A Life Weighs A Million Tons

I just had an epiphany.  Thinking about how life is, how life was, how life could be and how life probably will be, I hit upon something: my life goes into these pretty random sine waves of good and bad, and I've felt like if I'm not on the high end of the wave -- feeling completely connected to God, totally in love with Jesus, doing exactly what I feel is right -- life feels like it's wrong somehow, like I shouldn't be here, like I should be trying harder to stay in line with Jesus or else I'm going to go off the deep end by default.

Excuse the language, but damn, how long has that been there?

What brought this to my mind was this feeling that the low points in my life are just in-betweens for the moments that God is close and life is right.  But, I thought, doesn't that mean that I'm basically saying that most of my life is invalid?  If life isn't life unless everything's perfect, then...does that mean that I'm just a walking ghost, apart from those few precious moments?  Does it mean that God really isn't around unless I feel as if he's beside me?

Wow.  I actually believe that.

No.  Never.  I wonder how I bought into such a deadly lie.

Possibly because there's this thing among Christians, usually implied for the most part, that life should be a certain way, that unless we're spending most of our day with God, never getting angry, never looking at things we shouldn't, never ever being materialistic...then we're wrong, and that is bad.  Which is true.  But we've taken it much further: if life doesn't follow these guidelines, then not only are we wrong, but there's something wrong with us, and we should, we have to stop or else we're bad people.

Well...maybe not bad.  Just not all there, poor things.  Here's a three-week Bible study and a few sermons to set you right again.  Read a chapter a day, and call me in the morning, pastor's orders.

I honestly don't know whether to burst out laughing or break down and cry.  Is that what we think our goal in life is, to be perfect people and feel close to God?  HAH.

But it makes perfect sense to our reasoning minds.  "This is completely right, and therefore everything that is not is wrong and must be avoided."  1 + 1 = 2, right?

There are two problems with this thought, though.  One, Jesus never said "I am with you as long as you do everything you're supposed to and don't do things you're not supposed to do."  Two, most of our lives is lived in this less-than-perfect place, the dreadful In-Between.  But is it really dreadful, or are we just going about this all wrong?  Maybe the whole point is that God's always with us (just like he said), even when we're farthest from him.  Especially when we're farthest from him.

Woah...I'm going about my life all wrong.  All of a sudden it's perfectly clear that what I've been doing is trying to lift my entire life up to Jesus's level.  Might as well have been trying to lift the crust of the world.  But in my attempt to bench-press a freight train, I forgot the obvious.  Jesus comes down into our lives, not the other way around.  And I slap myself in the face and laugh.  Oh, what a wonderful God we serve!

But I've heard this before, and sometimes it still doesn't help, because one thing is left out: when life is at its lowest and God feels like a distant memory, Jesus is still within reach.  Within reach, right now.  Not if I can just get my life in order a little bit, not just if I can get myself to read my Bible a bit more every day, not just if I remember to pray before going to bed.  Right now.

While I'm squandering my time avoiding what needs to be done, instead just doing whatever I feel like because it keeps me entertained and distances me from my pain and weakness, and while my thoughts are going where I know they shouldn't but I can't control myself, and while I'm so utterly despairing of love and of life, he's right here.  So-close-I-can-touch-him here.  And he doesn't care that I've sinned, and that I couldn't be further from the truth.  He's still here.

It's so utterly freeing to realize that I don't have to lift my life up to the "good Christian" standard when I can barely even stand.  I don't.  He's here.  Life's not a signal tower you have to climb up to get a connection to God, because he's right here, right now, when you're in pain, when you literally hate him for the way life is turning out, when you can't take another step because the sadness is so heavy.

He's right here.

Wow.  I mean...wow.  Really?

Just goes to show how hard it is for me to take God at his word, I guess.  But he's taken that into account already.

Weakness

Day dawns with another mental groan, turning over in the bed and in my mind, with the sun shining through the windows.  Except it's not shining in my face.  I was asleep for that part.  I might hazily remember hearing the alarm that I set to help myself get up earlier, but I think I switched it off and fell asleep again.  The upper level of the bunk-bed is vacant.  Why do I do this to myself?

I head downstairs, spend a little too long checking a couple of websites on the computer, and have a late breakfast.  Too little school, too little physical activity.  The day ends eventually after that, and I repeat it again the next day, always wishing, always telling myself that I'll change my habits.  It never happens.  The thing is, spending too many hours before a screen doesn't actually tell me anything new.  It's possible that I'm hiding from something.  But what?  My own lack of motivation?  My loneliness, my sadness, past wounds that I have been crippled by rather than learned from?  It's been so long that I'm not even sure I remember anymore.

