Today's post is not for the fainthearted. It is not polished. It is not tidy. What follows is raw.
It is Saturday. An altogether beautiful Saturday. The first real Saturday of Spring in Washington, DC. It's warm but not too hot. It's mid-afternoon but not too late in the day. It's the kind of day you burst out of your house to do, well - anything, anything at all, because you can't stand being caged in, not for one more minute. It signals the end of the winter (even mild as it was) and for once, in what seems like an eternity, it's not raining.
So what am I doing? What plans do I have to suck the nectar out of this perfectly ripened flower? None. None whatsoever. I cannot, in the immortal words of Jean-Luc Picard, "Engage." I am stuck in my living room, or more accurately, my overstuffed chair. A typical day beginning as most of my days do. Yes, this post finds Verbal Girl "Unplugged." No painkillers - yet. Not rehydrated from a parched night - yet. No food, no shower, no laundry started or mail sorted through or bills paid or filthy carpet vacuumed. Uncomfortable, disagreeable, irritable and overwhelmed at the thought of performing even the simplest of tasks, which task is at this moment -- standing up. Totally preoccupied with my extensive to do list, I invariably start at the beginning, which is the aforementioned - standing up! I hiss a hurried, resentful prayer for the strength I need to accomplish it and as I begin to stand I lose my balance and fall with a thud. On the way down glass-fronted cabinets, coffee table corners and pointy objects swim before my eyes; wondering how much more pain I would be in at the fall's conclusion and would broken bones be included. All ends fine. My slow-motion pitch came to an end with no apparent long-term consequences save the shattering of my resolve. Tears of self pity stream down my face, mental fists flail at God, internally screaming "DAMMIT - WHY WON'T YOU HELP ME?"
And then it comes. For the briefest of moments I suddenly become plugged in to the tear-soaked fabric of all human suffering. Experiencing white hot mental flashes of someone losing a friend to a drug overdose; someone losing their mother too soon from cancer; parents whose baby's premature birth results in the loss of that child; a "terminal" diagnosis; a husband/father/son lost to war or more randomly, to a drunk driver. And a whole different pain: that born from fear and anxiety. I lost my job! How will I feed my family? How will I pay the mortgage? How will we stay afloat? The flood continues. I am overcome by those whose lives are debilitated by the black hole of depression or mental illness, trembling at the thought of making it through another day, paralyzing panic attacks or thoughts of suicide.
Where can we go when the bubble of pain swallows us whole, its wall seemingly impenetrable? What stops hopeless from cleaning us out? Seriously! Is there anything powerful enough - and tangible enough - to get you through the unbearable moments in life? Where do you go when there is no where left to go? Some choose the numb oblivion of escape. My checkered past betrays that choice more times than I care to admit; when even the promise of short-term relief as your wounded heart blares: "Make it stop! Whatever the cost, please make it stop!" pushes you to do (or even contemplate) things you can't admit to yourself, much less a counselor or friend. And the mere whisper of taking it to the feet of the cross sends you shuddering. How can God help me? How can I face Him? What can He possibly do to alleviate this pain?
If it is at this crossroads you find yourself, all I can say is turn to the wounded healer. The more I study the pain of the flesh-covered God, the more I find incredible comfort. Why do I think He can't help me, or scarier still, understand? As I walk through the night before His most awful day, I see Jesus -- Emmanuel -- crying tears of blood in the garden begging His heavenly father for another way back. I see the Son of God/Son of Man who cried without reservation with dear friends who had lost their brother, Lazarus. Not once, but twice, in the relating of this story the scripture says Jesus was "deeply moved." Examining the 11th chapter of John, the focal point appears to be that Jesus came to raise Lazarus from the dead. In fact, it is clear that He purposely waited to come until he knew Lazarus was dead. On the surface that sounds oddly cold. Simply speaking, Jesus had a job to do, a miracle to perform for the amazement of all. But this passage takes time to share with us that Jesus wept. Which begs the question - why? Why on earth should Jesus shed one tear over the passing of this dead-soon-to-be-raised to-life-guy? In countable seconds, Lazarus would rise and walk out of the tomb, brush himself off and say, "dude I'm starving, let's eat" to all gathered. So why? Because his friends were heartbroken and Jesus would never, ever consider minimizing or invalidating someone's pain. To my limited knowledge, there is never a place in Scripture where God tells us to "Suck it up already!" But words of comfort and promises of his presence are plenty.
