Similes in the Time of Corona

Sometimes the best way to describe something is not to describe the object itself, but to compare it to something else. Similes can be of great value in writing, heightening the imagery of the text and enhancing the reader's understanding. 

In these strange times, I've had many a moment of reflection and time to myself, pondering the how's and why's of life, collecting my own list of similes, gathering them up in a basket in my mind. A good many have come at the hand of personal experience in recent months. Please, allow me to share but a few here.

COVID-19 is a little bit like sin: it robs you of your senses. 

Literally. I managed to contract COVID somehow along the way earlier this summer, and like many others who have had it, I lost all sense of taste and smell for a couple of weeks. It was surprisingly depressing to not taste or smell anything I was eating. I resorted to just drinking bone broth on occasion for meals because I thought resignedly so, "Well, why not just drink your meal? It's not like eating it is any more enjoyable." Sin is like that. Eventually when you're in so deep, you lose the ability to detect right from wrong anymore, desensitized to what is true, apathetic to the pursuit of right living.

Getting a COVID nasal swab test is a little bit like a Pap smear for your nose. 

I need not comment further. Only women will understand this. 

Quarantine is a little bit like an introvert's dream come true. 

While in quarantine, there were friends and family who were genuinely concerned not only for my well-being as it pertained to the virus itself, but also to my being alone in quarantine. I always wanted to say, "Ha. Are you kidding me?! I'm living the dream here. Alone for weeks on end? Bliss." One of the very first social media posts somebody sent me back in March said, "CDC: To prevent coronavirus, stay home, avoid physical contact, and don't go into large crowds. Introverts: I've been preparing for this moment my entire life." Yes and amen.

Sometimes dealing with your health is a little bit like playing a game of Whac-A-Mole. 

Both are maddening. Pre-COVID, I was sorting through a laundry list of health issues, and it seemed that every time I would go a follow-up appointment with one of my healthcare providers, some new issue would have surfaced in the interim. Whack. And then COVID hit and that presented its own issues. Whack. Now its dealing with my body post-COVID. Whack. For once, could one of you moles just go down and stay down?

Hunting for crickets is a little bit like a game of Marco Polo in the dark. 

I hate crickets. With a passion. One of God's creatures that I absolutely do not understand why he made. And for whatever reason, they have decided to take up residence in my house, not just merely outside my house. I found one in the dishwasher. In the shower. In my bedroom. In the hallway. In the kitchen. In the dining room. And they chirp all the time. They seem particularly fond of the hours between 1 am and 3 am. One woke me up the other night around 1 am, and I could tell he was in the kitchen somewhere. It was all-out guerrilla warfare. With the lights off, I stood in one place and he stopped. I moved and waited in silence. He started chirping again and I moved closer to the sound. He stopped. I waited. He started again. I moved closer. One of us eventually lost that game of Marco Polo. It wasn't me.

Hunting for apartments is (presumably) a little bit like online dating. 

I have never done online dating, but if it's anything like shopping for a place to live, then there is good reason why I won't be signing up for eHarmony anytime soon. Good heavens. What an overwhelming, exhausting, frustrating and annoying process. My landlords informed me (on the same day I got out of quarantine) they were selling my place unexpectedly, and I was sent scrambling to find a place to live. I visited a half-dozen complexes and looked at dozens more online. About a week into it, I told my brother I was just going to move into his basement. If by some strange turn of events, online dating becomes the only means to marriage, then I'll stay single forever, living in my brother's basement.  

Since this pandemic doesn't seem to be ending anytime soon, I'm certain there will be no shortage of similes yet to be formulated. Whether those are dispatched from my brother's basement or not remains to be seen.

What Our Anxieties Reveal

The Bible says in Matthew 6:21, "For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

What I have come to realize, however, in the last several years and in the aftermath of my own mental health crisis, is the corollary of that statement is actually what reveals the most about a person:

For where your idols are, there your anxieties will be also.

Show me your anxieties, and I'll show you your idols. Show me your idols, and I'll show you your anxieties.

You can pay lip service all you want to worshipping God and God alone, but your fears and your responses to them will ultimately tell me what you worship.

Mine certainly told me what I worshiped.

(Hint: It wasn't God.)

I worshiped my mind - I feared losing it.

I worshiped memory - I feared forgetting.

I worshiped control - I feared not having it.

I worshiped productivity - I feared idleness.

I worshiped perfection - I feared falling short.

I worshiped my body - I feared its decline.

I worshiped intelligence - I feared foolishness.