I used to spend time writing down everything that I had to work out in my mind, but I've gotten stuck on a loop and I keep working through the same pain over and over.  I'm too tired to hit the reset button, or maybe there isn't one.  For all that I've been through, somehow my skills are failing to perform the same simple tasks they used to handle smoothly.  I'm still me, and things haven't really changed much, so what's the problem?

Maybe it's loneliness.  I drew a certain strength from deceiving myself about certain people, and now that I've learned the truth, that support is gone, and the others that I've taken for granted or only been able to draw on now and then -- they just don't do it anymore, because I've grown out my branches beyond them and so much of my strength was focused on those new parts of myself that I can't recede back to the spaces I used to fit comfortably in.

I'm not sure why I can't return to the Lord's arms these days, but it's grueling just to focus my mind enough.  Maybe I should learn to just sit and be, like I used to say.  Self-discipline is hard to come by, though, and I'm running so firmly on autopilot that it's tremendously hard to wrench myself from the daily routine.

Deep breaths.

In and out.  One, two.

Relaxing muscles remind me it's been ages since I even stopped for calm.  I'm holding my heart in my hand, loosening the hard dirt and grime under a gentle flow of warm water.

Jesus, wash over me.

It's strange how we can sleepwalk along, never knowing that we're catching our feet on chains, dragging the weight along, until our legs give out.  By that time, of course, we've already fallen so completely asleep that we don't even realize we've fallen.  We're so weak from dragging our burdens that we can't support our own spirit.

Dirt-turned-mud breaks away.

When our throat is dry and we haven't had water in ages, it's impossible to make more than a croak or a whisper, impossible to cry for help.  Tears require water, and we can't even weep.

What a blessing that God can hear even the faintest of whisper, see exhausted sadness even when our faces are on the ground.

Lips taste a hint of water, and finally form an audible word.  Help...

Gentle, strong hands.  More water.  A comforting smile.  My child, I am with you always.  Abide in Me.  Let Me restore your soul, weary one.

But...I don't even remember how.

Don't try.  Let Me be your strength.  Breathe.

Deep breaths.

One, two.

Three.

Heartbeat starts, faint.

I must hold on.  This spark of life is easily lost.  I may have to do this once, twice more.  But I must succeed.  As long as my mind can hold on to that simple thought, simple word, then there is hope.  As long as I can remember.

Help.

Sun Ain't Shining

Sun Ain't Shining

(This song is to a fairly fast beat, about one per second or 3/4 second.)

It's overcast, the sun ain't shinin'

Tears don't come, I should be cryin'

Rain or shine

Rain or shine

Sky, could you make up your mind?

I think I've figured out

What depresses me about

These cloudy days

(The world in shades of gray)

That beautiful blue sky

Cotton balls all floating by

All stripped away

(It's really quite a shame)

Oh, look round, I don't see

The backdrop for the trees

Naked and cold

(And gloomy moods get old)

The neighborhood round me

Is lifeless and empty

No hands to hold

(It just happens

Or so I'm told)

It's overcast, the sun ain't shinin'

Laugh or cry, I'm tired of tryin'

Rain or shine

Rain or shine

Heart, could you make up your mind?

I always crack a grin

When the sky comes pouring in

Oh, rain or snow

(Falling down to say hello)

Cause with water on the ground

In sorrow, joy is found

Even when you're low

(It's crazy, yes, I know)

Let the sun break through again

And although I can't pretend

To be okay

(The pain's there anyway)

I have a chance to heal

Open up my heart and feel,

'Least for today

(My Savior loves me

Always)

It's overcast, the sun ain't shinin'

It's not ideal, but I'm not whinin'

Rain or shine

Rain or shine

A bit cold, but I'll be fine

-------

Thanks, Uncle Uly, for the suggestion.  (Really looking forward to putting this one to music.)

Writing Exercise

Rows of color.  Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, rimmed with thick lines of white and interspersed with weaving lines of woven white, hard-tipped.  It all sits on a box, black box, a black box colored red on the sides, and this whole thing is a showcase for color and the shoes that every kid wishes he had, and that every man wished he had when he was a kid.  So much color, so much beauty, woven out of fabric and rubber and plastic and dyes, folded and sewn and boxed up into these small coverings for our feet.  This is a symbolic picture of the longing for the new coolest thing that every boy has, when Timmy wants the amazing shoes that Joe’s parents just got him for his birthday, and so Timmy asks – no, begs – his parents for an advance on his allowance so that he can have shoes, those shoes, please can I have those shoes.

