Good Sense

Melissa Dereberry's Blog

Archive for the category “Spirituality”

06 May 2012

It’s Gonna Be Good

In my last post, I wrote about finding strength and perseverance during difficult times. A friend of mine suggested that I might have addressed the after effects of finding that strength, using it, and experiencing it. If you lose part of yourself, can you identify it? How does one deal with the pain? What are the long term implications?

Pain is inevitable. When you do something you think you cannot do, you will experience pain, because you are fighting the human desire to give up. There might be emotional pain involved as you lose some part of yourself, such as long-held beliefs and perceptions about yourself or others. When the fight is over, and the strength has been put to the test, you will be changed. You will be looking at your life with a completely new perspective. And that can be scary. When I held on to an important relationship, I gave up my dignity and pride and allowed God to use me, even if I looked like a fool. And believe me, looking like a fool is painful. More than I care to elaborate on. What I gained was a closer relationship with God—who would be, rightfully, the center of any relationship I have. From that point on, I realized the reality of commitment: If God is the center, no earthly circumstance really matters. This is where you learn about perseverance. You keep your eyes on God, and keep holding on, even after the initial fight is won, and the pain has taken its toll.

The birth of my first child was an emergency c-section, and a horrible, scary experience. At one point during the delivery, the anesthetic from my spinal block had crept all the way up to my neck, immobilizing my arms, and slowing down my ability to breathe. I was literally fighting for every breath. While I went into severe panic mode, my doctor attempted to calm me, giving me specific instructions about how to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I felt I was near death. I hung on every word she was saying. I had to get through it—the effects of the anesthesia were not going to go away. I was stuck with it. Emotionally and psychologically, I was in pain. I was afraid. But, I kept breathing, somehow. Lying in the recovery room afterwards, I cried and cried because I was convinced I’d never have another child. I could never go through something like that again; therefore, I was done. While I lay there waiting to see my son, there was a moment I will never forget. The nurses were on either side of me, trying to adjust something, and I felt a sudden jolt of inexplicable pain—nothing before or since could compare to it. The anesthesia had begun to wear off; I was feeling the effects of having my stomach sliced open. Believe me when I tell you: It was mind blowing. My sole thought was “Man, I’m hurt.” I begged for pain meds. Soon, I was back to some degree of normal. I cried more because the certainty of my never having another child was looming rather large. I had been through a frightening, life-changing event. And it hurt. Add to that mix the emotional mixed bag associated with not having had a “normal” labor and delivery (and feeling like a failure, as a woman, for having had a c-section) and you’ve got some injuries to attend to. I felt I’d lost my identity—I’d lost the picture in my mind of what it would be like. I’d lost hope that I’d have another child.

But then something happened. When I held my son for the first time, everything changed. I had lost something, yes—but, to quote myself, from my last blog: “I gained a whole lot more.” There, in my arms, was the product of my pain—right there, in flesh and blood. This—this lovely little creature—was living proof that I could do impossible things. This trumped pain, absolutely.

I had another child, of course, and I even had another c-section, an experience, in itself, that was infinitely more positive than the first, in a myriad of ways. I didn’t endure the breathing problems, or the same incision pain, or the self-criticism. I had accomplished what I thought I couldn’t, and the reward was immeasurable.

Throughout the Bible, you will find that great pain is described as a woman in labor. But pain, as we know, brings forth great things. In Matthew 24, Jesus predicts the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem and describes how his kingdom will be established. He foretells wars and ruin, telling his disciples, “All these are the beginning of birth pains” (Matthew 24:8). Yes, it will be painful, but the end result is gonna be good.

Nothing great is accomplished without a measure of pain—be it emotional, psychological, or physical. To go through life with the deliberate intent to avoid it is to miss the good stuff on the other side. We are stronger than we give ourselves credit for. And we can do this. Even in the pain of life, something wonderful and meaningful exists. Let us stand in awe of it.

“At this my body is racked with pain, pangs seize me, like those of a woman in labor; I am staggered by what I hear, I am bewildered by what I see” (Isaiah 21:3).

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05 May 2012
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Superhuman Strength

In high school, I signed up to take a required communication class that involved a mix of speech/debate, public speaking and drama. Being one of the shyest kids in the whole school, I was beyond mortified that I had to take a class which might require me to be the center of attention. After agonizing through the first weeks of getting to know you and what not, I came to a moment of adrenaline-induced resolve. Somewhere around the time I had to deliver my first speech, something happened, in the midst of sheer panic and dread. I mustered up a stout cocktail of moxie and determination and started kicking some speech/debate butt. Now, bear in mind that my teacher was the Wicked Witch of the West. Everyone was terrified of her; everyone dreaded her. She even looked rather witchy, with her crooked nose and misaligned front teeth, garnering many a shudder from the student population of Lebanon High School. And she didn’t like me. I was sure of it. I was convinced she sat around in her free time trying to think up ways to thwart my efforts. This strange mix of circumstance and utter fantasy proved to make my journey through her class quite an interesting one, but more importantly, it taught me what I was made of—and it was some pretty good stuff.

I accomplished things in that class that I never thought possible. Me, the kid who was afraid to even ask a legitimate question in class, actually got up and delivered a dramatic performance of Goldilocks and the Three Bears—by myself—in character. What? Who? It was a defining moment. I could do impossible things.

The subject came up in Bible study recently: How will I persevere under trial? Can I persevere under trial? When the tough stuff comes, will I be prepared? Will I be strong enough? I admitted, this was one of my greatest fears. When faced with something really hard, I won’t be able to handle it. I will just crumple under the weight of fear, despair, heartbreak.