I worshiped money - I feared its lack.

I worshiped predictability - I feared uncertainty.

I worshiped safety - I feared discomfort.

Our idols are cruel taskmasters. Mine left me lying on the floor, gasping for air, incapable of sleeping without a light on for months for fear of the night. They'll enslave us every time and make no apologies, offer no recompense for the damages inflicted. They'll leave you bloodied, battered and bruised. God speaks to the heart of this issue in Isaiah 46:6-7:

Some pour out gold from their bags and weigh out silver on the scales; they hire a goldsmith to make it into a god, and they bow down and worship it. They lift it to their shoulders and carry it; they set it up in its place, and there it stands. From that spot it cannot move. Even though someone cries out to it, it cannot answer; it cannot save them from their troubles.

Pour out your silver and gold. Fashion your idols, your little 'g' gods, and worship them.

And there your idols will stand.

Put them on a pedestal, cry out to them, beg them to save you.

But they will neither answer nor save. In fact, they'll betray you every chance they get. Our idols will always be our undoing.

My perfectionism couldn't save me. My intelligence couldn't save me. My mind couldn't save me. All of them - every single one of my idols - fell short.

They still do.

Yet, in my pride and sinful stupidity, I insist on their existence.

But praise God.

Even my pride and sinful stupidity can't stop him from rescuing me.

All other gods, all other idols, bow down to him, including mine.

God will not tolerate our idols, and neither will he negotiate with us on their existence. He'll reveal 'em. He'll strip 'em away, expose them for the frauds they are.

Because he wants to be your treasure. And he wants your heart to be with him.

"Listen to me, you descendants of Jacob, all the remnant of the people of Israel, you whom I have upheld since your birth, and have carried since you were born. Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you." - Isaiah 46:3-4

They'll Say I'm Just A Building

They'll say I'm just a building, but don't you believe 'em.

They'll say I'm just four walls, a roof, some doors, some windows, but don't you believe 'em.

They'll say I'm just a steeple, a sanctuary, some pews, a pulpit, some hymnals, but don't you believe 'em.

I know too much to be just a building.

I've seen too much to be just a building.

I've heard too much to be just a building.

I heard you sing "Amazing Grace" for the first time, and I heard you sing "How Great Thou Art" for the thousandth time. (I even heard you skip a few stanzas every now and then when you got tired of singing, and I most certainly saw you roll your eyes when the song leader repeated that refrain one too many times.)

I sang with you as you sang.

I watched you walk down that faded red-carpeted aisle to your groom, a twinkle in your eye, a tear down your cheek, flowers in your hand, and I even watched your mom - and your sister - and your brother - and your second cousin once removed - at their weddings, as well.

I rejoiced with you as you rejoiced.

I saw you stand in that pool of water, nervous to be in front of all those people, nervous you might snort water up your nose or very well drown in three feet of water. But I watched you go from death to life in one swift dunk, coming up soaking wet, yet washed clean in more ways than one.

I celebrated with you as you celebrated.

I saw you place that hand on the casket, clutching a tissue to your chest, wondering how and why and what if and if only. I stood firm beneath your feet even when you felt like all of life was giving way to death.

I wept with you as you wept.

I heard you preach with fire and conviction, "For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life."  I saw that fire in your belly and heard that urgency in your voice (even if you were preaching in the King James Version).

I preached with you as you preached.

I watched you rock your babies to sleep in my nursery and teach your children in my classrooms. Then I watched those babies grow, and I watched those children become adults. And then I watched their babies grow and their children become adults.

I grew with you as you grew.

I saw you feast, fellowship and laugh at potlucks, Mother Daughter banquets, Easter Sunday sunrise breakfasts, 4-H meetings, weddings, anniversaries and VBS. (And don't think I missed it when you went back for seconds - and even thirds.)

I fellowshipped with you as you fellowshipped.

To all the generations who walked through my doors:

I knew you.

I saw you.

I heard you.

I'm not just some building.

My bells called you back.
My doors welcomed you in.
My pews wrapped around you as you wept.
My pulpit held your notes and His Word.
My floors creaked beneath your feet.
My walls absorbed the echoes of your worship.

My ashes may be scattered to the four winds tonight, but your memories of me will not be.

I was there when you ushered your loved ones home, when you clutched that tissue to your chest.

Now it's time for you to usher me home.

Turn, lift your face.

Not all is lost.

Including hope.

Especially hope.

I was the church that built you.

