Safely Buried

A friend gently reminded me today that I haven't written on here in a while. Just another on my long list of things to be disappointed in myself about. And trust me, it's a loooong list. Frustrated mother. Frazzled wife. Failing body. But really, nothing is worse than my complete and utter lack of spiritual discipline. I had the privilege of having 18 years (yes, 18) of formal, Christ-centered education. Not to mention the countless Bible studies I've sat through in my lifetime. If anybody should be further along on this journey, it's me.

And yet, I've come to a place on the path that is more difficult than any I've traveled before. It's a brutal, seemingly unending climb up where the path is rocky and covered in thorn bushes. It's called . . . wait for it . . . parenthood. And then, on top of that -- I've hit those middle aged years. No matter how hard I try, I will not ever look like I did 20 years ago. As it turns out, I will not be the only human alive that never ages. Then, to add to that even, is this disease called fibromyalgia. So misunderstood by so many. (No, it's not a catch-all diagnosis for anybody with muscle aches.) It can be brutal and debilitating at times. It can make me sad.

My dad shared with me about a co-worker who experienced something similar (although his was a mental illness) that came out of nowhere and shattered his world. For several years, this man struggled to find a correct diagnosis and treatment. But when it was over, and he was able to look back on the lessons of it all -- he said something profound. He compared his illness with Christ's death -- and his new and restored health with the resurrection we experience in Christ. But when asked where he was in those in between years, he thoughtfully answered -- "safely buried."

I feel safely buried right now. Sometimes, a sadness will rise up -- I don't even have words for a prayer. But I have a Savior. I know He's there. I know He loves me. Today, in the shower, I asked myself -- How do you know He's there? How do you know that He's not so disappointed in you that He didn't just leave? And, for the first time in a long time, the answer was so simple -- and I believed it (again). He died for me. (I mean, really, would He die if He didn't care?) Me. The mother who can't seem to keep her patience with one particular 7 year old. The wife who forgets to put on a smile -- let alone makeup -- for her husband when he comes home. The child who forgets to take it all to her Abba Father. Me.

My Own Promised Land

I've been thinking lately of those Israelites. The ones that came to a screeching halt just their side of the Jordan River then sat down and pouted. They pleaded to know what was ahead. It wasn't enough to see all that was behind. Brushing the doorposts with lamb's blood. Walking straight through a sea. Witnessing the utter annihilation of their enemy. Chasing a pillar of fire through the desert. It wasn't enough. How could that not be enough? So Moses gives in and sends out twelve men, one from each tribe. They spy out their inheritance. Forty days to get a good look. They come back amazed, lugging one single cluster of grapes that requires two poles to carry. They talk about how incredible their birthright is. It's a land flowing with milk and honey. But then again, there are ten of them -- the majority! -- that don't think their God is big enough. He can part the Red Sea but He can't handle those giants. The Creator of the universe that just showed His power and unfathomable love for these people is incapable. How could they be so, well, chicken!

But then I have to look closer. Close enough to see me. So they wanted to go back to Egypt? If I think about it, I can at least see that, perhaps, this thinking wasn't as absurd as it might first appear to be. After all, they had paraded out of there with the heartbroken Egyptians (who had all just lost their firstborn sons) thrusting gold at them as they left. Then, they had watched the commanding forces of their enslavement being wiped out in a single tsunami -- in the Red Sea, no less. Maybe they thought if they went back, things would be different, things would be better for them. Maybe they even thought they could go back and rule things there.

So why have I been thinking about all of this? I guess because I wonder if I'm staring at my own family's inheritance. An inheritance of sorts in a different kind of foreign land. I wonder if I've reared up on my heels and begun to question if my God is big enough to conquer all the giants that might threaten. All the fears I have. All the possible problems ahead. I wonder if His plan is really better than where I'm at now. Like the Israelites, I've seen all He's done before -- but I wonder if He can really be all that I would need for Him to be in this new inheritance. All that my husband would need for Him to be. But, of course, for the Israelites, it was never about God's inability to be the Great Lover of their souls, the Great Provider of their needs. It was just that they couldn't see everything that was ahead. They saw only the giants. And they thought, for some reason, they would be on their own now.

I don't want to see only giants. I want to believe that there is milk and honey for me and my family. I believe that my Promised Land is waiting, and I believe that we are not on our own.

To Give or to get?

Yesterday during Disciple Town I taught about the importance of giving -- abundantly, yet without compulsion. Last weekend was all about that -- giving and getting. I had planned to spend last Saturday cleaning house, getting it spruced up for a birthday party the next day. Instead, I went to my aunt's house. She had been sorting through the remnants of a life lived abundantly. Jewelry, dishes, artwork -- beautiful scraps of life. She wished to share what remained of Grandmother's treasures. I went, hoping for a keepsake. A memory in the form of gold or porcelain. I came away with a trove of treasures. An opal ring she always wore. White ceramic pitchers perched atop her hutch. (They're now perched on mine.) A bronze lamp that needed a resting spot. A jewelry chest. Things. Then there was the birthday party. Lots of things for my daughter. Parakeet. Books. Purse and watch and scarf combo. Miniature horse and barn playset. Things. Gifts. Life being given abundantly.