One of the ladies in my group—a kind, older lady with way more experience than me—looked at me very directly and proceeded to tell me how many of her family members she has lost, how many of her friends she had watched die of terrible diseases, how many heartaches she, personally has endured, explaining that you don’t know your strength until you get there. “And you know what?” She added. “You aren’t strong enough. But He is.”

As much as I dislike the thought that I am weak, it is the absolute Truth. I am so weak. The bad stuff accosts me with its “what-ifs” every day. And yet, I know, with some degree of certainty, that God will provide me with what I need to get through it. It will probably seem unnatural, impossible, and incomprehensible. It will not make sense, when that strength is revealed to me.

When I was in college, I was going through the produce section of a grocery store one day when a young girl came in—probably in her twenties. She had no legs from the hip down, and she was simply propelling herself across the floor with her hands. I remember distinctly the thought… God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle. And yet, I glanced at her, thinking… How? Why? I mean, what would be the point? First of all, why did she choose that method of travel, as opposed to a wheelchair, like most people? The whole scene baffled me completely. I ended up writing a poem about it later, touching on some other vivid stories I’d heard over the years, one of which was told by my junior high biology teacher, about a man who was baling hay and got a glove hooked on a moving part of the baler and forced himself to hold fast to the seat of the tractor as the machine took his arm. I remember being dumbfounded by that story. In my poem, I considered the question of strength…how someone might choose to do one thing or another. What if that man had simply given up and let himself be pulled into the baler? Where did this superhuman strength come from? And how do I tap into it?

The concluding lines from my poem:

Like the distanced
sensation of amputated limbs—
this was the strength I wanted to live for—
the quiet, uncalculated endurance—a mind
that stiffens to hold on to itself
when the world wants to take,
take.

The fact is that the world will take. It will disappoint, destroy and hurt us—if we let it. But someone’s got our back. And we have a choice, to let that strength in—to realize it, to own it, and to perform. We have to believe it’s there.

While my adventure in speech class is a silly example to illustrate a very serious, complex idea, the fundamental principle is the same: We don’t know how strong we are until we have to do it. If someone would have said I’d stand up in front of a group of my peers and act like Goldilocks, I’d have said they were crazy. But a small part of me believed in myself and I just held on and rode it out. It was one of the most disciplining times of my life.

As Beth Moore says in her study of James, “Trials are disciplines we do not choose.” And sometimes, those are the most powerful, life changing ones. We do not choose them, but they are ours and we can either roll up our sleeves and hang on, or we can let them go. It is those times that we hang on—even when everything within us says not to—that we learn the most.

I was once thoroughly betrayed by someone I loved. The relationship was in severe danger. My glove was caught in a baler and I wanted to just let go and let it pull me in, but I chose—I chose—to hold on, to find even a flicker of that inexplicable strength, and let it do its work in me. The outcome? I lost part of myself, but I gained a whole lot more.

I can do all things, through Christ who strengthens me. Phillipians 4:13.

Posted in Christian Living, Faith, Spirituality and tagged ,
20 Apr 2012

I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing

*It’s a bit late for this post… Easter has gone and passed, but I recently completed Beth Moore’s study of James (Mercy Triumphs), and I was blown away by new insight into what the Resurrection really means, through the appearance of Jesus to his half-brother, James. And, perhaps, in this, Easter is never really gone and passed. You will get that by the end of this piece, I hope.

I lost my wedding ring once. When I noticed it wasn’t in the usual spots, I panicked. After a search that included the refrigerator and the trash (yes, you could say it was thorough), I called my husband at work to ask him if he knew where it might be (as if) and also to warn him that I’d probably lost it. He was, thankfully, unruffled, and we went on about our day—or, at least, he did. I continued to fret and search. Finally, I decided that it was just gone. It was done. I started planning how we would replace it. Hours later, something possessed me to get down on my hands and knees and look under the dresser. When I didn’t immediate see it, I got the flashlight. There, in the corner, where the two pieces of wood on the base came together, I found it. It was completely hidden from the eye, and would have stayed hidden had I not reached my hand into that corner. I was, of course, overcome with relief. All was not lost.

In Moore’s accompanying video segment to the study of James, she tells a rather riveting story about her parents. As a young girl, she recalls feeling torn because she never saw her parents express love for each other. She grew up not knowing if they really loved each other. When her mother died, her father remarried and had, what she describes as “seven beautiful years” with his new wife. Upon her father’s death, Moore describes visiting their gravesite, simply looking at the stones, thinking, that was simply done and over with, there was no fixing it. Whatever was broken in her parents’ relationship could not be fixed. It was taken, broken, to the grave. Some months, later, Moore’s stepmother contacted her to say that she had something to give her that was her father’s: A letter she’d found in his wallet. The letter was from Moore’s mother, dated some fifty years earlier, telling her father how much she loved him and how proud of him she was. For Moore, this was the ultimate healing moment. Not only had her mother loved her father, she tells us, but he had “carried her love with him until the day he died,” thus confirming that whatever she’d perceived as broken between them, had not been severed. The love was there; she just hadn’t seen it.

The power of the Resurrection, according to Moore, brings wisdom and healing to things that we’ve long ago counted as over and done. When Jesus appeared to James—who had been an unbeliever—he represented a second chance. James would now have a chance to believe. No matter what we have done or how we may have denied truth, it comes back to us—it calls us back.

