I Demand a Reasonable Explanation!

I am waiting on test results right now. "If the results are positive, it could be..." Do you know the drill?

Some annoying health issues have popped up -- issues I attributed to my aging carcass maturing form. "If this is my 'new normal' I want no parts of it," I recall saying. It turns out I might be in luck -- this collective of maladies might be caused by a real live health issue; not aging. "That's much more like it," I thought; "I knew there was a reasonable explanation!"

What's truly unreasonable is, I am preferring the option of managing a lifelong condition over the inevitable norm of aging. Now, I'm not actually praying for bad results, but I've been asking for an "answer". What if the answer is, I'm just getting old? What's my problem with aging?

Well, I love my truck. If I sat in my driveway each day with my truck idling I would put "miles" on the engine and use fuel, but I'd be going nowhere. I would never experience the enjoyment of cruising down the road and discovering new places; all that wear and tear would be without purpose. I feel like that now. I'm aging; I'm well on my way to crepey skin, cataracts, incontinence, thinning hair, forgetfulness, brittle bones, and unchecked flatulence. But, though I'm old enough to hurt and old enough to be tired, I'm not old enough to benefit from it. I can't retire; I can't do what I want; I can't even get my 10% at Chili's! I am in "age limbo." Just like my idling truck, there are plenty of "miles" but I haven't gone anywhere! I'm fourteen all over again -- too old to play with the little kids, but not old enough to play with the big kids. It's awkward, and uncomfortable, and I'm not liking it one bit.

But here's the thing -- it's not about me. Whether I'm fifty-three or twenty-three or eighty-three, this is all just a block on the calendar, a dot on the map. It's my life lived in and through and by and for Christ that holds significance. Without Christ I am nothing more than a deteriorating corpse. He is my life, and He gives whatever this aging body is going through meaning. My purpose or worth is not measured by the number of miles I've traveled, but Whose call I was following; and whether He leads me down the quiet road of age spots and orthopedic shoes, or a chronic condition, He will bring me through it. He is my strength when I am aching from age or aching from poor health; He is my fortress when I am weary from old age or weary from poor health. He is my comfort when I am in limbo or in crisis.

By demanding "some reasonable explanation" or purpose for my problems, I am saying, "I can do this as long as there's some good reason for it;" but I am not meant to do anything other than surrender to what God wills. It is not my job to endure it or establish a purpose for it. What do I even know about good and bad? In point of fact, I may never know why He's taking me down this road, or He's got me idling in the drive. The "why" is of little consequence as long as I am leaning on the One who carries me so completely.

Tired of the Same Ol' Routine?

It was quiet except for the song of crickets. I stepped out onto the brick walk, mentally preparing for the drive home. The trees were backlit by the blue-grey glow of the setting sun, and fireflies were floating just above the grass. The air, though still laced with the humidity of a hot July day, had become a little cooler, relinquishing most of its oppressiveness. An hour of driving was before me, on winding country roads, at a time of day I would normally be asleep; but it was not unfamiliar terrain or heavy eyelids that disturbed me. It was the familiar; it was weariness; it was leaving the serenity and fellowship I'd known for the last few hours and heading back to responsibility, work, and the busyness of urban life. I felt burdened. "Why can't I...?" Go here. Do that. "Why isn't my...?" Life like this. My family like that.

Maybe you've thought something similar from time to time. Not a shallow ingratitude or jealousy, but a weariness, a heaviness that immediately leads us to wish we were somewhere else, someone else. James K.A. Smith said, " Sometimes the difference between drudgery and epiphany is just seeing things from the right angle." And that ideology appeals to my inner optimist, but what happens when your inner optimist has run out of steam?

"God shows up." It's an expression our pastor loves to use. God is there all the time, each day, in the extraordinary and the mundane. And sometimes it's in the extraordinary we see Him best: the brilliant sunrise, the cry of our first child, the money that "arrives" to the pay the taxes, the hardened father who comes to know Jesus. When there is "simply no other explanation," God is effortlessly revealed to us. And who among us has not sought and deeply known God in the impossible and hopeless moments of life? But what about the ordinary? Is God in the routine and frustration of caring for a disabled child each day? How do I find God when I've answered the same question or made the same request multiple times? What is God doing when doctors are telling you the same thing over and over and none of it seems to make any sense? Where is God when you are nodding to the same guards week after week, and you know you will be until you die or she does? God shows up.

Not that He wasn't there all along -- He was; He is. But, if we look, if we seek, God will become just as evident in the all too familiar as He is in the strange and insurmountable and wonderful. It's more than just an internal optimism, a "looking on the bright side" that comes from within ourselves. It's more than just searching for purpose and fulfillment in our commitment to that purpose; seeking a gift or looking for answers. Our search is a search for God, a search for the Giver Himself, the Way, the Truth, the Life; our search is to know Jesus and who He is, in abundance. Our quest is not a quest for relief from the weariness and sameness of our life; but a search for Strength and Life Himself.