She stands on the edge of the lake, dressed in short shorts and a thin button-up shirt.  It is gray, cold, cloudy, and windy, and miniature waves are whipping up all across the surface of the water.  In her fingers hangs a dream catcher; it’s all rings and nets and feathers, reminiscent of Indians and shamans and smoke and tipis, eagles and mountain lions and bears.  A dream catcher, to ward off the nightmares and keep the peace until morning, like a night-guard in a museum of memories and potential keeping the robbers away, ready to call the police of awakening at a moment’s notice and bring the mind back into the real world and away from the haunting of these dark dreams.  Still she stands, as though in memory of times gone by, of dreams lost.  Perhaps with this dream catcher she can reclaim them, bring back some remnant of the life she let slip away, escaped through the land that exists somewhere between living and surviving.

The sky burns.  Waves roll over the sand, alight with pink and deep blue and green.  Clouds are suspended between dream and reality, colored with the fire of the sun.  The foam churns up as the winds rise, and the waves reach their wet, grasping fingers further up the beach.  The clouds scurry away beneath the onslaught, preferring to retreat, so that they might live to fight another day on some other land.  Above the isle on the horizon, the sun sets – or is it rising?  For in those moments between dark and light, and between light and dark, who can tell which one is which, or where time is held in these timeless events that somehow manage to happen every morning and evening without fail.  It could be a welcome into a bright new day, or it could be recalling past days, bidding the light farewell for an era of darkness and sleep until the next rising.

“FEAR IS A LIAR.”  It is branded in big, bold letters on the wall, pronouncing the truth like some prophet in ancient Jerusalem, calling to the bustling people of the city who stop up their ears and refuse to listen.  “If fear is a liar, then why does it ring true?” some of them jeer, only having enough time to mock the speaker before going on their way once more.  A very few (perhaps one or two) are truly curious, and await the prophet’s answer.  Slowly, carefully, he opens his mouth once more.  “Fear lies about our true worth and our true nature.  Though many times fear seems the appropriate response, there is so much more to be gained through courage, and courage shows us our true nature, the nature that has been given to us by Him.  Do not allow fear to tell you that you are a worthless being, a creature of nothing more than fearful survival, victim of the whims of chance; you are ever so much more than that.  You are an image of beauty, of joy, of skill, and most importantly, you are alive.  Nothing is more true about you than these things.  Fear is a liar.  FEAR IS A LIAR.”  And once again, the wall is merely a wall, and yet more than a wall: it is a proclamation of truth.

Sadness

How do you heal a broken heart?

The endless cycle continues, old wounds come up again with hope and hopelessness frustratingly entwined, and tears return.  An endless sine wave of joy and sorrow.

Why can't I just move on?  Why her?  Why do I insist, and why can't I accept that things will not change?  My heart's stubbornness is the reason I suffer, but I keep catching hints of hope, and I can't stop trying.  Or rather, I can't make myself stop trying.

I know that life has its seasons; times when the clouds are overhead and hope is far away.  But why won't the sunny days stick around for more than...well...days?  Part of it is my own fault; I don't make the effort to look for the sunlight that is still there.  But the clouds loom and blot out the sun and pour their rain, and I cry. Hope seems far away and hoping feels like wishful thinking.

But what do I do now?  Do I wait it out, see if things will be different this time?  Or will the pattern continue?  Then again, is action a part of the pattern?  Maybe if I do nothing, things will get better.  Or worse.  I don't know.  And I wish I did, because I feel lost in it all.  People are so hard to understand sometimes.

And I know I have God.  But I still feel loss all too acutely, and I want to reach out, see if maybe things can change.  But what if they don't?  It'll just happen again.  Or I'll lose her, which is even worse.  But I don't even know.

Hold me, Jesus...

What Is Life About, Anyway?

I have a sticky note pasted on my bible that says, "This is a STORY, not an ENCYCLOPEDIA."  Because I forget.

I forget that a million Israelites wandering a desert in the Middle-East for 40 years is not about wandering the desert, but about how God sometimes takes long seasons to change our hearts in the ways they need to be changed.

I forget that Solomon being made the richest and wisest man in history by God because he asked for wisdom, not money or fame, is not about some up-and-coming king that got a little extra help from God, but about God's desire for our hearts to be in the right place.

I forget that Jesus coming, performing miracles, dying, and coming back to life is not just about a man from heaven who helped a lot of people and cheated death.  It's about the creator of the universe loving a planet full of messed-up people enough to come and exist among them, so far outside his comfort zone, caring about them so much that he didn't care how broken or sinful they were.  He came and loved them anyway.

And I forget that my life is a story, and that this continuous struggle back and forth is not about self-control or my ability to be moral, but about my heart being changed, about God calling me to move forward and not backward.

Why do we forget that our lives are stories?  Stories make perfect sense.  The characters don't understand why things happen the way they do, but when we turn the final page, we can see how each event was important, however dark it was.  Take Judas.  One of the saddest parts about Jesus's story is how one of his disciples -- no, one of his closest friends -- sold him out, despite everything that the thirteen of them had been through together.  And yet, if Judas hadn't done what he did, then things would not have happened as they were meant to.