Now you will be the people who build me.
_______________________________________________________________________________

The church of my childhood, the church of my family for five generations, burned to the ground last night. My mother could see the plume of smoke from their house early this morning, nearly 3 miles away. It's nothing but a smoldering ash heap, even now in these late hours of the day, long after the fire trucks are gone. Yes, we know it's a building, and we won't lose sight of that, but grief has stolen our hearts nonetheless. The memories are extensive, not only for me as an individual, but for my family and our dearest friends. That church is where I first met Jesus. It's where I was baptized. It's where my parents were married. It's where my grandparents are buried, in the cemetery out back. Our family has lived a lot of life inside those four walls. We are saddened, yes, but not crushed. Grieved, but not devastated. Big Darby Baptist Church will forever stand in the recesses of our hearts and minds as the place where we encountered a God who stronger than both the fire and the flame. We'll still choose to travel by his light, even when he leads us by a pillar of fire at night.

"By day the Lord went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud to guide them on their way and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, so that they could travel by day or night." (Exodus 13:21, NIV)   

The Inefficiency of an All-Sufficient God

I can spot inefficiencies from a mile away most of the time. It’s arguably one of my greatest assets in my job, being able to take a project or a task, assess its overall scope and related processes, analyze where the inefficiencies are and then put guardrails in place to correct them. You hand me a contract or a project to manage that is inefficient or sluggish in its performance, and I’ll hand it back to you performing like an organized, well-oiled machine. I enjoy bringing order and structure to things that would otherwise languish from lack of organization.

It’s often said, however, that your greatest strength is your greatest weakness, and there most certainly is a dark side to my ability to analyze and correct. It often makes me intolerant of both people and systems who don’t perform or measure up quite like I think they should.

“Why would you do it that way?”

“Wouldn’t this way be better?”

“Why aren’t you doing it this way instead?”

It often makes me critical of those around me. In my impatience and arrogance, I find fault instead of favor, hold a grudge instead of gratitude, maintain unforgiveness instead of understanding.

And when I look at the world around me, I find that perhaps God is seemingly the most inefficient one of all.

In Genesis, God could have given Abraham the long-awaited promised son, Isaac, at 20 years old. Instead, God gave him to Abraham at 100 years old.

In Exodus, God could have liberated the Israelites from the hand of Pharaoh in 4 days, 4 weeks or 4 years. Instead, he allowed them to labor under tyranny for 400 years.

In Numbers, God could have delivered the people straight from labor to liberty. Instead, he vowed to make them wander in the desert for 40 years.

In 1 and 2 Samuel, God could have anointed David as a teenage boy and sent him straight to throne. Instead, he sent David to the belly of a cave and life as a fugitive for 15 years.

In Matthew, God could have gone straight from the time of Malachi to Jesus. Instead, he waits 400 years and whispers not a word to his people in the meantime.

In Mark, God could have sent out 1,200 men and women to proclaim the gospel. Instead, he sends out 12 seemingly inept nobodies.

And perhaps in the greatest tragedy of inefficiency, God waits thousands of years to send a baby who takes 30 years to grow into a man who faces temptation in the desert for 40 days to only do ministry for 3 years before he hangs on a cross for 6 hours. He then takes 3 days to rise from the dead, appears to his followers for only 40 days and is now taking over 2,000 years to come back and make everything right.

The insanity of an inefficient God.

Why send a baby who took years to grow into a man? Why only three years of ministry? Why not thirty? Why six hours? Why not six seconds? Why three days? Why only 40 days? Why 2,000 years?

Better yet, why do any of it at all when none of it had to happen to begin with?

Because God, in his infinite wisdom, is less concerned about his children merely getting somewhere more efficiently and more concerned about his children knowing his all-sufficiency. He's more concerned about the path that will lead to our greatest good, his greatest glory and the world's greatest gain, whether through inefficient means or not.

What’s most efficient isn’t always what’s best or most needed. And those supposed inefficiencies are really based on my limited human perspective, a perspective distorted and twisted by my brokenness and stiff-necked ways.  

In Exodus 13:17-18, it says, "When Pharaoh let the people go, God did not lead them on the road through the Philistine country, though that was shorter.  For God said, 'If they face war, they might change their minds and return to Egypt.' So God led the people around by the desert road toward the Red Sea."

There was a shorter road the Israelites could have taken to the promised land, one that didn't dead-end into a brick wall of water. But if they had taken it, the people would have high-tailed it back to Egypt and the Promised Land would have become Never Land. 