Just when you think it’s over, it’s just beginning.

Have you ever counted something as lost and it reappears? Have you ever given up on someone who suddenly surprised you? Have you ever found some detail about a lost loved one’s life that changed yours or gave you peace? Have you ever felt you’d done something so bad, so unforgivable, then been shown mercy?

As I’m writing this, I realize that my opening story about the ring isn’t quite good enough. It’s not grand and “big” enough to reflect the concepts that are swimming around in my head. It’s a very worldly example to explain a spiritual concept—and I’m not sure that’s appropriate. However, it speaks to the very real concept of loss—and how loss can be final in the worldly sense, but spiritually, loss is far more vast and meaningful than we can comprehend. And it’s not over. It never is—on this side of eternity. When the end is forever, we begin to understand that loss is impermanent. If we can begin to grasp this concept in the world, we are close to healing.

How often in life have I lost something only to miss the conclusion, the far reaching implications of eternity? How often have I missed the Resurrection? The mercy? The wisdom? How many times have I remained in my loss instead of looking deeper for its meaning? I pray that I would not miss the Resurrection. That I would not miss those times when God reaches His deliberate hand into both the important and seemingly insignificant places in my life. I don’t want to miss a thing.

Dear Lord, thank you for the resurrected Jesus, that we may find healing in all our brokenness, however small. Help us to remember that you know every corner of our hearts and to recognize when your deliberate hand is at work—to realize that when the door is closed on the dark tomb of circumstance, our hearts, or our minds, all is not lost. Deliver us to beginnings from endings, to wisdom from doubt.

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17 Feb 2012

Labor of Love

Image

In the 1920s, an unknown farmer named Wilson Bentley devised a way to photograph the intricate design of snowflakes using his own equipment.  Over several years, he perfected the method, producing some 5,000 photos, going on to garner attention from the scientific community, which honored him as a pioneer in the field of photomicrography. (http://snowflakebentley.com/WBsnowflakes.htm).  Bentley lived a modest life; he certainly didn’t die rich.  You could say his ingenious work was the proverbial labor of love that was the likely origin of the well-known phrase, “No two snowflakes are alike.”

Acording to CalTech researcher Kenneth G. Libbrecht, it is safe to assume no two snowflakes are alike:  “Now when you look at a complex snow crystal, you can often pick out a hundred separate features if you look closely. Since all those features could have grown differently, or ended up in slightly different places…. Thus the number of ways to make a complex snow crystal is absolutely huge. And thus it’s unlikely that any two complex snow crystals, out of all those made over the entire history of the planet, have ever looked completely alike”  (http://www.its.caltech.edu/~atomic/snowcrystals/alike/alike.htm).

 Is this near limitless potential the result of the random molecular activity, or the product of intentional, carefully considered design?  Are complex structures like snowflakes merely nature’s evidence of an intelligent designer?

The term “intelligent design” (ID) has been circulating in scientific communities for years.  With regards to living organisms, the IDEA (the Intelligent Design and Evolution Awareness Center), defines ID thus:  “intelligent design implies that life is here as a result of the purposeful action of an intelligent designer, standing in contrast to Darwinian evolution, which postulates that life exists due to the chance, purposeless, blind forces of nature” (http://www.ideacenter.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/1136).

One way to understand ID is to look at an organism’s CSI (complex and specified information), which basically means that the processes of a natural organism are deliberate and functional.  If an organism uses all its parts to function, if it requires all its parts, it has a high CSI, which basically means it was intelligently designed.  According to Darwinian theory, life is random.  ID says it’s purposeful, all pieces working together in a perfect system.

How do we make the leap from something that is a perfect system to one that is simply unique and beautiful?  If function were the most important gauge of a perfect design, why bother with the beauty and variety that literally abounds in our universe?  If the universe were merely the product of an intelligent designer—rather than God, the author and creator of all things—wouldn’t it be simply boring?  Would we be surrounded with the multitudes and layer upon layer of color, texture, and artistry that is our natural world?  We certainly don’t need snowflakes, much less require them to be so fascinatingly diverse and beautiful.

We have yet to scratch the surface of what God has in store for us.

For example, did you know that the human eye can only perceive about 10 million out of an infinite number of colors?  Because color is affected by light, viewing conditions, and even the particular way each individual sees it, color possibilities are endless. (http://www.cis.rit.edu/fairchild/WhyIsColor/files/ExamplePage.pdf).

There are colors we have never even seen, combinations until the end of time.  Infinite possibilities.

Let me take this a step further.  Did you know that there are as many as 100 million different species of living things on the earth and that science has only identified about 2 million of them (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20109284/).  Further, scientists say that about 99.9% of all species become extinct. (http://nitro.biosci.arizona.edu/courses/eeb105/lectures/extinction/extinction.html).  This suggests that species can die off before we ever discover them.  Species that existed millions of years ago do not exist today, and species exist today that didn’t exist a million years ago.  Further, the process of identifying a new species is a tedious, laborious process.  In fact, scientists don’t even agree on how to define a species, according to the University of Michigan.   While some distinguish according to appearance, others distinguish based solely on biological characteristics  (http://www.globalchange.umich.edu/globalchange1/current/lectures/speciation/speciation.html).

There may be an endless number of “species” on our planet—the creative combinations, endless.

