He Does Show Up

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(A friend who wants to stay anonymous sent me this, and graciously agreed to let me share it as a guest post. I think what she has to say meets all of us at some point.)

Remember playing Hide-and-Seek with your friends when you were a kid? And sometimes you couldn’t find that hidden person, even when you knew that they were in the same vicinity as you were.

Then you grew up to become an adult. And sometimes now it feels like a game of Hide-and-Seek with Father God. You know He must be in your vicinity, but you can’t see Him. Your search into hidden corners and dark closets does not find Him. The frustration increases and the fun of the game falls flat. You just want Him to step out and move on to the next thing with you.

It’s no fun to be looking for Him and be unable to find Him.

I have two different friends who have complex court situations going on this week… Both of them righteous people, living uprightly. As this evening’s youth Bible study said about Joseph- “It’s confusing to be doing right and yet suffer for it”.

Another friend is getting ready to go meet the mother who abandoned him to strangers twenty years ago… Where was God in her desperate situation? Where was God when he watched his other mother die after extensive physical suffering?

Where is God when a fruitful flourishing church crumbles and falls apart at the seams? Where is God when people step out in faith and put everything on the line for a new venture… and it goes nowhere?

Where was God when a family’s dearly loved youngest child fell into their dry riverbed this week, broke her neck- and died?

Where is God when everything that identifies you or gives you value is taken away from you? Where is God when your hopes fade and your dreams go up in smoke; when you feel both your past and your future have been taken away from you?? Where is God when life hurts?

Has He ever felt so far away you didn’t bother talking with Him anymore? Have you ever tired of yelling into nothingness?

Have you ever curled up in a cave and whimpering, waited for numbness and sleep to get you through long, dark nights?

This afternoon I lay on the resurrected green grass and read through four versions (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John) of the Easter story. And I want to ask you- have you ever noticed that the followers of Jesus did not find Him when or where they were looking for Him? But that when they were not expecting Him, He suddenly appeared to them… in a startling and unexpected fashion? Their souls lived on the edge of keen anticipation in the reality of His largeness, His unpredictability. The mystery of relationship kept freshness and joyful discovery in each encounter with Him.

He was not in the tomb- but He WAS in the garden. He did not initially meet the disciples, but He DID walk down a dusty road with them. He refused to be contained in any box where they expected Him to be, but He DID show up- when and where it really mattered.

Then again- God HAS been showing up for me recently, too. Just not when, where, or how I expect Him.

Just a few nights ago, I received disturbing news about a friend that greatly distressed me. I wrung my hands and I wondered where God had disappeared to this time. Several hours later I got to my computer and an international friend had said, “What happened at 8:30 this evening? Are you okay? What about your friend? Such feelings of fear came over me that I had to go pray for both of you. What’s going on?” Stunned, I realized that God had showed up for me—to someone who is praying more confidently than I myself am right now.

God showed up for me in my current favorite song, breaking out on the local radio station at the perfect moment. The words extend the promise of grace… explain how the healing will begin.

I stressed over money and unexpected expenses. God showed up in my mailbox via a check from a generous friend. He showed up again when another person handed me a card and said, “I want to pay your ticket”. I made a call in reference to getting some yard work done, and the very next day a different person came out of the blue and said- “I want to mow your lawn this summer. Don’t ask anyone else to do it.” (WOW- what a fabulous gift for any single woman!)

I have this amazing friend who listens to me endlessly, who keeps believing in me and encouraging me. In desperate moments I call her up, I message her. I confide the battle with weakness, with shame; I confide the vulnerability and despair. Minutes later, profound peace envelopes my heart and I know that deep inside of me, I am freshly empowered to take another step. Jesus within her prayers has showed up for me… once again.

It happened to Mary. To Peter and to John. To the apostles and disciples who knew Him best and loved Him most. No great surprise that it happens to us.

Sometimes He really does valiantly ride in to save our day. But more frequently, He shows up quietly in mundane details… Surprises us in His noiseless tracks and in the mystery about His movements. But He does show up to supply our needs, to whisper affirmation into our ears, and to shine light on the next step that we need to take- when and where it matters most.

THAT is what Easter means to me this year.

Why Good Friday is Good

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My Good Friday was good–wonderful, actually! Slept in, read, hung laundry in the sunshine (probably my favourite chore), met a friend in the park, went for ice cream and laughed alot, had a picnic in the forest with friends–all told, it was a great day. A good day becomes immeasurably better when the sun shines.

I’ve often wondered why it’s called Good Friday because it was a terrible day. Last Sunday when the pastor talked about Jesus’ trial and suffering, it made me cry. There’s nothing nice about that story.