In Exodus 23:29-30, it says, "But I will not drive [the Hivites, Canaanites, and Hittites] out in a single year, because the land would become desolate and the wild animals too numerous for you.  Little by little I will drive them out before you, until you have increased enough to take possession of the land." 

What could have been done in a year was done little by little. If it had been done in a year, the Promised Land, the land flowing with milk and honey, would have become the Desolate Land, the land filled with thorns and wild beasts. The land would have become a nightmare instead of a dream. 

Louie Giglio said in part two of his sermon "Waiting Here For You" in December of 2013, 

So we all trust Jesus on a Tuesday and go to heaven on a Wednesday. Isn't that a better plan actually? And an angel shows up to ask you, 'Are you really, really, really sure you're saved?' 'I'm really, really, really sure I'm saved.' 'Okay, you're going to heaven today, boom, you're done.' No suffering, no struggle, no trials, no hardship, no dark nights. No 30 years of trying to navigate a broken planet. No 50 years of trying to navigate hardship. No 70 years of having to live with the pain of waiting. You just trust God and you go to heaven. Isn't that the plan anyway? 

No. 

That is not the plan anyway. 

The plan is that God gets glory and we fall in love with Jesus. 

And I wonder what song we'd sing if we meet God on Tuesday and go to heaven on Wednesday. Yes, we're glad we're saved but we don't really know what we're saved from fully. Because we haven't lived in the fullness of the freedom of what it means to stand on the other side of the Red Sea and go, "We're not dead. We are alive. We are moving on with God into better places. We are moving into the promise he has for our lives. And it has gotten better and better. Not easier and easier, but better and better as we have followed him. Heaven is going to be amazing because of the waiting we've lived in.

I'm in favor of the "here today, gone tomorrow" plan. Far more efficient, and spares me the muck in between. 

It turns out God is not. "But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day" (2 Peter 3:8).

In my sin and depravity, I have bowed down and worshiped the god of efficiency far more than I have bowed down and worshiped the God of all-sufficiency. 

In my sin and depravity, I have held it against others when they were not organized like I think they should be organized, analytical like I think they should be analytical, efficient like I think they should be efficient. 

The tyrannical ruler of efficiency will always make me a slave, and I will do more than just labor for 400 years under its rule. I will miss the miracle of the desert road that led me to the parted waters and an all-sufficient God. 

I will miss God himself.   

Paul pleaded with God three times that he remove the 'thorn in his flesh.' God could have done it after  one request. He could have done it after none. But instead his response to Paul simply was, "My grace is sufficient for you..." (2 Corinthians 12:9).

His grace isn't just sufficient - it's all-sufficient. His ways are perfect. Every single time. No matter how long he seems to take. 

Jesus, may I bend my knee and raise my hands to your all-sufficient ways. My perspective on your wisdom and efficiency is limited and twisted, and I look at life through my lens instead of yours.  When I make efficiency king of my life, I dethrone you and become a puppet to an unbending tyrant. Your thoughts are not my thoughts. Your ways are not my ways. Make my thoughts yours. Make my ways yours. Teach me to delight in inefficiency because it is within that space where I will learn you are more than enough, and you are, in fact, perfectly efficient in all your ways. You are all-sufficient, and I am not. Remind me that the people around me - my co-workers, my family, my friends, even myself - are not you. They are not perfect. They are humans, made in your image, but humans nonetheless. Help me to extend grace and compassion where there was once impatience and bitterness for all their shortcomings. May your power be made perfect in my weaknesses and inefficiencies.  

The Cacophony in the Chaos

Cacophony: noun 

ca·​coph·​o·​ny | \ ka-ˈkä-fə-nē 

1: harsh or jarring sound, specifically: harshness in the sound of words or phrases 

2: an incongruous or chaotic mixture: a striking combination

I am reluctant to speak into the midst of this current season of life, where it seems there are already ten thousand competing voices telling us what and how to think. I am worn out and exhausted by those voices. Daily press briefings from the highest and lowest levels of government, often lasting for hours. Special reports and features on the nightly news, reminding us of the growing body count, discussing all the ways our foresight failed us in our most critical hours. Articles and social media feeds filled with the opinions of every self-appointed expert and homespun quarantined journalist there is. Post after post after post analyzing the myriad of ways we should have handled things differently, should have prepared differently, should have saved differently.

Noise. 

Racket. 

Clanging. 

Banging. 

All of it – just noise. 

A cacophony of dissonant notes, making for an altogether terrible melody that is incredibly painful on the ears, heart and mind.

Out of self-preservation and mental well-being, I’ve had to tune it out, turn it off, and shut it down.    