Did God design our world this way, as evidence of his infinite creative genius? I believe so—but He is more than just an intelligent designer…

As much as I like the idea of intelligent design—as a reasonable affront to Darwinism at the suggestion of a creator—it doesn’t quite hit the mark.  God is an inventor, and invention is, by definition, creative—and creativity can be a messy, chaotic and beautiful process.  A beautiful design can be born out of experimentation, playing around with possibility, and it can even be accidental.  While the intention behind creative work is deliberate and purposeful, the end result is not always planned.  That said, let me be clear:  Life is the result of intention and purpose.  It doesn’t just happen.  As a creative force, God knows what He is doing.  But He isn’t just interested in a universe full of efficient machines.  He isn’t simply a designer.  He is a Creator, who loves everything he makes, whether it is perfect or not.  Look into the eyes of a child born with a severe disability and you will see the hand of God.

I have no idea what Snowflake Bentley had in mind when he set out to capture these amazing images, no idea what religious beliefs, if any, he had.  But what’s clear is that he saw the beauty and value in something to which most people would never give a second thought.  I believe this is how we come to know God.  We see him in the small, seemingly insignificant places, and when we look in those places with a more discerning eye—a mind and heart interested in the depth of life—we see the loveliest, most complex masterpiece we have ever seen. If we dare to look, we see that truly, “no two are alike.”  And that is just fine with me.  It just means God’s labor of love never ends.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.  Ecclesiastes 3:10-12

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.  Psalm 139:13-15

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06 Nov 2011

My Favorite Place to Worship

I saw the blue heron from across the lake.  He was standing perfectly still and tall atop a stump jutting out of the water, poised against a backdrop of sparse trees that were nearly stripped bare by autumn winds.  Scattered throughout was the brilliant red of burning bush.  As I began my walk, I was surprised how strong the wind was against my body—a challenge to keep pace and balance in such conditions. But, I was glad I had my hat, and kept walking, circling the lake.  As I got closer to the Heron, I noticed he had hunkered down a bit, still as a picture. I thought he might be watching me with a sideways glance as if he’d sensed my approaching presence, felt threatened in some way.  I smiled to myself, thinking how I was likely to be the least threatening creature he’d encounter in his day—me, in my silly hat pulled down halfway over my eyes, in my orange fleece, listening to the “Christian” playlist on my iPod.  The heron remained,until I reached the other side of the lake again, and I watched him fly away, against the wind.

What was the heron thinking, as he sat there immobile on that stump, on a chilly fall morning, overcast and drab, in the relentless wind?  Was he simply resting? Scouting for fish?  Afraid to move?  Or was he simply existing in a singular moment, waiting for the next move that made sense?  It occurred to me that it was perhaps all of these things.  It occurred to me that I knew this because I had been there myself, standing on that lone stump in the water, waiting, thinking… something would surely make sense, soon.

As I rounded the lake again, a song compelled me to raise my hand.  As I followed through, not worrying that the neighbors might wonder who the crazy lady was, walking around with her hand in the air.  I realized, peacefully and fearlessly that this was my Sunday morning worship:

                       Blessed be the name of the Lord

                        I’m my Father’s child for evermore

                        You heard every prayer

                        You broke every chain

                        You alone delivered me

                        The Son of God- He reigns on the throne

                        King of Kings let all the nations know

                        That the Lord is good and His mercy endures forever-

                        My Prince of Peace, You lifted me

                        Where everything that’s named is placed under your feet

                        And may my praises be as incense to you Lord

                        And may my worship be a sweet fragrance

                        To You alone, my King.

           

-         “Loving Kindness” by Miriam Webster

-         http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oCQNiUJRijM

I’ve decided that this is my favorite place to worship—alone, in myself, immersed in God’s awesome creative work that puts sounds together in a way that stirs me on an intimate level.  It has been those times—when I’m standing on that stump in the water—strong, proud, sometimes—other times, scared and cautious—that music, my solitary worship in His “Secret Place,” has gotten me through. Worship, to me, means I’ve connected personally to God—I’ve glimpsed His presence inside myself, and have been validated.  Most often in my life, I’ve experienced those moments in music.

I’ve been somewhat disillusioned by the church, despite the ways my Christian friends have changed my life. The church has turned me off in various ways—I’ve seen my share of social dynamics, pretentiousness, elitism, grumbling, and hypocrisy.  It took me a long time to realize that people will disappoint in this world, and that my confusion or anger can do nothing to assuage that.  To be fair, I have many wonderful Christian friends with whom I’ve worshipped, cried, prayed, and studied.  I have friends who’ve brought me to church, invited me to Bible studies, and encouraged me to participate in faith activities I might not have otherwise considered.  My friends have strengthened my faith and my understanding of what it means to be a Christian.  And yet, I remain a solitary Believer.  What happens inside my heart and soul happens whether I am sitting in a church service or taking a brisk walk on a chilly fall day.  I believe that if you allow Him to, God will speak to you, personally; He will start a conversation with you, whatever the conditions.  Sitting in a crowded room may or may not be the ideal place for that conversation to take place.

I wonder if the herons stay around much longer.  It’s nearly winter already, and yet, there he was today, bearing the weather, the catalyst for my worship and my blog.  Perhaps the bird was outside of his element today, but from where I stand, he was perfectly in line with God’s.

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15 Jul 2011

Chipped Paint

In the biography Crashing Through, Robert Kurson tells the story of a man, blinded in a freak accident at age three, who learns in his forties that he is a candidate for a groundbreaking surgery that could restore his sight.  Most people, myself included, would regard the possibility of restored sight as not only a medical miracle, but a great gift—a blessing beyond one’s imagination.  But Kurson brings to light an interesting perspective:  If you’ve never had sight, would it really make your life better? What are the implications of such a profound, drastic change in one’s  perceptual world?

