or highly processed(sugar/high fructose corn syrup) the foods we put into our bodies have a real and sometimes lasting affect us. They affect not only our waistline, but our brains. Did you forget about that little organ at the top of your noggin? You shouldn’t! That little machine controls all of the processes that make your body function the way that it does.

One of the most important things I have learned in my journey to better health is to use my brain via a tried and true measurement; good common sense. I know—–it’s harder for some of us than others (I’m talking about myself here). And I definitely didn’t learn it overnight. My journey began with the simple understanding that my appetite was out of control. Once I decided to learn why my appetite was out of control, everything changed. This was in large part due to the time I invested to search the darkest depths of my heart in order to understand my behaviors. Some people need counseling to help them through this step. That’s not an avenue I have pursued, but I see nothing wrong with that. I talk to God a lot. And I have awesome family and friends. Also, once I had the proper knowledge structure in place, it became imperative for me to act on what I had learned.

Saying no to foods (and bad behaviors) I really want to indulge in is a discipline that I am still learning. Gossip will always be a struggle for me, much the same way wanting to eat a plate of fudge is. The good news is, I have learned that neither are good for me(or anybody else for that matter!). I have learned (through trial and error) that the ingredients in Panteras pizza affect my body adversely, but I have also learned that there are plenty of healthy choices in the world that satisfy my hunger and my taste buds. Therefore I have learned that I don’t need to eat Panteras to feel happy. I have also learned(sometimes with great pain) that my eyes are about 10 times bigger than my stomach. It takes about 10 minutes for my stomach to catch up with my buggy-eyes and therefore, the discipline of putting down my fork is a thoughtful activity. It is not easy. But it is important. And I would like to encourage the reader today—it is a worthwhile activity.

The day I learned I didn’t need food to be happy was the best day of my life. Now, when I am tempted to eat foods that affect my body for ill, I remember what I have learned. Sometimes I indulge. Other times I do not. But I always go into each situation with my eyes wide open.

The next time you look at your body and despair, consider the following:

Why do I feel the way that I do about my body?

Who am I comparing myself to and why?

Then consider you have only one body to inhabit for the rest of your life and ask yourself how that knowledge will change your perspective going forward.

I was 25 years old when I bought my first motorcycle. It was a metallic blue, 1986 250cc Rebel – a beginner bike for all you non-riders, and it was(at the time) probably the most beautiful bike I’d ever seen. I learned how to ride it in a parking lot by my house, but when I was confident enough, I zipped up and down the roads in my neighborhood, waving at strangers. I was thrilled with the hint of anxiety I felt as I learned how to properly use the clutch, but humbled by the small engine and its reluctance to move the machine that housed it over 60mph on the highway. Still, that little bike gave me the greatest feeling of “cool” I had ever experienced at that point in my life, and I reveled in the wonder of being noticed if for no other reason than for being the chunky girl on a little blue motorcycle.

I loathed to part with that wonderful machine and so it wasn’t very much longer until I purchased my second bike, a maroon, 1997 750cc Yamaha Virago. This machine was an entirely different experience. It was heavy. I felt the responsibility of balancing it carefully lest it fall and I not be able to pick it up, because dropping a bike is one of the most humiliating things you can do. I’ll admit I was never a speed demon. I always felt like I was just shy of getting my sea legs on the thing, but it did move fast! And it was so dang comfy. I felt like a true biker on that motorcycle and I rode it proudly until the day I sold it to pay income tax.

Still, I remember how it felt to glide down the road with the wind in my face and the bugs in my teeth. I remember waving at the other bikers–not the goofy wave I give people on my Jamis hybrid(that’s a bicycle, y’all) but a real biker wave. It’s what I call the salty salute most riders give as they pass by–a kind of universal mantra for the biker that is reserved for the road. Only bikers give it to each other(I’ve tried it from my Jamis but I’m sadly ignored), and if you’re not a biker, there is no amount of waving or finger-wagging that will get another biker to give it back. I forfeited the cool club when I stopped riding and I’ve lusted after another bike ever since.

You see, for me, riding a bike was always about image. Sure, I loved to ride, but more importantly, I wanted to look cool. Maybe it’s the outcast in me that craved attention, or maybe I simply longed to be accepted because I knew I was a total nerd at heart. Whatever the case may be, I wanted to be a part of the motorcycle club, and for a while, I was.