But there’s still that one voice.

That one voice I cannot seem to escape.

The quiet whisper of Jesus.

That still small voice which echoes in the chambers of my heart and mind, where the notes aren’t dissonant, jarring or unsettling, and the melody isn’t threatening to destroy my ear drums and set fire to my brain. 

What I need more than anything right now is that voice. I need his perspective, his truth, his clarity. I don’t need predictions, projections, theories, or conjectures. I don’t need finger-pointing, paranoia, accusations or fear.  All of those will fall short in due time.  Their insufficiencies will be revealed, the curtain pulled back on the shortcomings of each.  

I need a perspective rooted in unchanging truth, guided by an unwavering voice. 

Because that voice - the voice of Jesus Christ - will be the only voice that declares the truths I need to know, the truths that are most critical in these times of chaos and uncertainty, the truths that will be fixed points in a time when it seems all is unmoored.    

Because that voice declares, if it is shelter I seek, then I must seek it in the shadow of the Almighty, the one who will never be buried beneath the waves or fall victim to the floodwaters of life.

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’ He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.” - Psalm 91:1, 2, 4

Because that voice declares, if it is peace I seek, then I must seek it in the peace of Jesus Christ, the olive branch extended to me, the sign that not all hope is lost. 

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” - John 14:27

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” - John 16:33

Because that voice declares, if it is brighter days I seek, then I must seek them in the promise of Jesus Christ, the rainbow splashed across the skies, a reminder of his faithfulness amid the chaos. 

“Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth.”  - Genesis 9:16 

Because that voice declares, if it safety I seek, then I must seek it in the dwelling of the Lord Almighty.

“For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent and set me high upon a rock.” - Psalm 27:5

Because that voice declares, if it is comfort I seek, then I must seek it in the one and only Comforter. 

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ. If we are distressed, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which produces in you patient endurance of the same sufferings we suffer. And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort.” - 2 Corinthians 1:3-7

Because that voice declares, if it is hope I seek, then I must seek it in the only source of living hope. 

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade. This inheritance is kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time.” - 1 Peter 1: 3-5

That voice declares all that I need to know, both yesterday, today and tomorrow, whether in times of crisis, chaos or calm.  

It doesn’t declare I will be exempt from suffering. It doesn't declare my generation will be exempt from suffering. It doesn’t declare heartache will not pass the threshold of my home. It doesn’t declare grief will not come my way. It doesn't declare my family and friends will make it through this pandemic untouched. It doesn't declare my own body won't succumb. It doesn't declare I won't lose my job.  

But it does declare all I need to know in the midst of those things. 

“If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in…” - Revelation 3:20

So, to you I say – 

Drown out the noise, the racket, the clanging, the banging. 

Silence the cacophony of voices and opinions and listen for the only voice you need to be listening to right now. 

Because maybe then you will discover the voice of a God who is neither under a quarantine mandate nor stay-at-home orders, and neither is his Word. They are free to move about.

Listen carefully, listen closely, drown out all the other voices and open the door. 

Listen to the one voice you need to hear most right now.

Jesus promises to come into your quarantined home.

Though Death is Against Us

By your power, great God,
our Lord Jesus healed the sick
and gave new hope to the hopeless.
Though we cannot command or possess your power,
we pray for those who want to be healed.
Mend their wounds, soothe fevered brows,
and make broken people whole again.
Help us to welcome every healing as a sign that,
though death is against us,
you are for us,
and have promised renewed and risen life 
in Jesus Chris the Lord. 

Merciful God,
your healing power is everywhere about us.
Strengthen those who work among the sick;
give them courage and give confidence in everything they do.
Encourage them when their efforts seem futile
or when death prevails. 
Increase their trust in your power 
even to overcome death and pain and crying.
May they be thankful for every sign of health you give,
and humble before the mystery of your healing grace;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. 

Amen.

[from the book of Common Worship, Westminster/John Knox Press]

Permission to Vote 'No'

I did not know pain like that existed within the human experience.  There's pain, and then there's kidney stone pain. The kind of pain where you-want-to-take-a-serrated-kitchen-knife-and-slice-your-own-guts-open-if-that's-what-it-takes-to-get-this-heinous-thing-out kind of pain.  I have never plead for the mercy of God more than when I had a kidney stone. People who haven't had a kidney stone would say, "Ohhhh, I've heard those are worse than childbirth." And people who have had a kidney stone and given birth to a child would say, "Ohhhh, those are worse than childbirth."