In a fascinating passage, the author retells the story of another man named Sidney Bradford from Great Britain who had his sight restored in 1958.  Overwhelmed by this new existence, Bradford became distraught by the barrage of confusing visual sensations.  Kurson concluded:  “This was not the world he had spent a lifetime traversing so confidently.” Sadly, the perfect world he’d seen in his mind’s eye, before the  bandages were removed, paled in comparison to the dull, imperfect place before him.  “He could see the truth in chipped paint and it disappointed him.”  Bradford became, ultimately, a sad man “who wasn’t supposed to be blind anymore,” yet kept his lights off at night and shaved in the dark, all in  attempts to reclaim the world he knew, the man he was.

Right now, as I’m writing this, I am trying to think of experiences I’ve had, anything that might compare to the feeling of waking up in another world, as a blind man with restored sight might feel.  Honestly, I can’t even come close.  I’ve drunk a bit too much and woken up disoriented.  I’ve gotten knocked out, woken up confused.  I’ve been scared out of my wits.  I’ve felt intense, breathtaking pain.  I’ve had crazy dreams.  But these were temporary—nothing radical, nothing like, essentially, having a whole new sense, a sixth sense.

Fear comes to mind.  It would be (I think) like being on a really bad hallucinogenic drug. Everything would be distorted, thrown completely off kilter.  Would I ride out the temporary chaos, until I simply adapted?  Would I get used to the feeling of “not normal?”  Or would I live an unsettled life, wishing I could just go back to what I knew?

Have you ever wished you had a different life?  A more exciting life?  A more fulfilling life?

For me, this story only reinforces the truth that nothing in this world will ever live up to what we imagine, believe, or hope it to be.  What we see, hear, feel, taste, and smell are less important, ultimately, than what we perceive with our mind and heart.  The things (and people—but that’s another conversation) of the world will never satisfy, make our lives better, or transform who we are.  We are surrounded by chipped paint, but in the right frame of mind, we will not see it.  It won’t matter.  Because we will perceive from a different place.

I’m not quite at the place yet.  But I’m trying.

Experiencing sight for the first time—the shock, awe, and, even disappointment—is a little like becoming a Christian, I suppose.  It’s like this big, scary step in life.  All those years leading up to it, all the questions, the insecurities, the unfamiliar of it all—when you finally get there, when you finally lay it all down and accept Jesus, there is relief, joy, even euphoria.  But eventually, the world will suck you back into it and things just don’t look like the way they should.  You’re a Christian, after all.  Isn’t it all supposed to be good—better?  Perfect, even?

I didn’t sign up for this. 

I have to admit, I’ve been in a place where I felt like holing up in my house, shaving in the dark, too overwhelmed to navigate the new challenges that faith delivers.  (After all, that’s who I am, who I used to be.  It was easier, being that person.  I knew what to expect).

I was invested in chipped paint.  And I was going to lose, big time.

Investing in something you can’t see is, of course, daunting. But investing in a sure thing, that’s a miracle.  Not to mention smart.

Dear Lord, thank you for allowing me to enjoy the beautiful world you created, and for reminding me that for everything that fails and falls away, You will remain.

Teach me, O Lord, to follow your decrees; then I will keep them to the end.  Give me understanding, and I will keep your law and obey it with all my heart.  Direct me in the path of your commands, for there I find delight.  Turn my heart away from worthless things; preserve my life according to your word (Psalm 119: 33-37).

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14 Apr 2011

Are You Saved?

My kids and I were walking around the new facility at Greentree Christian Church last Sunday and when we passed by the baptistry, my six year old daughter asked, “Why is there a bathtub in here?”  I explained to her that it’s the place where you get baptized, when you get saved.  She responded, “Saved from what?”

What must have been going through her head?  Swimming in that water, on the verge of going under, a hand swooping in to save her?  Some scary water monster?  Child logic, at its best.  Her question got me thinking though.

When my daughter was three, she and her brother and my husband were out fishing on the lake behind our house.  I was inside tidying up after dinner when I heard them clamoring in the downstairs door.  I went down to find my husband carrying my sobbing daughter.  They were both soaking wet.  She had fallen into the lake, in frigid water.  My husband had jumped in to get her.  After putting her in a warm tub and calming her down, I got the full story.  She had been leaning on a stick and tumbled in.  My husband had his back turned.  When he turned around, she was nearly ten feet out, just floating there, quietly, a dazed look on her face.  You know those public service type announcements that say kids don’t thrash about and scream when they are in trouble?  They just quietly go under.  It’s true.  Quickly, he was able to go in and pull her out.  He was visibly rattled when they came inside. He doesn’t often get like that, but he said to me later, as we were sitting around watching television, “I was just thinking how this night could have turned out completely different.”  She could have drowned.  He quite possibly saved her life.

The word saved has different meanings, depending on the context.  You can be saved from something, or you can be saved for something—which carries the connotation that we are special, that we are worthy to, like a precious artifact, be placed aside in a safe place, treasured.  To be saved for something can also mean that we are designed for a particular thing, that some task is reserved for us, that we have a place in Heaven.  We can be saved from sin, but in accepting Christ, we are also saved for great things, as vehicles of God’s glory.