Allow me to change course for a moment and tell you what prompted this zig-zagged rambling. Philippians 4. Specifically beginning with verse 4: Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! I must confess that many times this very verse has annoyed me. When I am hurting and the imperative comes that I should rejoice in the Lord, I am want to grumble and shrug it off. And then I stop and consider who uttered this phrase. It did not come from a university professor, living in a comfy home, lecturing from a polished podium. It came from a guy who endured things we can't imagine - or maybe we can. Repeatedly beaten, shipwrecked, snake-bitten, mocked, starved, and, on occasion cast into dungeons doubling as raw sewage highways. It is then my heart sees a man - a mortal man, made from the same stuff as me. One who probably chanted this call to rejoice over and over again as his bloodless fingers gripped iron bars. It is there in those desperate moments he learned of a friend who was always at his side. He found a Savior who always heard his prayers, understood and had considerable compassion for his pain. Finally, he rested in the God who through it all was able to provide an unexplainable peace.
As a final word, I would challenge you dear ones, not to hide your pain. I will share a passage or two from Brennan Manning's book, Abba's Child: "If we conceal our wounds out of fear and shame, our inner darkness can neither be illuminated nor become a light for others." (And a page or so later after citing a passage from Henri Nouwen) "The Wounded Healer implies that grace and healing are communicated through the vulnerability of men and women who have been fractured and heartbroken by life. In Love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve."
Verses of Encouragement: Isaiah 43:1(b)-2, 4(a), 5(a) (NIV)
It is Saturday. An altogether beautiful Saturday. The first real Saturday of Spring in Washington, DC. It's warm but not too hot. It's mid-afternoon but not too late in the day. It's the kind of day you burst out of your house to do, well - anything, anything at all, because you can't stand being caged in, not for one more minute. It signals the end of the winter (even mild as it was) and for once, in what seems like an eternity, it's not raining.
So what am I doing? What plans do I have to suck the nectar out of this perfectly ripened flower? None. None whatsoever. I cannot, in the immortal words of Jean-Luc Picard, "Engage." I am stuck in my living room, or more accurately, my overstuffed chair. A typical day beginning as most of my days do. Yes, this post finds Verbal Girl "Unplugged." No painkillers - yet. Not rehydrated from a parched night - yet. No food, no shower, no laundry started or mail sorted through or bills paid or filthy carpet vacuumed. Uncomfortable, disagreeable, irritable and overwhelmed at the thought of performing even the simplest of tasks, which task is at this moment -- standing up. Totally preoccupied with my extensive to do list, I invariably start at the beginning, which is the aforementioned - standing up! I hiss a hurried, resentful prayer for the strength I need to accomplish it and as I begin to stand I lose my balance and fall with a thud. On the way down glass-fronted cabinets, coffee table corners and pointy objects swim before my eyes; wondering how much more pain I would be in at the fall's conclusion and would broken bones be included. All ends fine. My slow-motion pitch came to an end with no apparent long-term consequences save the shattering of my resolve. Tears of self pity stream down my face, mental fists flail at God, internally screaming "DAMMIT - WHY WON'T YOU HELP ME?"
And then it comes. For the briefest of moments I suddenly become plugged in to the tear-soaked fabric of all human suffering. Experiencing white hot mental flashes of someone losing a friend to a drug overdose; someone losing their mother too soon from cancer; parents whose baby's premature birth results in the loss of that child; a "terminal" diagnosis; a husband/father/son lost to war or more randomly, to a drunk driver. And a whole different pain: that born from fear and anxiety. I lost my job! How will I feed my family? How will I pay the mortgage? How will we stay afloat? The flood continues. I am overcome by those whose lives are debilitated by the black hole of depression or mental illness, trembling at the thought of making it through another day, paralyzing panic attacks or thoughts of suicide.