I never really did find such comments comforting or helpful at any point during my nine-day bonding experience with my kidney stone. I seriously thought at one point - if there was a way to inflict kidney stones on terrorists, those surely would be a far superior method to waterboarding or some such torture method.  If I were a spy captured by a foreign government and they somehow injected me with a kidney stone, I would divulge every state secret I ever knew in the blink of an eye, without question.

There were so many moments in the dark of night, when the pain would be the worst, and I would think, "God, why aren't you stopping this pain when I know you have the ability to do so? You're able but you're choosing not to. Why?" That is the very tension we feel around us all the time as human beings - why does a supposedly good God allow suffering when he is perfectly capable of stopping it? Or better yet, never allowing it to begin with?

So often as Christ-followers it seems as though we don't have permission to ask those kind of questions or raise those kind of doubts. It goes unspoken that our declarations of faith should begin and end with "[God's] will be done," with no other objections before or after. Keep a stiff upper lip and "consider it pure joy...when you encounter trials of many kinds..." (James 1:2).

But you know one of the things I find so comforting about Jesus? He voted "no" to his circumstances.  "Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me" (Matthew 26:39a).

If it's possible.

If it's possible, I'd really like to avoid a kiss from my betrayer.

If it's possible, I'd really like to avoid being slapped and spit on by the chief priests and Sanhedrin.

If it's possible, I'd really like to avoid being flogged, with a crown of thorns then smashed on my head.

If it's possible, I'd really like to avoid having my hands and feet pierced with nails, my side sliced open with a sword, my mother left to watch me die.

If it's possible, I'd really like to avoid the cross.

If it's possible, may this cup be taken from me.

This picture of Jesus tells me I have permission to vote no to my circumstances.  I have permission to say out loud to God, "If it's possible, let this pain and suffering be taken from me, let it pass me by."  I can say those things to him and not feel the need to shrink in the process, to feel like some sort of fraudulent, wimpy Christian for admitting I would really like suffering to pass me by. If Jesus himself in his humanity could admit he wanted to avoid pain and suffering, then I should have no less permission to do the same.

God is big enough for those declarations. The God who was big enough to handle the vulnerable and honest expressions of his own heavenly Son in Gethsemane is the same God who is big enough to handle the objections of his very earthly daughter who is made from dust (Psalm 103:14). David instructs us in Psalm 62:8, "Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge." Have at it, David is saying.  Pour out your heart to God and hold nothing back.  Don't withhold your objections, your grief, your sadness, your sorrow.  He says similarly in Psalm 142:2, "I pour out before him my complaint; before him I tell my trouble." Pour it all out, and just when you think you're done pouring, pour some more.  God will not drown under the weight of your grievances. You will not leave him gasping for air.

 But -

There's always that pesky word, isn't there?

But while we have permission to vote no to our pain, our suffering, our trials, our tribulations, and while we have permission to say to God we would really prefer certain things not come to pass in our lives, our declarations cannot end on that note. They must not.

Jesus followed his sentence in the garden with, "If it's possible...Yet not as I will, but as you will."

Yet not as I will.

Quite possibly the five hardest words a believer will ever have to utter. As Christians, particularly in our moments of suffering and pain, we must narrow the amount of time which lapses between the words "If it's possible..." and "Yet not as I will."  The longer the space between those two statements, the greater the inclination toward disobedience and rationalization.  We must not allow our pain to eclipse our view of God and his character.  Some days that will feel like an all-out-war, a war it seems you are very much losing because your pain is shouting so very loud, discoloring and distorting all you know to be true.

But somehow - somehow - even when we want to vote no to our circumstances, our yes must eventually rise up. It need not even be said with confidence; we can say it in weakness, with fear and trembling and timid faith, but faith nonetheless. God is no less put off by our feeble yes than he was by our pain-driven no.

So, cast your vote.

Jesus is big enough for your no.

And your yes.

Things for Which I'm Thankful

If I had Instagram, I suppose this would qualify as a #latergram. Thanksgiving has passed and we have now officially moved into the land of Christmas songs playing on the radio 24-7 without relief. My pastor encouraged us last week to jot down a list of things for which we're thankful, so before too much more time lapses and we get too far from Thanksgiving, I'd like to share a list of things for which I'm thankful.  