The payment for sin was death. That’s easy to understand. But why did it have to hurt so much? Why the thorns and scourges? Maybe His pain is the best way that He could get our attention. Maybe nothing else would impact us as much. We don’t know so well how it feels to die but we know what it’s like to hurt. Though no one ever hurt like He did.

I think that the worst pain is alonenness, abandonment. What is good about Easter is to know that “as dark as it gets” happened already. It will never hurt as much as He hurt. So now even the worst pain–aloneness–has fellowship. His suffering means that we are never alone in our suffering.

I can’t explain it well, but Mark Galli does here. He explains why Good Friday was good and how forsakeness is redemptive. His message is courageous and comforting. Excerpts below:

Sometimes this word remains unspoken, but the sentiment is a steady reality. There is no great anguish. There are no tears. There is just the daily, ongoing experience of God’s absence. … We wouldn’t quite say we’re forsaken, but neither would we say God is a living reality. But at the end of another dreary day of divine absence, when we turn out the bed lamp and lie still in the dark, waiting for sleep to overtake us, we wonder, Why don’t I experience God more?

Sometimes the experience of God-forsakenness is much more keen. You are at a place of deep and profound need. You are staring into the face of death. Or your spouse is. Or your child is. Or you’ve lost a job or are about to lose a marriage. Or you are losing your faith. But whatever the crisis, it is a crisis. My God, you hang on a cross, and it’s excruciating, and this would be an awfully good time for God to show up…

But God is not showing up. There is nothing but silence, and the sounds that make the silence worse…

What is it with God, the God who promises abundant life, the God who invites all the weary and heavy laden to seek him out for rest? Why does this God sometimes seem to fail us just when the chips are down, just when we need him most?

The experience of God’s love is a wonderful thing, a divine gift, but like all divine gifts it can be so wonderful that we make it an end in itself. Instead of believing in God, we start believing in prayer. Instead of trusting in God, we believe in the authority of the Bible. Instead of simply basking in the love of family, friends, and church, and returning that love, the very meaning of our lives becomes determined by these relationships.

Who can say what Jesus experienced on the cross? What exactly was the nature of this forsakenness that he exclaimed? We know in one sense that Jesus’ death, and his forsakenness, was utterly unique, never to be repeated.

…if Christ’s incarnation—which includes his forsaken crucifixion—is a participation in humanity and thus our participation in him, then all humanity shares in Christ’s forsakenness, and to freely share in this forsakenness by faith becomes a way we grow fully into Christ-likeness. Whatever it meant for Jesus, it surely means this much for us: It means to know the abandonment that is the dead fruit of human sin and evil. It means to recognize the incomprehensible distance between us and an infinite and righteous God, to recognize again the terrors of life outside of life in him. It means also to grieve, not unlike Jesus, over our own and our world’s hardness of heart (“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem!”). It is indeed a fearsome thing to fall into the hands of the living God, for it means to suffer in ways not unlike the suffering of Jesus.

Again, let’s not wax tragic here. This is not the end of the story. Forsakenness would be tragic had Jesus not risen from the grave. We would not have the courage to talk about this sobering reality if it were not Easter.

Still, they come, these times of forsakenness. We are wise to remind ourselves that the cross is indeed part of the story of Jesus, and to the degree we would be like him, it becomes part of our story. You want to be like Jesus? “Okay,” says God. “Good for you! Be prepared to know forsakenness!” Because we can know Jesus, can be one with Jesus and the Father, only when we know this.

Regarding Ants

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A long time ago on some birthday card, I think it was, one of the aunts signed her name with a quick sketch of a 6-legged ant, and the term became one of endearment. Sometimes I still address cards and messages to them with “Ant.”

My three ants understand me better than I do. They’re always interested in my life and eager to hear from me. They know what I’ll need before I do. Whenever we’re together, which isn’t often, they treat me like royalty. They tell me they believe in me, and cheer for my dreams and goals. One makes dresses for me with her whizzy hands. Another emails succinct messages that feed me. I called the other one yesterday because I needed her.

It can be hard to make a 6 hr. time difference work for two busy people, but we both had slots in the day that jibed. It was wonderful. She heard what I didn’t say, and understood what I didn’t have time to explain. She gave me the perspective I was needing, and made me laugh and told me hard words. Had it been anyone else, I’d have been angry and defensive, but I could take it off her because I trust her. We laughed alot, and it was delicious.

I didn’t have time to ask her about her hectic, interesting life. She let me dominate the conversation, and before we hung up, she prayed for me, and of course I cried, and afterward everything was all better.