A Comfortable Life

Her humming was becoming louder and louder. Mom was sitting in the kitchen, directly below my office, as I attempted to read the Genesis account of God's call to Abram. Like the beat of Poe's "Telltale Heart", I couldn't take it anymore. "Forget it. I'll just go get her breakfast." But it was hours before she normally eats, and she was simply having coffee. Mom was safe and content. "I just want my home to be normal again."

Our pastor spoke on Abram a few weeks back. He called attention to God's command for Abram to go out of his country, away from his family, and from his father's house. God took Abram away from a place he was established, comfortable, prospering, that He (God) might do something for an entire people. God did not hide the fact, there would be something in it for Abram -- "I will make you a great nation, I will bless you and make your name great..." -- but those were "will"s and "would be"s. When Abram packed up the clan and all their possessions, he had nothing but a promise; it was because of his belief in that promise, he left all he knew. That is faith: walking out our belief.

I believe God gave Jesus to die for my sin. I believe Jesus rose from the dead and reigns as King of kings and Lord of lords. I believe the presence of the Holy Spirit in me is His guarantee of all He has promised. Presumably, it is because of those beliefs, I seek to bring glory to my Heavenly Father, to proclaim the name of Jesus, and to follow the Holy Spirit's direction.

For a long time, I chose to remain trapped in my past. Although Jesus had delivered me, stepping into the light of redemption and newness of life was far too scary for me. One day God showed me the toll that darkness was taking, and I moved toward His Light. Scott joined me on my journey, and we built this fabulous life together. Our home was safe and comfortable, a haven of rest and healing. I needed the familiarity and tranquility of our home.

And then came Mom. Mom is no trouble at all -- she really isn't. But with Mom came banana peels on the coffee pot, a full-sized adult with the hygiene of a toddler, mounds of tissues in the laundry, unexplained sound effects, anxious pacing, nights of unrest, and baggage. Baggage I carried for years, baggage I shed, baggage that sickens me has been brought, quite literally, to my doorstep. Suddenly, my home is not the comfortable, healing place it was before; and God is calling me to love.

God is telling me I no longer need my place of comfort, but The Comforter. It is time to leave my place of refuge, for The Rock. God is removing my place of peace that He might be my Peace. God is transforming my place of healing that I might better know The Healer. There was a time of learning and renewal that took place within our cozy little home; but it is time for something more, to stretch and mature. And if I will walk out my beliefs, if I will go forward in faith, if I will leave comfort to Him, God will do something for His glory and my good.

Empty Vessels

Today I am praying for nothing. Well, technically, it is something, but that something is nothing. Emptiness. I am praying for emptiness for myself, for my husband, for my children and grandchildren, my brother and his family, my extended family, my church family and all my friends. I am praying for emptiness in the hearts of everyone I know.

I was studying 2 Kings 4:1-7, this morning. A destitute widow sought help from the prophet Elisha. Elisha asked what she did have. A tiny bottle of oil. Pour it out.

Now, those were not his exact words, but I'm trying to paint a picture. Elisha actually instructed her to borrow large vessels from all her neighbors -- empty vessels. "Do not gather just a few." So, she's got this tiny bit of oil swishing around in, let's say, a two-cup measure. Now, I know, if I'm baking and I'm short on something like oil, and I have just enough for my recipe, I'm gonna grab my rubber spatula and I'm going to scrape every last drop out of that two-cup measure. I might even be sure to use a glass measure over something like plastic, so none of that oil gets absorbed into the material and wasted. The last thing I would ever think of doing would be pouring that tiny bit of oil into a clay pot the size of an oil drum. It would run down the insides, be sucked into the porous clay, lay in the cracks and crevices at the bottom; if I'm lucky, I might get half of my oil back. Essentially, I would be pouring my precious oil out to waste. Pour it out.

So much emptiness in this narrative! A widow: no doubt she suffered the emptiness of the loss of her husband. Her sons: their father gone, they lacked their model, their provider, their teacher. Their home: those empty spaces a husband and father used to fill; the empty pantry a provider used to fill. And now, a jar poured out and empty vessels awaiting.

The widow's only response to Elisha's command was obedience:

"So she went from him and shut the door behind her and her sons, who brought the vessels to her; and she poured it out." (v. 5)

What faith! All she had poured out. Empty vessel after empty vessel brought before the flow of rich, salubrious oil. Void after void generously, graciously filled. Emptiness eradicated and vessels brimming with something so much more.

I am praying for emptiness. Old ideas, desires, grudges, presuppositions, expectations, traditions -- all gone, poured out. That God might richly, graciously fill us with something better. I am praying for marriages full of baggage and relationships with our children filled with past mistakes; I am praying for cancer that keeps fighting back and weariness that plagues the body and mind; I am praying for shame and damaged identities, for misunderstanding about who God is, for worldly desires and old habits, for hardness and self-sufficiency, for unforgiveness -- all poured out. Emptiness that God might fill us with something anew. But we must first bring our emptiness to Him. Seek. Obey. Pour it out.