But image is not the same thing as identity. And this disparity tugged at my heartstrings as my family pressured me to let go of the biker lifestyle. You see, while I was trying so hard to fit into that biker culture, I was also trying to raise two little boys. They loved to ride on the motorbike with me but the “responsible” adults in my immediate vicinity were certain that two-wheeled contraption was going to kill me. As much as it pains me to admit now, the statistics for motorcycle deaths aren’t very cheerful, and in the end my family won. In many ways I’ve never really recovered. Every Spring I get a little pang in my heart when people break out the bikes and race past me on the road.

And so it happened the other morning that I was riding my Jamis before work when I encountered an older fellow on a beauty of a white motorcycle at a stop light. I guess I was feeling nostalgic as I pulled up beside him at the light and complimented his ride. He informed me that it was a police bike that had been refurbished and his crusty-proud grin reminded me just how much I miss riding and showing off my wheels. I told him I used to ride but that “my husband made me sell my bike” and he gave me that mournful look most bikers give me when I tell them that. But before we could say anything else, the light turned green. He revved his engine and glided around the corner while I pedaled hard in my cycling shorts and light blue bicycle helmet–ever the almighty nerd.

The chance encounter caused me to think about who I am today compared to who I used to want to be. I used to feel like I didn’t belong–like nobody really liked me for who I was–and that I needed a motorcycle to get people’s attention. I used to believe that the black leather jacket and cowboy boots were a sort of magic costume that made me appealing, and so I wore them sort of like Cinderella wore her beautiful white evening gown. I braided my hair, and pulled on my black helmet, and I sped around the region doling out “the biker salute”. I felt like I was a part of something, even though riding a bike didn’t afford me any kind of special privilege. To be honest, I felt very invisible in my everyday life and so riding a motorcycle gave me visibility. I suppose in the end, being a biker chick was really nothing more than a fanciful mirage.

But today I am not the same person that I was. I don’t need a motorcycle to boost my self-esteem. I don’t need the boots or the black leather jacket. I don’t even need the fringes on the handles because my self-worth is so much more than the dirt and grit on my cheeks from riding on a Saturday night(not that it wasn’t wonderful!). Today I am confident and comfortable in my own skin(stretch-marks and all). I am content to live in the shadows, to pedal like a nerd on the sidelines, and to take pride in the gray hairs that line my temples(which is a beautiful indicator of graceful longevity). I suppose in some respects I still like to live dangerously(if you call digging out stumps and hauling truck loads of rock dangerous work). But I am relieved that I no longer need to chase image like it’s some kind of miraculous trophy. I can rest easy in the love of my children. I can relax in the bemused gaze of my husband as he explains one more time that my chicken-cutting technique is a little sloppy. And I can laugh at myself as I pump my fists in the air while I march around my neighborhood and endure the confused looks of drivers who wonder “what in the world is that woman doing?” Because I’ve come to realize that my true identity is bound up in the love of my God and my family, and not in the vacuous image of being a “cool biker chick”.

Today at work I had a conversation with a friend who is trying so hard to live a healthy lifestyle while working full-time and raising her children. She expressed to me her dismay at losing her hair(that happens after one gives birth) and also her frustration at the sleepless nights she is experiencing with a newborn. She told me what a struggle it is to make healthy choices when she is just dead-dog tired, and I just listened, and remembered, and smiled. And then I told her what I have learned in my journey over these past few years… I told her that image is just that–a picture, but identity is who we actually are. Our faces and our bodies do not define us, because the people that know and love us don’t care about bald spots on our heads or rolls of fat around our bellies. Our identity is so much more than perfect skin or knobby knees. We are the affection we shower on our babies and the sacrifices we make to ensure their bellies are full. We are stamina at 2:04 a.m. when someone is throwing up and joy in the unprovoked giggles that ring out of tiny little lungs. We are patience and losing our temper and crying because our nerves just can’t take any more. We are worried when the diagnosis of our child makes us wonder how many days or hours we have left, and we are laughter when we consider the hairstyle they are leaving the house with for prom. So long as our identity is bound up in something true, and real, and lasting, I honestly don’t see why worrying over the imperfections in my body should have any place in my consciousness. And if you are reading this, neither should you.

I watched my friend smile and walk away as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. And in that moment she was so lovely. I wish I could have taken a picture. But of course a picture is just another image after all, and I got something more precious from our encounter…. I got a glimpse of the wonder, majesty and beauty of a unique human heart.