Destination Discipline

This morning I woke up to the sound of dog toenails clicking on my hardwood floors. I say “woke up” even though my alarm had already rung, I had already turned it off, and I had already decided not to exercise. But when I hear dog toenails clicking, I know that if I don’t answer the call to let the beast that owns those toenails out, I will have more cause for concern than I care to consider because he is a Boxer dog and he is the king of mess making. Yesterday morning he vomited at my feet, which is just about the worst gift a dog can give its owner. Other than worms. Worms are not a good gift.

Last night I planned my workout—a brisk walk with my trusty ESV audio Bible. But, as with all good intentions, some dreams dissipate in the fog of exhaustion. So when my dog forced me out of bed, I decided to follow through on my plan even though I didn’t quite feel like it. That’s the great thing about planning…sometimes the plan sticks to me even though I don’t stick to it. Good habits, when properly applied, reap more than just results. They become part of your identity. My exercise habit has become so much a part of the routine that I feel somewhat naked without it.

I squeezed into my workout clothes and opened the door to find something I wasn’t quite expecting, rain. It was still dark outside but I could tell by the gray blob in the sky that this wasn’t a quick shower. It was a full on, not-going-anywhere drizzle. In case you were wondering, this is the point in my blog where my eyebrows furrow and I look a lot like Bert from Sesame Street. For a brief second I considered my elliptical machine, and then I decided I would rather stab myself in the eye with sharp objects than torture myself with that monstrosity. And so I pulled out a water resistant hoodie instead. And the rest, as they say, is history.

And I lived happily ever after.

Except when I didn’t.

And that is what walking in the rain feels like. The day AFTER happily ever after.

I have committed to live a healthy lifestyle. I have been practicing these healthy habits for almost 6 years now. But keeping the weight off my fat-inclined body is tough stuff. It’s skipping the donuts, maintaining a sugar-free lifestyle, and forcing myself to exercise even when I don’t feel like it. But I have to chuckle a little bit here because when faced with my options, walking in the rain or running on the elliptical, it felt like a hundred other adult decisions I make every day. Go to work and stay employed or live on the street. Wash the dishes or eat off a nasty plate. Do the laundry or wear stinky clothes. Why can’t my choice ever be between winning the lottery or finding gold nuggets in the back yard? But I digress.

Along with the cold wet drops dripping in my eyes, I felt the dreary flicker of despair. But for many reason, today I decided that despair is for dummies and I’m no dummy. So I bucked up and charged up the first hill and down the next. I started with Galatians and ended with Thessalonians. And I didn’t enjoy every second that my knee and hip hurt, but I kept walking anyway.

You see, in the dark of night I received a distress call (text message) from my son(who is a Marine). And because he is far away and I am not able to sit him on my lap anymore and kiss away his boo boos, I had two options: worry or pray. I chose the latter. Prayer infused with truth(the Bible) makes sad hearts glad. I know this is true because I don’t always like walking(especially with a bum knee and hip). But walking with Jesus is always awesome. It’s how I began my journey to better health and how I continue to keep the weight off. When life’s problems swell to enormous proportions I know that I have a safe place in a brisk walk with Jesus. Walking and Jesus have become so synonymous to me that I struggle to do one without the other.

Sometimes I worry about the day I stop adhering to a healthy lifestyle. But worry never gets me anywhere good. Sometimes my body gives out and I can’t do the things I want. That’s when I rest most in his grace. Today I rejoiced that I had the courage to face the rain and didn’t even consider skipping my workout. Sure I was spurred on by the need to pray for my son, but I’ll admit, I found so much joy as I walked and talked to God and gave him all my burdens, that the worry and fear and pain just evaporated in the splendor of his great grace. Because sometimes our best laid plans are diverted. And somehow they still manage to happen anyway. That has to be grace. And you can’t plan grace.

I was driving home from work one evening, weary and mentally tired from a long day. I stopped by the grocery store and stood in the long line. I dreaded my arrival home for it only meant more work; preparation of dinner, the bearing up of screaming children, and a crabby, argumentative husband. I often feel like I’m subsisting on my last ounce of energy as I strive only to make it to the next moment. I make do with a gasp for the next breath and prayer to my God to help me. So it was that I climbed into my car with my meager assortment of groceries and sighed.

As I left the parking lot, I saw a man in a bulky jacket with a large backpack and bedroll on his back. He walked swiftly and with purpose. It struck me that he must be cold. I thought this because I had just experienced the bitter temperatures as I loaded my groceries into the car with stiff fingers. I had rushed the shopping cart to the holding bay, barely able to breath because the cold hurt my lungs. And there was this man walking out in it. I stared hard as I drove past him, awkward though he was, and continued my journey home.

