Don't Go Toward the Light

You know those "big savings" offered by auto insurance companies to folks with spotless driving records? Install a little plug-in under the dash of your vehicle for a few weeks, and your driving habits are monitored in order to give you "deep driving discounts." Not so much. My first experience with said plug-in ended with the senseless murder of my fourteen year-old Explorer on a winding airport road. My second? A pitiful eleven percent discount. I know, at least it's something, right? Well, ten percent is the minimum. Turns out, their "safe driver rewards" have little to do with this safe driver and more to do with the hour at which she does her driving. Who would have thought that two-thirty in the morning is a dangerous time to drive? (Probably the guys who poured my mortally wounded SUV onto the back of a roll-off and solemnly bore her away.)

As I drove into work last night, though, I realized high beams have become "a thing." Not exactly a safe driving practice on narrow two-lane roads. Why do people feel the need to drive with their high beams on, especially with the LED headlights available on most cars today? I repeatedly find myself struggling to resist the urge to "go toward the light," as they say. And here's where my metaphor begins; but it may not be what you think.

It's human nature to focus on the things that come at us and tend to ruin our day, steal our peace, or take our attention from the things that require it the most. Just like the lights of an oncoming vehicle, cutting through the black of night, the troubles and trials in our lives can draw our eyes from the path we are following. We think about the things that derail us; we talk about the things that distract us. "My aching back!" "I can't afford another mouth to feed." "Did you hear what she said about me?!" "How am I supposed to have time to do that?" We don't stop with superficial wonder, we talk our issues to death -- and not to the One who can actually do something about them. It's, sometimes, as if we like being fixated on our problems.

You know, I have had to consciously tear my eyes away from the superfluous glow of oncoming lights, tell myself to "Stop it. Pay attention to the road." You wouldn't think something so obviously wrong and ridiculously ordinary could hold my attention that long. But it does. At first, it's irritation. "Are you going to turn those off?" Then it becomes some sort of strange dare -- as if they can see you staring or they care if you are. At last, it completely steals your focus: you're not even sure why you're still staring, you just know you can't stop.

Trouble is that way also. The irritation of the neighbor who constantly parks over your driveway; the cigarettes (and their exorbitant price tag) your wife refuses to give up. Once you start staring, it's almost as if you can't stop. You begin keeping track of how many times he's come home late; you start noticing the pain in your elbows as well as your jaw as well as your ear -- and, "What's that dot?!" You're looking for one more thing, one more infraction, one more second of inconvenience. Before you know it, staring at your problem has become a way of life. You've grown so tired, but you simply can't help yourself. Sick and tired of being sick and tired. But what do you do?

I'm not trying to be glib or dismissive -- real pain, real struggles are, well, real. But we choose to fix our eyes on them, or we choose to fix our eyes on the One Who heals, Who restores, Who redeems, Who provides and protects, Who loves, Who makes all things new! We don't have to keep staring at the distractions until we have left the road. And leaving the road is perilous! Try explaining that to your little plug-in!

Fix your eyes on Jesus today. And when the piercing wrongs of the world begin to lure your gaze from Him, "Stop it! Pay attention to the Way."

Got Any Plans?

Last June we lost our goofy, big-headed Bishop. I miss him terribly, but his issues with fear aggression could turn an evening with guests into an anxious contest of open doors and closed doors. When he passed I was finally able to use our home as a place of hospitality and my schedule as a blessing to others. I began inviting friends for lunch; Scott and I were planning an end of summer getaway -- our first in years. At the same time, I toyed with the idea of starting a small business; I was committed to eating right and exercising, and I wanted to share that life with as many people as possible. I was writing copiously, and yearned to attempt a book. I had a "four-year plan" with regard to my job, preparing for retirement. Though I had lost, I had not lost hope.

Before the summer ended, everything had changed. Our home was filled to capacity with people in need of care and clothes and a place to sleep and instruction and time. My office was gone, paperwork was everywhere, and my need for order was threatened. My peaceful little sitting room was now storage, and my need for quiet was viciously discarded. My job had been altered dramatically, and my comfortable routine shaken to bits. My time was less my own than ever; my independence, thrown into shackles. My relationship with my husband consisted of a five minute rundown each morning -- who ate and what they ate -- and the same every evening. My health was put on the burner behind the back one. My writing and my personal goals became what dreams are made of. Everything we valued had been touched, violated. And my goofy, big-headed boy wasn't around to curl up next to me or bring a smile to my lips.