Thinking about being saved also reminds me that there’s a huge difference between being saved in the world and being saved, spiritually.  I believe we can be physically saved from a bad situation—drugs, an abusive relationship, poverty—and that can lead us to being saved spiritually.  But I also believe that being saved spiritually can save us from, and get us out of, a bad situation.  Saved is a really neat concept.  It’s sort of like a double agent.

Do you know someone, right now, who needs to be saved?  All of us know someone who is in a precarious position—whether physically, mentally, financially, spiritually, etc.  If that person is close to you, you may have even asked yourself the question, “What can I do?  How can I help this person?”

At a revival over a decade ago, I still remember a speaker who addressed the problems and concerns we may have when someone we love is lost.  He used a simple but vivid analogy:  It’s like that person is out in the middle of an enormous, deep body of water, and we are standing on the shore, holding the rope that is attached to the life preserver.  He asked, “Are you, right now, holding the rope, for someone?” He spoke of the abilities we have, as human beings, as followers of Christ, to physical save someone—to get them out of a danger zone, get them to a place where they can embrace God’s love.  Holding the rope for someone is being a lifeline, being a counselor, and sometimes, just being a prayer warrior.  And so, we go on, holding that rope.  Because we believe.  Because maybe, somewhere, sometime, someone held a rope for us.

I believe this.  I believe as Christians we have a huge role to play in this regard.  But it’s important to remember that though we may provide guidance, physical comfort, or safety to someone, we are not saviors.  There is only one who can save.

I grew up with a mother who had, and still has, mental problems that have, to this day, gone undiagnosed, primarily because she’s obstinate to doctors and treatment.  For years as a young adult, I thought that I was supposed to be the one to save her, that it was somehow my responsibility to get her out of whatever was plaguing her.  But over the years, I’ve come to realize that it’s not my responsibility, that though I might hold that rope, she had to be the one to take it.  You can’t force someone to take the rope.  You can have the biggest, best, most state of the art equipment, but it won’t save anyone for God.  That was a very freeing moment for me, realizing, thankfully, that God really does have the power, that I don’t have to carry those burdens. 

No king is saved by the size of his army;
no warrior escapes by his great strength.
A horse is a vain hope for deliverance;
despite all its great strength it cannot save (Psalm 33:  15-17)

Restore us, O God; make your face shine on us, that we may be saved (Psalm 80:3).

Over and over, the Bible reminds us that it is the Lord who saves, that those who call on the Lord will be saved.  The world will test, tear us down, and leave us broken.  But He will remain. 

Dear Lord, thank you for saving me.

Posted in Christian Living, Faith, Spirituality and tagged , , | Leave a Comment
11 Apr 2011
3 Comments

A Good Thump On The Head

   

When I was about eight or nine years old, I was playing outside one summer evening and I heard my mom call me to come inside.  At first, I ignored her, stalling for time.  A few minutes later, she called again, in a more serious tone.  Knowing she’d been at the front door, I darted around to the back of the house, thinking I’d slip in and avoid punishment.  There was a sliding glass door on the back of our house and, seeing that it was wide open, I started inside.  Suddenly, I felt my face hit something hard, my body reeling backward.  Incredibly, I had smashed into the glass at a full run.  Stunned, I fell back onto the porch, holding my sore nose.  Honestly, I was more perplexed by my gross miscalculation, the realization that the door had been closed, instead of open.  I just knew it was open. 

Luckily, I was not seriously injured.  But it was a moment I’ll never forget, mostly because it was the first time I really understood the concept of illusion, how believing what we see can sometimes give us a good whap upside the head.

When I was in junior high, a friend of mine gave me a book called Scrambled Chickens and 74 Other Eccentric How-Tos.  I only remember a few of the 74 things:  how to be a pinball (my personal favorite), how to greet strangers at an airport, and, most memorably, how to walk through walls.  Walking through walls apparently involves, among other things, hypnotizing yourself into a stated of deluded grandeur as you repeat, over and over:  I will walk through walls.  I will walk through walls.  The book was, of course, a humorous spoof of how to do ridiculous things, and it was wildly entertaining to a couple of adolescents whose conversations might have revolved around a question such as this:  What if, by sheer faith, we could accomplish the impossible?

What if all we had to do was believe?  What if it were that simple?

It isn’t, of course.  We go through life with all these goals and plans—visions for what we want our life to be.  Then, we find ourselves saying something like….I didn’t sign up for THIS!  This is NOT part of the plan. 

We find ourselves running smack into a wall. 

Have you ever started up a flight of stairs and at the very end, something misfires in your brain and you calculate another step, where there is none, and you do this little trip/hop thing at the top of the stairs, genuinely surprised when your foot lands hard in front of you?  Where is that last step, anyway?  You knew it was there—or your body did, rather.  You didn’t even think about it, did you?  It just happened.  But why?  The answer is deep in the vast network of neurons and cells that make up your brain.  In other words, it’s complicated.  You’d have to be a neuroscientist to figure it out, much less explain it.  The missed step may seem simple enough, but there’s most likely a really long, drawn out research project lurking in there somewhere.

The point is this:  If we can’t trust our own sensing, breathing body to get us successfully up a flight of stairs, under typical conditions—where no obvious physical impairment or obstacle exists—then how can we reasonably trust anything in nature or humanity at large?  From a Biblical perspective, we know that we can’t rely on the things of the world for truth or salvation.  “Cursed is the one who trusts in man, who depends on flesh for his strength” (Jeremiah 17:5).  Trusting in God, rather than the world is the foundation of our faith. 

