Who?

Who are you? I think I've asked this question of you before. I know I've asked myself the same. Sometimes I've recorded my answer on the pages of a journal not catalogued or organized in any particular way but by date. If I was to rummage through those seemingly endless pages of study notes, observations, meandering trains of thought, prayers, and things longed for, if I was to spend days looking for all my replies to that question, the answers would probably be varied, inconclusive, all right and all wrong simultaneously, circumstantial in nature but, hopefully, showing signs of maturity in my understanding of who God is. Without knowing who God is, I can hardly know who I am. And though I might believe I know who I am, my perspective is not enough, nor is it accurate in all ways without acknowledging the One who made me and conceding what He says of me.

Let's suppose you and your wife are going to have a child. You have plans for this child --plans that, as a parent, are your responsibility to bring to fruition: a safe home, a good education, healthy food, etc. In the long term, you might like to see your child grow up to be a kind, creative person who uses their talents to serve mankind. You can do all you can to set them up for success, but ultimately, the decision is theirs. Nothing fatalistic about this; it is simple free will. But in the meantime, you will do things like tell them how much you anticipated their birth and point out the way their deep brown eyes look like those of their mother. This will instill in them a sense of being wanted and being a part of something larger than themselves. You will celebrate their achievements: building a block tower or tying their shoes or hitting their first home run, reassuring them of their ability to learn and make progress, and declaring your desire to be present every step of the way. You will tell them stories of your life growing up and how Mee-Maw always made you clean your room and go to church each Sunday. By sharing your memories, they will know who you are, and they will discover your desire to have a deep relationship with them. You will immerse them in history, that of your family and your nation, so that it becomes their history as well, and gives them membership in a legacy. You will highlight their unique talents and maybe even suggest how perfectly made they are for serving others. This will reveal to them a good path, a path designed by one who loves them and wants the best for them; this will allow them to see themselves as others see them and encourage them to walk in that if they choose. But without listening to your excitement, without taking the time to observe similarities between them and those around them, without joining you in a celebration of who they are and what they can do, without respecting your history, your identity, your desire for relationship, without treasuring the legacy of which they are a part, and without, at least, giving ear to your aspirations for them, they will only know in part who they are. They will understand only the part of them that they observe (or think they observe). They will see things only as those outside of the home see them and disclose to them. They will have no history upon which to stand. They cannot possibly know in full who they are.

So, I ask you again: Who are you? If you've not heard that you are God's child and He is your Father; if you've not heard that Jesus calls His followers "friends;" if you've not heard that you are no longer a slave to sin and will not be condemned for the wrong things you have done; if you've not heard that a believer is one with Jesus and His body is the place where God dwells; if you've not heard that in Christ, you are new, you have been called to bring others to reconciliation to Christ, you are His ambassador and you are the righteousness of God; if you've not heard that you were chosen before the world was formed and you are loved deeply and perfectly --if you've not heard any of these things about yourself and the gracious, merciful, almighty God who has vouchsafed all of this to you, don't you think it might be time you listen to what He is telling you? Don't you think it might be time you hear Him and draw near to Him? Don't you think it might be time for you to seek out the entire picture as it exists in your relationship with the One who placed you here on earth? Who you are depends on who God is to you. Wouldn't you like to be able to answer completely and accurately the question, Who are you?

Who Do You Do Life With?

Did you ever think a germ could change your life the way COVID did? It changed the way we handled the obligations of life, obviously: social distancing, working from home, live-streaming events. But it changed life in a more substantial sort of way. We gave a little more consideration to the way we choose to live, what constituted living, and who we wanted in our lives. As life became uncertain and was altered in a way we had never experienced before, it took on greater value. We thought a little more deeply about protecting our health and the health of those dear to us. We considered what might happen to others if we didn't care for ourselves. There were so many sides to the issue: people who chose to live; people who chose to think of others first; people who expressed concern for citizens' rights; people who "followed the science." And yet, in many ways, those "sides" were different expressions of the same fears and desires. If we tallied the moments we spent thinking and talking about a virus we knew nothing of just a year prior, we might all have different numbers, but it would be substantial, I'm sure.