A few minutes later I realized I could not get the image of him from my mind. I considered what I could do to help him, and realized my situation as a woman alone in my car and of not much monetary(or physical strength) means. I prayed that God would show me clearly if I should help him or go home. And then I stopped at the stop sign. If I turned left, I would drive straight home with a heavy burden on my heart for this stranger. If I turned right, I would drive back to the parking lot in search of the odd man and offer to pick him up.

Now you must understand that the words of common sense were screaming in my ears. You can’t pick up a stranger. You won’t have any means to protect yourself. What if he robs you? What if he steals your car? What if he does unspeakable things to you? But it occurred to me in that moment that nothing he did to me would be my fault because when we offer grace out of the kindness of our hearts, we are not responsible for the way people respond to it. Still, I knew my husband would absolutely never let me hear the end of it if he knew I picked up a strange man on the side of the road. So I planned to turn left at the stop sign. But my hands–guided by some higher power–turned right instead.

I figured I was completely crazy. Bonkers. Mad. So I prayed that I would not find the man in the parking lot if it was not God’s will for me to help him. And I breathed a deep sigh of relief when he was not there. And I started to drive home as I had before. Until I saw him there in the dark hiking on the side of the road. And so I pulled off and called to him, “Do you need a ride?” And he ran to my car and said, “Yes. Thank you.”

And my heart was beating so fast and with such complete terror that I thought I might pass out. If you think I’m being overly dramatic, I am not. I assumed that he would pull a knife from his jacket and slit my throat at any moment as I said, “I’ve never picked up a strange man before, but Jesus told me to stop for you.” As if using the name of God’s son would somehow protect me from malicious intent. And he said, “I’ll get in the back.”

“Where are you going?” I said.

“To Quick Trip.” He said. “I need to charge my phone.”

Quick Trip was only a half mile away at best. “Can I buy you dinner?” I asked.

“No thank you.” He said. Then he noticed my leather satchel in the back seat. “Is that where you keep your Bible?” He said.

“Yes.” I said. “Among other things.”(like my wallet and every single valuable thing I owned)

“My mother always wrapped her Bible in leather.” He said. “She was a missionary.”

“Really?” I said. “To what country?”

“To several different countries.” He said.

“What is your name?”

“Joshua.”

And then we drove on in silence for a few minutes.

“Are you sure I can’t buy you dinner, Joshua?” I said as we pulled into the parking lot at Quick Trip.

“No thanks, Ma’am.” He said. “But maybe you could buy me a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.” I said.

I finally got a good look at him as he climbed out of my car. He was a white man in his mid-thirties with a weathered face and a full auburn colored beard. His large green coat looked thin and raggedy, and he appeared tired. He set his backpack on the ground and began to plug in a pay-as-you-go cell phone. I proceeded to walk inside but when he did not follow me, I paused. He stood resolutely by his stuff, as if waiting for me to go inside and buy the coffee without him.

I suddenly felt compelled to forgo the coffee–realizing instead that maybe he had a greater need I was not aware of. Impulsively, I opened my wallet and pulled out a $20. I handed it to him. And even though he appeared extremely uncomfortable, I forced it into his hand anyway.

“This is not from me, but from the Lord.”

And he smiled, as if he might cry at any moment. And then I hugged him. Not a little hug, but a great big bear hug. The kind of hug that takes in a person’s whole being and says, “I accept you. You are precious and dearly loved.”

And as I got into my car I looked to make sure he had not stolen my leather satchel(he had not). And as I backed out of the parking space, I saw him standing there waving at me with this great big smile on his face. And then I drove away.

My heart was still thumping–as if I had just run half a mile–and I was shivering with fear. Because doing this thing had terrified me to the depths of my bones. What if he had thumped me over the head or worse? But in my heart I felt this peace I would not have had if I had listened to common sense and ignored him. So I prayed for Joshua. And I didn’t tell a living soul what I had done because I was afraid everyone would tell me that I was crazy.

“Let brotherly love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. Remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with them, and those who are mistreated.” – Hebrews 13:1-3.

I read that verse this morning as I sat at home suffering with my sick tummy. And I remembered Joshua. We are all fighting something. It may be a situation beyond our control–like joblessness, or an unexpected bill we cannot pay. We might have a relationship in crisis or a health issue that makes us weak. In retrospect I realized something; we are all Joshua’s. And it occurs to me today that sometimes we must step outside of ourselves and our situation to see life on this planet as it really is; utterly hopeless, intangibly futile, and in need of extreme grace. We must do this because we are in need of it ourselves. And even though we might get hurt when we offer grace to people, we should extend grace anyway, and by every means available.