But, we put a lot of “faith” into the world.  We have to, in order to function.  Otherwise, we’d go around in a perpetual state of anxiety.  We put a lot of faith into our own abilities, rather than God’s.  That’s why it’s such a huge blow when we fail, when things don’t quite work out.  We think… but I planned it so well.  I believed in it.  Faith?  Or something else?

On a Christian radio show recently, I heard the announcer liken faith to going to the doctor, leaving with a piece of paper containing scribbles we can’t read, and taking it to the pharmacy, where someone gives us a pill we’ve been instructed to take.  Which we do—all in faith.  His point was that everyone has the capacity for faith, but just maybe not in the right things.  But is taking a pill from the pharmacist really an act of faith? 

I would call it inductive reasoning.  We may think:  It’s turned out ok in the past.  Others have gone to this doctor.  Others have taken this pill.  Conclusion:  It will be all right.  We are basing our conclusion on a set of specific observations.

Faith is something different.  Faith doesn’t have to be based on any observation, at all.  There’s nothing logical or reasonably about it.  “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).  Wait—it is the substance of something that has not been created yet, the physical manifestation of something invisible.  Isn’t that an oxymoron?  Isn’t that impossible?

Faith itself is impossible.  It makes no sense, to believe in something we can’t see.  And yet, we do.  It’s when the things we hope for, our dreams, the vision we have for our lives, become so real in our minds that we don’t see anything else.  All outer circumstances become secondary to our faith.  When outer circumstances are uncertain, as they always are, we move through it by faith—concentrating on the certainty that lies far beyond. 

In college, I had a friend who was an outdoor enthusiast, and he got me interested in things like hiking and cycling.  I was always trying to keep up.  Once, we were cycling around a state park and he rode his bike down a flight of stairs ahead of me.  I remember thinking how easy he made it look, just sailing down those stairs.  I sat at the top on my bike and somehow managed to convince myself that I, too, could sail down stairs, on a bike.  And so, I went for it. 

Immediately, the harrowing realization hit me:  It was going to be one bumpy ride.  Worse, was the grim moment when I knew that there was no way out.  I was going to have to ride that bike, all the way down, come what may.  So I held on tight and bumped down, every bone jarring step.  Finally, my body could no longer hold the momentum and, impossibly, I found myself airborne, sailing (ah, at last, but not the way I’d hoped) over the handlebars, through the air, landing in a sprawl on the ground.  With the air sufficiently knocked out of me, it took me a few minutes to cry out—not in pain, but in utter disbelief that I’d managed to come out unscathed.

This is what faith is like to me.  You sit at the top of those stairs, believing, wholeheartedly that you can do it.  And maybe you can.  But maybe, you’ll get halfway down and realize it’s not what you thought it was.  And there’s only one thing left to do.  You hang on, sometimes for dear life. 

Occasionally, we need a good thump on the head to remind us:  We are not in control.

You see, faith exists, even when we do stupid things like ride bikes down stairs, or try to run through a glass door.  God is with us, even when our brains seem to have gone on vacation.  Thankfully, we can pray for wisdom, the precious discernment that might save us from an embarrassing moment, or a broken nose.

Dear Lord, give me discernment, reveal which paths to take, and which ones to turn from.  Give me strength and a faithful heart, deliver me safely from the chaos of an uncertain world.

Posted in Faith, Spirituality and tagged ,
21 Mar 2011
1 Comment

Failure Is An Option

My dad likes to tell stories about the mischief he got into growing up in the 1930s. One of his favorite stories happened in a one-room schoolhouse near Conway, Missouri. Either my dad or his friend had brought some shotgun shells to school and they hatched a plan to put them in the wood stove when the teacher wasn’t looking. Well, you can imagine what happened next. The shells fired inside the stove, amidst screams and panic. The boys were punished and they learned a lesson, but after all these years, Dad holds the memory of it close. Though there were other similar incidents, for some reason, that is one of his favorite memories. He’s often said of his childhood, “It’s a wonder we didn’t get killed.”

Obviously, my dad and his friend didn’t spend too much time thinking about or weighing the consequences of their plan. They were sort of the like the Depression Era version of the kids on that Cartoon Network show, Dude, What Would Happen or Mythbusters. One of them—or maybe both—most likely had a hankering to find out what, in fact, would happen if you were to put shotgun shells into a roaring fire. Granted, the guys on Mythbusters (doing things like firing guns into swimming pools and blowing up cars) are in a controlled television environment, with all the safety equipment, etc. But in a sense, it’s the same. Remember the old saying, curiosity killed the cat? Well, I’ve always had a subtitle: But, satisfaction brought him back. Boys, it seems, get some satisfaction out of exploring that curiosity, even when it poses a very real threat.

But then, think about it. We’ve all done brainless things. Nobody’s perfect, after all. Occasionally, we get way off track.

I’ve blogged a lot about parenting anxiety and about how we often slip into the mode of preparing the path, not the child, where we should be doing the opposite. Of course, we can’t plan for everything. But we sure want to…. We want a perfect life, a perfect child. But perfection is an elusive concept and it can lead to sin when we believe we can obtain it. We cannot expect perfection in this world. There is only one who is perfect. The only perfection we can or should strive for is a more perfect relationship with God. In that way, striving to be more Christ like is done not for ourselves, but for God. Striving to be more Christ like for ourselves will only have the opposite effect: Pride will seep in and causes us to say and do things that are not Christ like. When we have a “Failure is not an option” mentality, ironically, we fail.