• My dad's support pillows for his knee while he was recovering from knee replacement, which were conveniently left on the bathroom floor. They made for great pillows while I laid on the bathroom floor in pain on Thursday afternoon.  
• A mother who is more than willing to violate the posted speed limit for the sake of her daughter.
• An emergency room less than 8 miles away. 
• An empty ER with no one else in line.    
• Joe Boxer sweatpants.  That was the best $4.80 I have ever spent at the thrift store.  While I was waiting for a CT scan, the tech asked me if I had any buckles or rivets on my pants that I would need to remove before we got started.  Dripping with sarcasm, I said, "No, I wore these pants today with an elastic band because I planned on this, ya know."
• Dilaudid painkiller straight into my body via IV.

And that's just the beginning of the list.

Y'all. Kidney stones are straight from the pit of hell.  It's like the Wicked Witch of the West and her legion of monkeys were unleashed on my insides - a hundred times over. Everybody's been saying that the pain from kidney stones are worse than childbirth.  If that's the case, then there are exactly 0.0 children in my future.  

I found myself alternating between the bathroom floor and the hallway Thursday afternoon, listening to everyone else in the house laugh and chat after Thanksgiving lunch.  Meanwhile, I was praying for the rapture. Either that, or a tranquilizer straight to my brain.  I finally couldn't hack the pain anymore, still not knowing what was happening to my body, and after losing my lunch several times, we abandoned the family festivities and headed for the ER to get some answers. 

Pretty much every night since last Thursday, from the hours of 6:00 pm to 2:00 am, I have wished I could either die or that I could slice my own side open and cut the stone out myself.  I have no idea what it is about the nighttime, but my body unleashes unimaginable pain that even painkillers can't seem to touch. I thought I had been through some pretty vicious doses of pain in the past related to my back, but this - this pain is in a category all its own. 

Do not, under any circumstances, ever put 'have a kidney stone' on your bucket list.  Instead, you should beg and plead with God that the angel of death would pass you by and that he would be merciful and spare you from ever experiencing kidney stones.   

I was reminded via Barnabas Piper's Twitter feed [quoting David Gibson] of how quickly gratitude can slip away from us if we do not pause to be grateful for the smallest of things : "If we are not grateful for the little things, it is only a very short step to no longer being grateful for anything. When we do not enjoy and savor and love and laugh and delight in the little things, then we are headed toward losing our delight in anything."

Since I don't want to lose delight in anything, I'm going to choose to delight in the little things. I'll continue my list:

• Timing. At least this didn't all happen the week before, which would have been during my largest work event of the year, a national conference where I worked over 65 hours in 5 days and was responsible for 100 different vendors.  Ain't nobody got time for a kidney stone in the midst of that.
• My parents newly-remodeled basement, which has provided ample room to pace and writhe in pain on plush carpeting.  
• Water. I've been drinking enough water to rival that of a woman who just found an oasis in the desert.  

Even in our great pain, there are still things for which we can be thankful. 

I'll keep telling myself that.

Please feel free to plead with the God of the heavens above on my behalf to throw some water on the Wicked Witch that has currently taken us residence in my guts otherwise known as a kidney stone.  

Loved By a God I Can't See

It came in the form of a fire extinguisher, a birthday gift from a co-worker, Simon, after I told him how I paranoid I was about using my fireplace, visions of burning the place down flashing through my mind. He left the extinguisher on my desk with a simple note that said, "Safety first. Always. Happy birthday! Simon."  The gift and the gesture brought tears to my eyes.  Ever know anyone to get weepy over a fire extinguisher? Now you do.  It was practical and thoughtful, and it made me feel known and loved, all because he had paid attention to the details of my life and had listened to my fears.

It came in the form of a late night FaceTime call with a friend of mine, Derek, from college.  I had already crawled into bed, and normally I would haven't answered my phone, but when I saw his name pop up and that he wanted to FaceTime no less, I fumbled in the pitch black to answer my phone, afraid something was wrong. He told me to get my laptop, he needed me to watch something. I opened my email, clicked the link he sent, and picked my jaw off the floor as I watched. It was a personal video from Matt Wertz, a longtime favorite musician of mine. Derek had managed to miss my birthday, and this was his way of making it up to me. It was lavish and outrageous, and it made me feel known and loved, all because he had paid attention to the details of my life and went to great lengths to make me feel special.      

Those moments, those gifts, and so many others in recent weeks have been like spring rains on parched ground.  When my co-worker left something as ridiculously practical as a fire extinguisher on my desk, he couldn't have known he wasn't merely being a gift-giver he was being a human courier delivering a supernatural message.  And when my friend called late at night with instructions to watch a video link, he couldn't have known that just days prior I had penned a note by my bedside, asking myself the question, "What does it mean to be loved by a God I can't see?" 