Pain is the only constant in this world. Everyone experiences it. And it is the work of Jesus to relieve it.

I wrote this for Joshua. He showed me that sometimes I need to risk everything to extend grace, especially when it is most uncomfortable. Because that is what Jesus did for me.

I sat there with my arms folded over my stomach–as the ache swelled and lulled–as my heart beat furiously within my chest. And all I could think, while my body was bending and breaking, was this: The joy of the Lord is my strength.

Now maybe you are reading this and thinking, “Boy, that Margaret sure is full of crap. I mean, seriously. Who could possibly think about joy in such a moment of pain and desperation. She should be full of curses. She should curse a god who would allow her to suffer like that.” But the thing is, I keep thinking about Job and his boils, and how even in the midst of the worst suffering of his life, he did not curse God. He questioned him, sure. Who wouldn’t? But he didn’t curse him. And that is important.

Anguish is real. The sense of losing hope is real. Pain is real. And sometimes we have this idea that God watches in blissful oblivion while we ache and moan. Andrew Peterson has a beautiful song called, “The Silence of God.” He says, “It’s enough to drive a man crazy, it’ll break a man’s faith. It’s enough to make him wonder if he’s ever been sane.” And I have felt that “crazy” so many times. The lines from the strain of it etch my face. And if I let myself get lost in that emotion–if I go swimming in the depths of my pain–all I will ever find is more pain. Because when I search myself for relief, I may as well be digging a hole to China.

This week has been a great big bundle of hard. Physical pain. Emotional pain. And a stint in a traffic jam(when the highway got shut down) that had me in a panic free-fall(there are no toilets on the highway!) And then there is the anxiety that wakes me up at night, where my heart won’t stop racing and it feels like it’s going to pop out of my chest and start dancing to Harry Belafonte’s “Jump in the Line.” And the thing is, I really LOVE that song. And I want to jump in the line! But not at 2:00am. I like to reserve my heart palpitations for running and meaningful glances at my husband.

So how did I get across the bridge from anguish to joy? Because I’ll be honest, it’s kind of a scary bridge. It’s one of those rope bridges with a few boards missing. And the boards I can see look spongy, as if one footfall is going to send me plunging into the gaping river below. And yes, there are crocodiles down there. I see their teeth. And they are smacking their lips at me. So yeah, that bridge is pretty daunting.

Yesterday morning I made a pretty simple decision to read 5 paragraphs in my devotional book. And I didn’t want to. Because sometimes reading about God feels empty. Like, okay, I get it. He loves me. Blah, blah, blah… And I don’t read my devotions every day because of this. And you know what? Today I’m glad I don’t. Because if I did, I wouldn’t have read these words by Edward Welch from February 21st.

“When we suffer what seems like endless pain, it is hard to believe that God loves us, but Jesus’suffering proves that it can be true. Second, “he who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all–how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?”(Romans 8:32) {like joy!!}

And some days this just feels like a whole lot of God talk, but yesterday it felt like a walnut shell cracking and a little green sprout poking out. Because I read in those words the hope of my salvation. The love of my life, nailed to a cross, with my name on his lips. He suffered pain and anguish–worse than what I am experiencing now–to ensure that I would never be alone when I experience mine.

“For I know that my redeemer lives, and at the last he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God, whom I shall see for myself, and my eyes shall behold him, and not another. My heart faints within me!” -Job 19:25-27

Joy is so much different from happiness. It’s the difference between a splash of euphoria and the slow, steady burn of abiding peace. The peace of God truly does transcend physical pain. I know this because yesterday I felt it. And it was like a great big hug from a friend I haven’t seen in 20 years, only better–sweeter somehow. Jesus hugs my soul. And I have never experienced anything like it outside of him.

Today I feel really good. That is how life works sometimes. One day pain. The next day relief. And I’m sitting here in my workout gear because when I type the last period, I am off to take in the sunshine with a nice walk/jog/hobble. And today I don’t mind the funny looks I get from the “professional” runners. They have perfect form and perfect muscle tone and their bellies don’t jiggle like mine does. But today my pain is less. And I have Jesus in my heart. And His resounding peace echoes through my broken frame like a cheerful whistle in the empty chambers of a dark and lonely cave. Somehow that whistle makes the cold and damp bearable. And so I follow it. That’s what joy is for me, plain and simple.

So today if you are in the trenches of pain and suffering, don’t despair. Cry out to the One who suffered. He is there. He knows you are suffering. And He wants to give you joy.