To say I felt robbed or betrayed, would be an understatement. How would I ever get past the feeling of loss if all I keep experiencing is loss? I was trying to turn grief into something good; I had refused to sit around moping over a dog; I was being fruitful, right? Well, when planning the future, we must be sure to consult the One in whose hand it resides. When our inhospitable little friend passed on, I knew God was opening the door for us to open the door to others, but He'd not given me any specifics. I had proceeded in the best way I thought possible -- and I'm not saying that was wrong -- but, by the time God did make the specifics very clear, I'd fallen so in love with my plan, I was unwilling to release my grip on it. When God's plan was revealed, I wanted it to feel as comfortable and gentle as the plan I'd created. You know, just a little sacrifice here, a little inconvenience there. Well, when was the last time anyone was deeply, radically transformed by a little bit of pain, a hint of heartache? Would the gospel have reached unheard of peoples if those who carried it agreed to do so only to the point it didn't interrupt their lunch? Would the gospel even exist if the One who holds the future hadn't radically transformed and laid down His future for ours?

And what was all the protest over anyone -- even God -- touching my stuff? That's really what it was. I wanted to give up what I chose when I wanted. "I give myself away." "All to Jesus I surrender." Hadn't I sung those very words over and over? Hadn't I prayed for God to use me? laid all I have and all I am down in service to Him? Wasn't He the one who gave me those things, made me as He determined in the first place?

"The plans of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue is from the Lord." -- Proverbs 16:1 

The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps." -- Proverbs 16:9 

"Many are the plans in the mind of a man, but it is the purpose of the Lord that will stand." -- Proverbs 19:21

"'For My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways My ways,' declares the Lord. 'For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts.'" -- Isaiah 55:8-9

Thank You, Lord, for the times You have thwarted our plans. Thank You for Your desire to transform and renew us. Help us surrender even our smallest desires to You, that You might use them in Your time and for Your glory! Amen.

Perfect and New

The setting could not have been more perfectly composed. Warm yellow sun, shamrock green grass, azure skies, dotted by snow white clouds. The sound of childish laughter rising on tepid breezes from within the requisite white picket fence. Even my suffocating fear paused to appreciate the charming spectacle. For a moment.

Here we are, in a season that has brought so much hope and beauty and joy. We have experienced victory and blessing beyond measure, a home infused with innocence and abandon, a new vision for the future and prospects we never would have imagined. God has placed hedges of healing and favor along our path; yet, beyond this moment, we really have no idea how or when this journey will end. We have only but to trust and obey. And that is not some trite refrain.

This season of hope and beauty and joy has left us wide open to more disappointment and pain and sadness than we could ever imagine. The possibility of failure and disaster were looming as I paused to notice that perfect Spring scene. As beautiful as it was, it almost caused me to weep. Why, when we allow our selves to love, does death deal such a cruel blow? Why, when we allow ourselves to believe we are free, does fear grip our heart and choke it to breaking? The ministry to which we have been called could end in unmitigated disaster or glorious victory. But for God.

Four years ago, when Mom came to live with us, I knew it was the right thing to do. Scott joked, "What's the big deal? It's just like havin' another kid." At the end the first year, he wasn't making that joke anymore. Having Mom with us was hard. Her presence altered our ability to simply watch a movie together on the sofa. Her eye rolls and pffts every time we asked her to respect our requests tested our patience. Her sarcastic, derisive comments each time we complimented one another, were invasive and embarrassing. Having Mom live with us in our tranquil, loving home caused me to realize I had not overcome as much of the dysfunction of my childhood as I had thought. But isn't that what second chances and a life transformed is all about?

I began to pray God would change my heart, help me to love her. When the day came for Mom to be called home -- and God had assured me she would be with Him (More on that another day!) -- I wanted to mourn her passing, not sigh in relief at a lightened workload.  When the time came for her to slough off this mortal coil, I wanted to miss her; I wanted, when people expressed their sympathies or spoke of my loss, to be truly grateful, not secretly ashamed. With that prayer, as with the opening of a door, God walked in and went to work.

That work is what brought me to these bittersweet thoughts on this beautiful afternoon. Like the perfect nature of the Creator found in His creation, His perfect love lives within my heart. And that is not to say I apply it perfectly, for His vessel is imperfect and too often selfish, but I can feel love for my mother -- love that I know did not exist before I turned my heart toward Him and asked for His healing. I speak more gently and become less irritated. There is love for Mom that causes me to enjoy serving her, and compassion that compels me to pray for a miracle: healing in her mind and body, that she might not leave this earth a helpless shell of who she was. I know that when Mom does go from us my heart will break. I know that when death comes to call I will curse its savage indifference. Because of who she was to me. Because of what God has done for me. And I will give glory and praise to the God who makes all things new!