     
The love of God is terribly abstract to me, like some sort of painting by Kandinsky or Pollock, something you stare at for hours, squinting your eyes, straining to find something familiar but you still leave scratching your head a bit. Ever the 'reliable realist,' I prefer to deal in concrete terms, with things I can touch and feel and lay eyes on.  And God's love is seemingly not something I can touch and feel and lay eyes on. Yes, I can read about his love in the Bible, and yes, I know the Bible verses that say "God is love," but what does all of that really mean? How do I translate all of those abstract concepts into terms I can define and grasp? I want so desperately for God to make perfect sense to me, to have him line up in very linear ways.  I want to strip him of his mystery and put him in terms I can understand.

I have a photocopied version of a story whose source I cannot recall, tucked away in a stack of notes to keep. I've carted it around for years, probably since grad school. It's the story of a little girl who lost her mother tragically and suddenly.  Her father pulled a few blankets into her room one night after the funeral to sleep on the floor next to her bed, just to be close to her in case his daughter needed him.  He could hear her sobbing at one point, and he reached over to grab her hand. She sighed and said, "Oh, that's so much better."  The father responded, "Sweetie, you know we can lean on Jesus when we are sad, right?" His daughter replied, "I know, Daddy, but tonight I need someone with skin on."

That's what I say to God so often.  I know I can lean on Jesus, I know I can trust him and I can intellectually agree with the fact that he loves me.  But sometimes in my humanity and frailty and short-sightedness, I wish he had skin on and was sitting next to me to tell me all that. Maybe then I could wrap my arms around him, to deal with him in concrete terms, to lay eyes on him. Maybe then I could make sense of the words God is love. Maybe then I could make sense of what it means to be loved by a God I can't see.

But that is the crux of faith, to believe what we cannot see, to love what we cannot hold with our bare hands, to trust when it seems there is no net.  "For we walk by faith, not by sight," 2 Corinthians 5:7 declares. Somewhere along the way we have to decide that faith is greater and more precious than sight.  We have to decide that we'll follow God even when we can't make sense out of him, even when his love seems unfathomable to us.      

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade. This inheritance is kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy, for you are receiving the end result of your faith, the salvation of your souls." - 1 Peter 1:3-8

Though I have not seen him - not in the literal sense, at least - I love Him.

Because I know he sees me.

And being loved by a God I can't see often means He sends earthly friends with skin on to remind me of that fact.

My Selfie Game Has Mildly Improved

Ah, Wyoming. How I love thee, let me count the ways.

It seems I can never quite get enough of that place, particularly Jackson Hole. Just stunning.  There's always some small part of me that feels like I'm home when I'm there.  I just love it.

I made it out recently for the annual fall arts festival, which was celebrating it's 35th anniversary.  And since I'm turning 35 myself in a few short weeks, I thought it only natural to celebrate the milestone in my favorite place.  My mom and a friend of our family also went with me for this girls' trip, and we had a fabulous time.  Words could never do the place justice, and I'm not sure pictures will either, but here are a select few photos highlighting our adventures.

I absolutely love watching sunrise over the Yellowstone Lake at West Thumb.
We were practically the only ones there, and it was glorious. 

This buffalo surprised us a bit.  We were coming down the hill after hiking up to the
Grand Prismatic overlook and he appeared out of the tree line, munching on some grass. 

I wore no less than two layers, sometimes three, most days, which I loved.  We were out hiking
near Leigh Lake where I could finally catch a few patches of the sun's rays and warm up a bit. 

I usually drink a grand total of two amaretto sours a year.  I drank this year's allotment in one week.
Nothing like a good amaretto sour with a view of the Tetons.  

The other great place to catch an amazing sunrise is near Moulton Barn on Mormon Row.
I rolled out of bed early one morning, threw on a ball cap and was able to catch the sun just as it started
to cloak the top half of the Tetons.

We took a tour of 4 homes in Jackson in their Showcase of Homes. Oh.my.stars.
So this is how the other half lives.  One home we walked through was valued at $10 million.
Ten.million.dollars. My mind can't even conceive.  And almost all of them were not primary residences.

Schwabacher's Landing is a favorite of mine.  We caught sunset there one night, and I got
some of my best photos there.

Selfies always feel ridiculous to me (see also my first trip to Wyoming with a series of epic selfie-fails),
so I took this one mainly for my own entertainment.  This is my pensive, mountain-admiring, contemplative look,
like I'm trying to be ultra-serious and reflective.  I think my selfie-game has improved since the first trip, yes?