James 4:13-16 talks about the value we place on life and the ways we choose to live it. "What is life?" James asks, He answers his own question: "It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away." Think about how long the earth has been in existence. Maybe you've inhabited it for thirty years or eighty years; but how long is that in comparison to all of life? Think about the existence of God and our existence with Him --eternal. We can't begin to wrap our heads around that, but it is a lot longer than thirty or eighty years. Even Methuselah --he lived to 969!-- his life on earth was but a vapor compared to all of eternity. Imagine planning your whole life around a thirty-second commercial. Silly, right? I mean, even the best commercials aren't worth planning your life around. Imagine choosing not to go to college or find a job --you wouldn't want to miss the commercial for something as unimportant as class or work. Imagine choosing not to have children --don't want them making a whole bunch of noise when the commercial comes on. Imagine passing up concert tickets or a dream vacation or your niece's wedding just to be sure you caught this commercial. Foolish! you say, Who would do that? No one plans their entire existence around something as inconsequential and as brief as a commercial!  But God, through James, is telling us we do. 

When we place so much value on our time on earth, we allow the things of this world to govern our lives; we are trading all of His glory for a thirty-second commercial. When we treasure our plans --unimaginative scraps compared to all He can do-- we are forfeiting the supernatural for the fallible, the vulnerable, the temporal. We can't possibly know what is attainable when He ordains it. His imagination is so far beyond ours --He created the poodle moth, after all (look it up!). His power is unrivaled. His plans for His people are good. Besides, thinking we have control over our lives is just arrogant. James admonishes: We should say, "If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that." Our minds should always be fixed on God's sovereignty, on His will and His authority over all: our schedules, our goals, our method of living. And it is God Himself we should treasure.

During the pandemic, as we contemplated the brevity of our lives and the value of the ones we do life with, we all sought to preserve both. And that's wonderful --we were created to desire life. But we were created to desire it with the One who holds it in His hands, eternally.

Mother's Day 2023

I watched as my mother, hunched almost in two and shuffling, lovingly carried her new treasure from our church. She cradled it in her palm as though it were an egg --Faberge, perhaps. To see her, this once snarky, once opinionated --and by "once" I mean "earlier this morning"--this once vexatious woman, meek and childlike, tender, and sweetly guarding a stuffed toy... 

I wept as I drove.

This is my mother. Ours has been a difficult relationship. I fought valiantly for freedom. In the end, she will win. She always did. I will love her and care for her despite my best efforts to be done with her. Her disability will become mine. She will search my face looking for clues as to what she is to do with her spoon or where she is to sit. Moments after affirming directions, I will feel her eyes upon me again --the spoon remains untouched alongside her bowl, she hovers as if in limbo, unsure of where to go. I will live on edge, knowing that as I raise my sandwich to my mouth, she will need to use the bathroom; knowing that as I begin to read, she will choo-choo and bang on the table; knowing that as I settle back into my seat, resigned to watch a movie with her rather than try to read alone, she will want to go outside; knowing that once she is seated comfortably outside, she will want to be inside. I will hear her footsteps on the stairs as I dash into the laundry to retrieve some things from the dryer; ever hot on my heels, she will not settle herself until I am found. And I will feel as if I am going mad. 

She has always needed. I have always felt obligated to satisfy. Ours has been a difficult relationship. But we have come to this place in these oh-so-many years that my heart has become tender toward her.  I can see how pain begets pain. Hers to me; mine to her. As I drove and wept she labored to speak. You. Me, she said. Somehow she knew. She is not the same as when this journey began; neither am I. On the outside she is more broken; on the inside I am more broken.

Later in the afternoon, I wonder how we got to this place. Who dealt these cards? Who designed this plan? And the why. Why this? Why this thing that causes me such frustration and such guilt? Why take her this way? Why allow her to suffer rather than simply dropping the curtain and allowing me to stay angry? Why do this thing which fills me with such pity, which tears down walls I'd erected years before, which has brought me to the place I care for her, have compassion on her, love her, need her, and which, in the end, will be the very thing that takes her from me? 

That is the cruel and perfect irony of it all. As I sit here wanting to burst into tears, wanting to weep and pour out my heart through words on a page, the destroyer that robs her of her faculties robs me of my opportunity to weep for her: She's watching; stay strong. As I pray for God to turn my heart toward Him and soften my heart toward her, I understand the pain of her brokenness has brought about the joy of mine. As I allow the ravages of this disease to transform stoney ground of hurt and unforgiveness in my life, I realize these are the very same ravages that remove life from her crooked body and transform it to dust. 

She has suffered that I might live. Lovingly carrying, cradling in her palm, meek and childlike, tender, and sweetly guarding not treasure but torment, that I might be made well.