Where can we go when the bubble of pain swallows us whole, its wall seemingly impenetrable? What stops hopeless from cleaning us out? Seriously! Is there anything powerful enough - and tangible enough - to get you through the unbearable moments in life? Where do you go when there is no where left to go? Some choose the numb oblivion of escape. My checkered past betrays that choice more times than I care to admit; when even the promise of short-term relief as your wounded heart blares: "Make it stop! Whatever the cost, please make it stop!" pushes you to do (or even contemplate) things you can't admit to yourself, much less a counselor or friend. And the mere whisper of taking it to the feet of the cross sends you shuddering. How can God help me? How can I face Him? What can He possibly do to alleviate this pain?
If it is at this crossroads you find yourself, all I can say is turn to the wounded healer. The more I study the pain of the flesh-covered God, the more I find incredible comfort. Why do I think He can't help me, or scarier still, understand? As I walk through the night before His most awful day, I see Jesus -- Emmanuel -- crying tears of blood in the garden begging His heavenly father for another way back. I see the Son of God/Son of Man who cried without reservation with dear friends who had lost their brother, Lazarus. Not once, but twice, in the relating of this story the scripture says Jesus was "deeply moved." Examining the 11th chapter of John, the focal point appears to be that Jesus came to raise Lazarus from the dead. In fact, it is clear that He purposely waited to come until he knew Lazarus was dead. On the surface that sounds oddly cold. Simply speaking, Jesus had a job to do, a miracle to perform for the amazement of all. But this passage takes time to share with us that Jesus wept. Which begs the question - why? Why on earth should Jesus shed one tear over the passing of this dead-soon-to-be-raised to-life-guy? In countable seconds, Lazarus would rise and walk out of the tomb, brush himself off and say, "dude I'm starving, let's eat" to all gathered. So why? Because his friends were heartbroken and Jesus would never, ever consider minimizing or invalidating someone's pain. To my limited knowledge, there is never a place in Scripture where God tells us to "Suck it up already!" But words of comfort and promises of his presence are plenty.
Allow me to change course for a moment and tell you what prompted this zig-zagged rambling. Philippians 4. Specifically beginning with verse 4: Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! I must confess that many times this very verse has annoyed me. When I am hurting and the imperative comes that I should rejoice in the Lord, I am want to grumble and shrug it off. And then I stop and consider who uttered this phrase. It did not come from a university professor, living in a comfy home, lecturing from a polished podium. It came from a guy who endured things we can't imagine - or maybe we can. Repeatedly beaten, shipwrecked, snake-bitten, mocked, starved, and, on occasion cast into dungeons doubling as raw sewage highways. It is then my heart sees a man - a mortal man, made from the same stuff as me. One who probably chanted this call to rejoice over and over again as his bloodless fingers gripped iron bars. It is there in those desperate moments he learned of a friend who was always at his side. He found a Savior who always heard his prayers, understood and had considerable compassion for his pain. Finally, he rested in the God who through it all was able to provide an unexplainable peace.
As a final word, I would challenge you dear ones, not to hide your pain. I will share a passage or two from Brennan Manning's book, Abba's Child: "If we conceal our wounds out of fear and shame, our inner darkness can neither be illuminated nor become a light for others." (And a page or so later after citing a passage from Henri Nouwen) "The Wounded Healer implies that grace and healing are communicated through the vulnerability of men and women who have been fractured and heartbroken by life. In Love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve."
Verses of Encouragement: Isaiah 43:1(b)-2, 4(a), 5(a) (NIV)
Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name;
you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames
you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames
will not set you ablaze.
. . . .
Since you are precious and honored in my sight, and because I love you[.]
. . . .
Do not be afraid, for I am with you[!!!] (emphasis mine!)
. . . .
Since you are precious and honored in my sight, and because I love you[.]
. . . .
Do not be afraid, for I am with you[!!!] (emphasis mine!)