Sometimes, we will fail miserably. We get into curious, precarious situations and we end up doing the spiritual equivalent of throwing those shotgun shells into a stove. We take risks with our health, our marriages, our money, our children. But as we know, sooner or later, things are gonna blow.

I fall into the trap of perfection. It hurts to fail. But I think what is most important—and what I plan to teach my children—is knowing that though we are imperfect, perfection does exist, that though we fail, there is one who will not fail. “Now I am about to go the way of all the earth. You know with all your heart and soul that not one of all the good promises the LORD your God gave you has failed. Every promise has been fulfilled; not one has failed” (Joshua 23:14). I, for one, am thankful that I can take my failings to the Lord, who is perfect—perfect in His wisdom, judgment and love. Only the most perfect being in the universe is capable of loving such an imperfect world. To love a world with such gravity of sin requires perfection.

I believe in God because I love—not because I can look at a child murderer and love, but because I can look at my child and love him beyond any imperfection or failing. To be a parent is to be given a glimpse into the enormous, impossible realm of God’s perfect love.

I believe because I fail. No matter how imperfect, I know that He loves me, that even my shortcomings have purpose. “Some of the wise will stumble, so that they may be refined, purified and made spotless until the time of the end, for it will still come at the appointed time.” (Daniel 11:35). Sometimes, failure is not only an option, but the only option.

To the all-powerful Creator of the universe, we are just mischievious children, trying to grow up in world that is beautiful, fun, and oh, so complicated and dangerous.

Dear Lord, when I fail, give me wisdom. When I fail, keep me safe. When I fail, lift me up in your love.

Posted in Christian Living, Faith, Spirituality and tagged ,
10 Mar 2011

Be Careful What You Ask For

The other day, I picked up a copy of The Prayer of Jabez by Bruce Wilkinson.   It’s a short, inspirational book based on the Old Testament passage, 1Chronicles 4:9-10:  Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, Oh that you would bless me indeed, and enlarge my border, and that your hand might be with me, and that you would keep me from evil, that it not be to my sorrow! God granted him that which he requested.  In the book, Wilkinson says we should pray Jabez’s prayer daily to unleash God’s power in our lives and experience unprecedented prosperity and success.  The book has gotten some criticism from spiritual leaders over the years, and while it isn’t a particularly challenging read, it did leave some lingering questions.  What does it mean to be blessed by God? 

Your answer may sound a lot like mine:  God has blessed me.  He has given me two great kids.  A husband who works hard, a provider.  He has given me a nice home, a nice, safe town to live in.  He’s given me wonderful friends and neighbors.  We never go hungry.  We have all the clothes we need.  We generally have all the comforts we desire.  We can go on vacation if we choose.  Yes, I’d say the Lord has blessed me.

Everywhere I look, there are blessings.

But has He blessed… me? 

And what, exactly, does “blessed” look like?

I picture the people I know who work tirelessly in a particular ministry, for example.  Those who seem to be divinely energized, who seem never to tire, who keep doing more, who somehow manage to keep their personal lives all in check—work, family, home—and still find time to do great things with their talents.

I picture those who have incredible obstacles in life—a disease, a special needs child, a mental illness—and yet, they prosper and inspire those around them.

I picture those who are creatively inspired, those who seem to effortlessly change the world with a mere idea.

You know, the ones you just sit back and watch, thinking…I wish I had some of whatever that is.

Blessed.  From the outside it looks like enthusiasm, energy, and endless productivity.  It’s like being handed a few extra hours in the day. 

Which begs the question, again.  Has God blessed me?

You may know this sort of drill:

I’m exhausted.  I’m behind on laundry, cleaning, chores, organizing, scrapbooking.  There is a seemingly endless array of projects that need my attention.  I don’t spend enough time with my kids.  I really need to cook more, eat out less.  I need to watch television with my husband, because it’s something he likes to do.  I need to finish one of the half dozen books I’ve started.  I need to finish one of the three novels I’m trying to write, all at once.  I need to volunteer more, go to church more, work out more, do more.  Be more.  I don’t even know, some days, where to start.

If only I were blessed.

I think back to the premise of that book in 1 Chronicles.  Jabez clearly asks to be singled out, to have the Lord’s favor upon him.  On first glance, Jabez’s prayer seems self-serving, seems to go against everything we know about living a Godly life—we are supposed to humble ourselves, think of others, and to sacrifice our own needs in the interest of others.  But those are all huge, daunting tasks, too much to handle all at once.  No wonder we stress out about the small stuff!  No wonder things seem so overwhelming and complicated!

What if simplifying our lives were a matter of simply asking to be blessed?

When we ask for God’s blessing, we aren’t really asking for special treatment.  We’re not asking God to swoop in and make our laundry disappear.  We’re asking to be filled with the Holy Spirit, and that’s something very different.  When we’re filled with the Holy Spirit, we accomplish that which we could never do on our own.  The Lord uses us in ways we never dreamed.  And the blessing?  That comes later.  When we pray to be blessed, we are praying to be used—in whatever way God has intended, for His glory.  Suddenly, our way of doing things becomes radically, supernaturally usurped. 

Great things don’t just happen.  They happen because someone was blessed, because someone needed the Holy Spirit, and maybe, because someone asked.

You’ve heard the saying.  Be careful what you ask for.  But I’d like to take this opportunity to ask. 

Dear Lord, please bless me.

Posted in Christian Living, Faith, Spirituality and tagged , , , , , | Leave a Comment

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