Grace is Free

Yesterday morning around 8 am, Grace Christine Lester Marshall finally arrived Home. She went peacefully. Unnoticed, actually. A miracle in itself. The disease was horrific, but she weathered it with a calm strength. I was changed by watching her die these last months and days. She didn't struggle with the finality of her life -- she welcomed what it meant for her. I feel like I am the one who is left with the pain of it all -- the missing her. But her death has brought with it a new life for me. It's reminded me that today might be my last. I'm alone now at the kitchen table. Finally able to weep for her passing. Why I feel compelled to try to "pen" what I feel, I don't know. I've just been at an amazing blog. If you have a heart for deeper things -- you should check it out. It's www.aholyexperience.com. I've read a few posts today there that linked Grace with dying -- and I smiled for it -- knowing what she didn't. She spoke of her grandmother dying at 90 years old -- like mine. God's links are beyond any cyber link! Where will I go from here? I'm going to join the Gratitude Community there. Once a week, I will list 10 blessings I'm thankful for. You can join me here for my list. Or you can start your own. I want to live today like it were my last. I want to passionately pursue my Savior. All else will flow from that freely . . . like Grace.

Wrestling with God

I'm reading a collection of essays by Andree Seu. I suppose that makes me sound intellectual -- but don't jump to any conclusions yet. Mrs. Seu is a former columnist for WORLD Magazine, and she is brilliant. I have to read slowly and deliberately, even re-reading sections to get it all in. The title of this book of collected essays is Won't Let You Go Unless You Bless Me. I'm reminded immediately of the Scriptural reference. "When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he touched his hip socket, and Jacob's hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, 'Let me go, for the day has broken.' But Jacob said, 'I will not let you go unless you bless me." (Genesis 32:25-26) I've yet to get to an essay that touches on this Scripture exactly, but I think I get it already -- and I'm reminded of a divine appointment I had with my Father about a month or so ago. It was one of those rare epiphany moments that can change your life -- if you'll just let it. I would love to say that I was traipsing through a forest or meandering through a meadow when a shaft of light fell across the path ahead and I heard a voice speaking. But in reality, I was putting clean sheets on the bed in our spare room. I was thinking how my plans for the next day had changed and I would not be able to visit my grandmother, who is only weeks away from Heaven. That thought led to a quick decision that I would begin to pray that Grandmother would die in her sleep -- or at the very least, that she would never know a moment of panic as she slipped out of that worn-out body. In that instant -- as the sheet was falling over the bed -- I got it. I understood something that has never fully made sense to me before. I've explained it to the few I've shared this with that it was like a 1000 piece puzzle flying together to form a beautiful picture. I understood that my prayer truly can change things.

Now to some, that might seem an unusual thing for this Baptist preacher's daughter to have NOT understood for these many years. I have certainly heard a sermon or two preached along those lines. But I've also taken apologetics classes that debate the whole Calvinism vs. Arminianism (sp?) thing. And somewhere along the way, I decided there was really no way of knowing. I decided that we pray (and sometimes fast) for our own growth. That prayer was just an act of sanctification, somehow becoming more like Christ in the process.

But that all changed those several weeks ago beside the bed -- and not because I was on my knees. For the first time, I knew that I had a choice to pray for Grandmother -- and that God might very well answer that prayer JUST because it was important enough for me to pray about it. I could be the woman in the parable who just continues to plead her cause before the Judge over and over again until He chooses to act on my behalf.

So what does all this have to do with Jacob wrestling the Christ? Is that not the most astounding passage of Scripture? I mean the more I think about all that those few verses entail, the more I'm quite literally dumbfounded that we glaze over that so quickly. I ran my own interpretation of this past my dad, who promptly told me that I was thinking like a girl. I wonder, though, how else am I supposed to think? In all honesty, I think his interpretation is rather, well, a guy thing.

OK -- so here's Jacob. He's about to meet his brother again after so many years, the brother from whom he stole the blessing. He is quite possibly facing his death the next day. He has sent his family and servants and cattle and every possible gift he could think of ahead of him -- so that Esau would meet them first -- and, perhaps, by the time Esau made his way through all that, he would be in the state of mind to show mercy. But then, there's this man that shows up that night. And He is, without doubt, Christ -- a preincarnate appearance of the 2nd person of the Trinity. And somehow, they start fighting. As a woman (according to my dad) and perhaps as a mother of two preschool boys, I'm inclined to ask, "Who started the fight? And why?"

And why did they fight all night? As Christ did at His condescension, He might have walked into this tussle having given up certain aspects of being God -- like omnipotence, for example. The fight seems real because Jacob is ultimately really wounded. But this was a battle of the heart. They were struggling together over something. But what? THAT is where the boy vs. girl interpretation kicks in. Dad jumps right to this being some kind of final spiritual scuffle for Jacob. For, to his Dad's credit, Jacob does seem to be much more spiritually inclined when the day breaks. But I'm not ready for dawn yet, I'm still on the words, "I will not let you go uness you bless me." And I think that Jacob wanted to know that his father's blessing those many years ago was real. Had he been wondering all these years if he had really been given God's blessing? There were certainly a few episodes in those years that would make him question God's hand of blessing on his life. I don't even know if that's true -- and it doesn't even matter why Jacob wanted the blessing. To me, it's all about the struggle. He was willing to make his case before the great Judge. His was a physical battle. But to me, it's just a reflection of a battle I should take up every day. No, I'm not fighting against God. And Jacob wasn't really either. How could he? With one touch, finally, the fight ended. Jacob was crippled -- and yet, God told him that he had won. He was given the blessing. So, I wonder what matters enough to me that I am willing to fight for it? Not against my Jehovah-Jireh, my God Who Provides. But with Him -- He is changing me while I am doing the only thing I can do sometimes -- and that is to make my case, over and over again, before the God of all Mercy. And perhaps, my earnest pleading can change things. And if it doesn't, if Grandmother struggles in her death, I will still know that my prayers were heard and accounted for. And I will trust that His way was better. And when the tears come that my prayers weren't answered, He'll collect them in a bottle, and He'll wipe my eyes. And someday in glory, I will no longer see through these dark glasses.