Blessed Assurance

While life is sometimes a little scary, it is never bad.  My life is filled with blessings unspeakable and, while the occasional bump may make things somewhat gloomy or uncomfortable now and again, I cannot recant my faith, curse God, or even question His existence.  Admittedly, I have reacted in very childish, selfish ways, questioning why He hates me or why He choses to put me through so much; I'm not proud of that, but I don't think I am alone either.  I say this, because we are all imperfectly, sinfully human.  We all question God.  We all think our own plans are better.  We all fail to trust God. 

Truthfully and regretfully, I did not pay very close attention to my high school apologetics teacher.  The irony is, I wanted to learn the differences between religion and faith; I wanted to be able to argue for my faith rationally and sensibly.  I wanted to substantiate my beliefs in a methodical, practical, academic way -- and the material, while dry and sometimes difficult, was of interest to me.  But this was high school -- there were committees and teams and notes to be passed.

In times of weakness, in times of trouble and doubt, I have found plunging into the Word of God to be necessary for some cerebral awakening or intellectual relevance.  But the thing that grabs my heart, the thing that makes me know this is true, is history.  My very own, very personal history of God's faithfulness.

When I open the history book of God's faithfulness in my life I see consistency, miraculous possibilities that only through God could become realities, and indescribable love.  Sure, I could read accounts of Abraham and Isaac, Job, Paul -- and I do.  They are all wonderful evidence and assurance of God's loving faithfulness and redemption.  But right there, in my own life, I can see it...

...the time I prayed for meat for my children -- within hours my neighbor came to me with pounds of "extra" chicken

...the time I begged God to restore my marriage, and He didn't -- something far more wonderful was waiting down the road for me

...the times that in shame, pain, anger, and confusion I ran so far and hid so deeply -- God knew me and would not let me go

...ALL the times I have sought the approval of my peers, been crushed when it did not come -- as promised, God rewarded me with peace, joy and prosperity when I craved His approval

With no disrespect to apologetics, and no disrespect to atheists who wish to argue in some philosophical or academic arena, with no intent to nullify the importance of studying Scripture and explaining my faith with God's very Words -- when things get really sticky, sometimes "I just know." 

Not Just in Milwaukee

I've just had another one of those "it-doesn't-get-any-better-than-this" moments.  The details of the situation are this:

I was taking half of our children back to their mother's for the week.  Never fun.  I miss them, I hate being "out of touch" with them, and I would love to be there to hear their stories each day they hopped off the school bus.  They are not always excited about going back either.  Whether it's because of another school week, or because they miss us as much as we miss them, it's usually a very quiet ride.  Plus, it's not a "Wawa run."  This is some serious, get comfortable, set the Cruise Control driving.  Gas is over $2.60 per gallon, toll is $4.00, my time on Sunday evening -- priceless.  And the route has some of the worst roads I've ever driven!  Add that to the construction they are doing which forces three lanes of traffic into two cattle shoots over grated roads, and you have something similar to sliding down a six mile flight of stairs in a cardboard box!  At age eight I would have been amused...

The reality of the situation is this:

I had some of the people I love the most gathered around me for a full two hours -- just us, no distractions, talking, sharing the ride.  Being in the car is one of the best ways to witness your children interacting with each other.  It's close quarters, no one can stomp off to their room in a huff, and for some bizarre reason, sitting in the front seat makes you virtually invisible -- it's as if they completely forget you are there, and they say precisely what they would say were you not less than two feet from them! 

Two of the girls were in the very back row talking and playing a game.  J and C were in the middle.  J had turned on the overhead light under the pretense he was going to work on a history assignment.  The warm orange glow of the light behind me made the night ahead seem like pitch, but it lit up each face near me as if only we existed.  Eventually J had joined C in a computer game and they were engrossed in a miniscule world of make-believe, American history all but forgotten.

My mother was with me in the front seat; she had joined us for dinner -- one of our more raucous gatherings -- and decided to take the ride afterward.  She and I chatted freely on the way home, much like we did on some of our previous road trips when our older two children were young.

From time to time, someone would complain of undesirable odors emanating from the back seat, or ask for a piece of gum or a drink of water.  We helped the youngest spell words like "cup" and "fish," then asked her to find them on pieces of the Halloween candy she'd brought with her.  It wasn't the cacophony of dinner just a short time before, but the humor, the frivolity, the familiarity was there.

I thought about the many times I just wished someone would master the technique of changing the empty toilet paper roll, or imagined what it would be like to grab my keys and head toward the front door without hearing a litany of voices beg "C'nIgo?"  I smiled and shook my head. Nope. Times like these make it all worth it; I wouldn't trade it for the world. 

My Prayer

I was leaving work today when I ran into a Christian woman with whom I rarely have an opportunity to speak.  She asked, as she usually does, about my children.  I was compelled to tell her about one of our children and the problems he is having. 

He is locked in a pattern of sin, he is firmly in its grip.  I say this not out of judgement, but out of love for my child; I speak not with self-possession for I know I was not the best parent, but with assurance that I did not spare him the best Heavenly Father.  He was raised in The Word; he attended church and we were actively involved.  He was told from a very young age what it means to be a Christian, he was shown what it means to serve as Christ did.  I could dwell on the multitude of times I was a terrible example to my children, I could lose count trying to number the nights I closed my eyes in exhaustion rather than keep watch and pray for them.  I could make this about me and my faults. 