So this post is mawkish and all about me, but I’m awfully glad for my ants. They make my life exponentially better.

Believe

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It’s the word God keeps telling me these weeks. I can’t get away from it. It’s the word written on a block plaque sitting on my classroom window sill. A friend gave me the plaque without knowing that I need it more than any other word right now. I face it every day, sitting in front of my students. Between shoulders and above bobbing heads and beside the crepe-paper flowers in the vase: BELIEVE.

For all that is impossible: believe.

Why do we need to say ‘would’ in this sentence?

For every unwhispered dream: believe.

In grammar, it’s called a conditional.

Buds appear on trees, flowers from seeds: believe.

Could we try a Business English lesson next week?

For all that is impossible: believe.

Can we play Bingo now? Pleeeeease?

For healing for weeping wounds and aches: believe.

The word weaves itself through the minutes of my hours. Believe. For myself and those I love. For my students and their stories. Believe.

I say I believe His words, but my heart holds back, questioning, giving rationales, fearing.

He is patient in His convincing. That, if nothing else, tells me He is worthy of my belief. Can love morph into believing? Then belief will become more than cerebral assent, but firm, glad, heart-deep confidence.

As April’s warming soil births tulips and daffodils, my soul is slowly warming to believe.

Finger Work

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Last week, for the first time in nearly a year, I cut out a dress and started sewing it. As I worked, I felt a swirl of nostalgia and excitement and happiness. It wasn’t quite as fun to sew in a different place from my mom’s well-stocked sewing room, but it was still fun. Even if I don’t know yet if the dress will fit.

I remembered how my mom taught me how to sew. Her fingers on top of mine, she’d guide my hands in the tricky parts. She could always sort out the tangled pieces or thread tension. She’d always calm me down when I made a mistake and helped me see that it wasn’t wasted effort even if I had to redo something.

For reasons that I haven’t been able to verbalize, I love working with my hands. I love the feel of fabric or paper or thread in my fingers. It’s in my genes, maybe. I value modesty and simplicity which is the main reason I sew all my dresses, but even if I didn’t care about being modest, I would make some of my clothes just for the pleasure of it.

I like to think that God likes finger work too. The song says stars were the work of His fingers. I bet He had fun with that. (And how big does that make His hands?) Menno Kuhns, a patriarch at Bible school, was fond of saying that God’s creation was the work of His fingers, but when it came to redeeming men, it took the work of His arms–and here he’d raise his arm to bulge the muscles.

Whatever significance is in that wording, I like the fact that God is a creator and that He likes working with His fingers. It’s a strange kind of way in which to feel an affinity with the Almighty. Not that He’s like me, but that I’m like Him.

Because Love is the Most Powerful Force in the World

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I have a friend who ate bread at communion with tears raining down his cheeks. It is the broken, faltering ones to whom He comes to heal. Perfect love begets love. And gratitude. And worship. The path to wholeness starts with His love, not ours.

Jesus saw past a lady’s scandalous action of exposing her hair and kissing his feet, and He saw her love. He knew her story and could have exploited it, but He only briefly said she’d had ‘many sins’ and forgave them right there. His exquisite gentleness and grace for a broken woman makes me weep with the beauty of it.

In another exchange, Jesus talked with a man desperate for his son’s healing. The father admitted he doesn’t have as much faith as he could have: ‘Help my unbelief!’ And Jesus healed the son without demanding more faith from the father.

Those who are most aware of their sin and frailness are most thankful for Love that has swept all the dirt and imperfections away.

I love reading about the ways Jesus cared for people in gentleness and understanding. I’m unspeakably grateful that I don’t have to attain a certain level of perfection before He takes me seriously. It seems that what He values most is an honest heart with no barriers, no pretensions, and He speaks into that heart and changes it forever.

My Favourite Word

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Thinking today about:
Lent,
ache, agony, suffering,
the darkness of waiting for Life,
the nourishment of the broken Bread of Life,
the Life in His spilled blood,
seeds shriveling and breaking before blooming,
morning always follows night,
Life always comes out of death.

Because there is a Redeemer. Darkness doesn’t have the last word. Death isn’t the final reality. He takes everything bad and makes light and joy out of it. Sometimes I believe this more than other times, but it’s always true.

If I were perfect, I wouldn’t need a Redeemer. So why desperately protect the facade that makes everything appear ok? May the Lamb that was slain receive the reward of His suffering. Let His agony on my behalf not be wasted.

So I don’t (usually) willfully sin, but I do foolish, stupid, mindless things that are less than perfect. That’s why I take incredible comfort from the words below, esp. “I restore the good which you own foolish mistakes have cheated you of…”

I tell you that beyond the awful borders imposed by
time and space and contingency,
there lies what you seek.
I announce to you life instead of mere existence,
freedom instead of frustration,
justice instead of compensation.
For I announce to you redemption.
I restore the years that the locusts and worms have eaten,
and the freedom lost to you through plunder
and the identity lost to you because of calumny
and the failure of justice;
and I restore the good
which your own foolish mistakes have cheated you of.
And I bring you to the Love
of which all other loves speak,
the Love which is joy and beauty,
which you have sought in a thousand streets,
and for which you have wept and clawed your pillow.
–Thomas Howard

To Explain

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I haven’t figured out exactly why, but there are no words coming to me. Hence, no blog posts appear. I’m not so desperate for hits that I’m going to talk about what I had for lunch or what size shoes I’m looking for. Maybe this is a season for introspection and observation. I’ve been doing some of that, and it’s been enlightening–esp. the introspection.

I still love words. I still watch what some other people are writing. I still love stories and want to learn what makes an exceptional one. (Recommendation: read “Something from Nothing” by Phoebe Gilman.) But right now I only have energy to live a good story and walk with others in their stories, without putting it all into words.

Hopefully someday the words will come back.

Sentimental

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This time last year and the year before, I was heading for Calvary Bible School, a lively, old, little campus way back in the sticks of the Ozarks. My assignment was to teach a young ladies’ class. Two years before that, I was a ladies’ dean there.

While I’m delighted to be in Poland teaching English right now, my heart is tuned toward CBS these days, remembering, thinking, smiling.

I remember raucous laughter in the hallway, surprise parties, questions that come from girls being away from home for the first time, requests for curfew extensions. I remember quickly learning to keep boxes of tissues always within reach because you never knew when the tears would come. There were panic attacks to calm in the wee hours, and cleaning schedules to arrange, and bedtime hugs to give.

Though I loved deaning, I think I make a better teacher. I loved researching and outlining and studying, even if it took more than everything I had to give. Sometimes, in the flurry before class, I wondered why I was doing this, but after class, I always knew why. I loved the challenge of putting into words what I was wanting them to know. Sometimes I accomplished the goal, sometimes I didn’t. I loved seeing the lights go on in their eyes. I heard beautiful, grand dreams and goals, harrowing, heart-breaking stories, and broken, honest, brave prayers.

Being shepherdess to dozens of young ladies is one of the best things that happened to me. They grew me right up, and gave me much more than I could give. They have no idea how much I love them, and how I still call them ‘my girls’ in a protective, proud sort of way.

I gave them everything I had, and in the emptying, I was filled beyond measure. The girls are scattered all over the globe, doing amazing things that make me proud of them. I will always cheer for them and dream big for them. And I wish I could drive down that dusty five-mile dirt road this week to be part of their lives again.

Wielder of Wonder

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My advanced English student is taking an English Lit. course at university, and wanted me to help her get ready for her Medieval English exam. I always dreamed of studying Lit. and teaching it at high school or college level, but I never had or took the opportunity. It’s something I’m sometimes sad about.

So when she handed me the anthology she’s studying, and wanted me to read some pieces to her, I was in new, deep water. On her study list was Beowulf, Chaucer, and Shakespeare. I’d never read any of them, only heard about them. My student friend wanted practice in listening, so I read aloud, starting with Beowulf.

Recently, I’ve felt starved for words that live, that speak relevance and life to me. So much of what is being written now is clap-trap and trite, canned and smooth, without the grip of something solid for me to hold onto. Not that it’s not speaking to someone else out there, but somehow I need something more.

I started reading the first lines, stumbling over the foreign-sounding, archaic words as gracefully as possible, and came to this line:

…the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world’s renown.

So it’s talking about Beowulf, the heir, the son in his halls to ‘favor the folk’ and the alliteration is lovely, but instantly I knew I’d found the rich words I’d been aching for, and who they describe for me: my God, the Wielder of Wonder. The words took my breath away, the alliteration and simplicity and depth.

This week a mentor asked me to think about what God was up to during a particularly puzzling time. So I’ve been thinking about what God was doing, and how patient and solid and persistent He was and is. The phrase from Beowulf, “Wielder of Wonder,” put into words what I hadn’t grasped yet. I can’t fully explain why the words touched me so deeply, why I found them so rich and meaningful, but there they are, because I wanted to share them in case someone else is starved for beautiful words.