Number One: I've apologized for my shortcomings -- to God and to my children.  My children know that on my own, I am flawed, wretched, and painfully human.  My children also know the gift of God's strength and grace that lifts me up and makes me whole -- if I seek and surrender.  My children know I don't always do those things.  My children also know they don't always do so, either.

Number Two: Satan would love for me to turn this into a self-serving, woe-is-me tale of Judi and her gaffes and foibles. Truth is, it is about one of the Shepherd's sheep -- lost, following another to its own slaughter. It is about a child and his immediate need to seek and surrender.

What I told this woman on the walkway is this:

"I pray for peace for myself, and brokenness for my son."

Initially, that may sound incredibly selfish.  Why should I have peace?  Why would I wish ill on my own son?  But, it is out of a boundless, inestimable, "chasmic" love for my Heavenly Father and my child, that I pray.  For me to have anything but peace after I have asked and received God's forgiveness, shifts the focus from God's grace and strength to my depravity.  My self-absorption negates His victory over sin in my life and renders me useless as His instrument of peace.

Secondly, brokenness is the path to being made whole. (2 Corinthians 12:9-10).  It is brokenness that has caused so many of us to concede failure on our own, to subjugate ourselves to the power of Jesus Christ, to fall prostrate at His feet and cry out that we cannot do this of ourselves, for without Him we can do nothing! (John 15:5)  A loving mother prays for the surrender of her children to the will of God; a loving mother prays that her children will be stripped of those things that would keep them from falling in love with their Savior and dying to Him (Philippians 1:21)

So, my child, it is out of love that I pray you will find yourself face to face with the fear, the hunger, the emptiness, the failure that would drive you straight into the arms of the One who knows and loves you best, the One you used to love and serve.

"MissUnderstood" or "When Realism Is Misconstrued, Bad Behavior Can Result"

My family tells me that I tend to be confrontational.  Is there something I'm missing?  I'm certain we rarely see ourselves as others see us, but confrontational?  Me?  Now, depending on your sources, "confrontational" can be as generic as "meeting face to face," or as unflattering as "facing or opposing boldly, defiantly or antagonistically."  I know I am not the benign, soft-spoken, meeting-face-to-face "Excuse me, Sir, but I believe the driveway your are parked across is mine.  Would you care to move or just allow me to walk three blocks?"  Likewise I am not the petulant, juvenile, defiant "What do you mean 12 items or less?  Six jars of herring don't count as separate items -- they're all the same item!  Besides, you are not the boss of me!"  Nor am I antagonistic.  I don't threaten to call HR, the police or my councilman; I don't write letters to the editor or call to unleashed a stream of obscenities on one of those silly 30-seconds-to-make-your-point hotlines.  I don't jump on the bandwagon of causes everytime I see someone who doesn't get their way, and I certainly don't make it a point to call local news stations each time I see a municipal car parked in front of the Hair Cuttery where the police chief's wife gets her hair done.
In most cases, in fact, I bite my lip as the cashier stops to review her schedule with the girl that is bagging my eggs beneath the six pounds of bananas and the two gallons of milk.  Many times I have waited patiently as the guy in front of me slept through the green arrow and then stays behind the line phonetically uncoding the words, "Left Turn Yield on Green [circle]."  When the solicitor from Bank of America fails to cease and desist after my second "No, thank you," I politely explain, "The only thing I want from Bank of America is to be removed from their call list; have a good day," before I hang up on him. 

Call it confrontational, but if I demurred each time someone approached me with an offer for new windows or a request for help in obtaining funds from a Nigerian bank account, not only would I get nothing accomplished, but I would fall for every sob story that comes down the pike.  You see, I'm a sucker for a cause.  I really do hate to see people in need.  The cashier?  If I could, I'd offer to work for her so she could go to her nephew's graduation.  And her friend, the bagger?  I'd bag my eggs myself.  I could buy the guy at the traffic light one of those sleep number beds that Lindsey Wagner endorses, and a copy of Hooked on Phonics.  The poor guy from B of A -- I'd have to get him a better job than telemarketer -- no one but a convicted felon should be forced to be a telemarketer.

My mother used to say "No good deed goes unpunished," her way of saying that sometimes it just doesn't pay.  From this I learned to weed out those things that will suck up too much of the parts of me I am not willing to invest.  In other words, I'm not committing to something that will cause me to unhappily, impossibly overextend myself in one way or another; I'm not opening the door to obligations I might be tempted to undertake, but not qualified to see to fruition.  Maybe I am a little blunt when it comes to my refusal; maybe I tend to cut people off at the knees before they've had their say.  Maybe I tend to dig in to avoid being sucked in.  I might be a little sarcastic from time to time, and possibly even a little cynical but, trust me -- It's only because I care. 

Quite frankly, I can't believe those who know me best would mistake my honesty and altruism for bold, defiant antagonism.  I definitely think we need to sit down and talk about this!