But no, our lives aren't a story.  They're just a jumbled mess of random events that are the result of events set in motion a long time ago, and nothing really means anything.  There is no reason that God didn't save someone's mom from cancer, or that the homeless man downtown lost everything he owned.  We're down here, and He's up there, and who really knows why anyway?

And we believe that's what the truth about life is.  But...really?

I guess that's what memory is for.

Thinking back, I can see that the pastors tearing down my dad for not living up to their standards -- an event I didn't witness, and don't wish I had -- resulted in my family seeking out a church.  A seemingly random Facebook ad, a subtle nudge from God to my mom, and then Mosaic.  Uncertainty.  And every week, through uncertainty, Mosaic.  And healing.  New friends.  Close friends.  A wonderful place for my parents, and a wonderful place for me, though it took some getting used to.  The closest friends I've ever had in my short life made there, people I would trust with my life if it ever came to that, and almost none of them are my age.  But they're exactly what I needed (and still do).

And books.  Books suggested by a fellow Christian kid met only a few times at a church youth group out in the country.  Books that changed my life, my view of God and Christianity.  And he became my friend (my best friend, in fact).

So many experiences, wonderful and not so wonderful, set off by the most insignificant of events.  A quick message to someone I've never met before.  Popping by for a random visit at a friends' house, just as they are leaving to youth group.  So many different places, so many different wonderful people and lessons learned, and God.

There's no way any of those things was an accident.  And there's no way that there isn't a God watching out for me.  The trick is knowing when and where he's pointing.  I've been granted the grace to be guided mostly by the actions of others and what seems like happy chance (but is really Jesus bringing something I desperately needed into my life), but now it feels like he wants me to take my first real steps on my own.  And I'm scared.  And angry.  Angry that responsibility would be thrust on me, responsibility I feel I can't bear, and why couldn't life just be about surviving, or could I even just skip life and go Home?  But no.  And at the same time...I'm tremendously honored, and shocked.  You want...me?  But...I could never do that.  But I want to.  I want to help in that way.  I want to bless like I've been blessed, pass on these rare lessons I've learned.  And I'm confused.  What's the next step?  Here or there?  When?  How?  So I ask, and wait.

This life is a story, if we'll just look for the chapters, the major events.  Some people's stories are happy.  Some people's stories are sad, but that doesn't mean the Savior's handwriting isn't all over the manuscript.  What about the man that was born blind that Jesus healed?

"'Rabbi,' his disciples asked him, 'why was this man born blind?  Was it because of his own sins or the his parents' sins?'

'It was not because of his sins or his parents' sins,' Jesus answered.  'This happened so the power of God could be seen in him.'" - (John 9:2-3)

This man's story was characterized by a disability, and probably a certain degree of estrangement from his friends and family.  Definitely a sad story.  But there was a reason.  The bad in our lives isn't God trying to get back at us for doing bad things, or him just not caring.  Pain is a necessary prerequisite to beauty, more often than not.  That doesn't mean that God cares.  And that doesn't mean that we should just brush off pain, as if it doesn't even matter.  It matters.  Anyone who has ever been in pain (in other words, every human being who ever lived) will tell you that.  It hurts when your marriage doesn't work out, when your best friend dies, when you're laid off and have no hope of providing for your family.  God does care that it hurts.  And he's doing it for a reason.

"And since we are his children, we are his heirs.  In fact, together with Christ we are heirs of God's glory.  But if we are to share his glory, we must also share his suffering.  Yet what we suffer now is nothing compared to the glory he will reveal to us later.  For all creation is waiting eagerly for that future day when God will reveal who his children really are." - (Romans 8:17-19)

Ultimately, this is about God's glory.  Which we will share in.  The pain will all be worth it.

Life is a story.  Sometimes it's happy, sometimes it's sad.  But every event has meaning, although we can't see it right now.

Life matters.  Pain matters.  You matter.  Don't give up just yet.  There's a reason for everything.  It will be worth it.

Old Becomes New

Sometimes, my heart is simply exploding, inspired and driven to new heights by the words of others, or simply by the astonishing beauty and certainty that is the love of God.  Words overwhelm and trip over each other, and I long to say something powerful and sure, strong and long and endless, like a river ever-flowing, and yet...what is there to say?  For, as Solomon said, there is nothing new under the sun.

But, of course...we forget.  Though nothing is new, each time it makes its rounds through the world it is received with open arms as the ultimate truth, the final discovery, as though nothing in the world could ever compare.  Where are these discoveries now?  They live on only in the memories of those who saw them blossom, and then they wither with those oh-so-short lives, to be lost to the world in a few generations, only to return someday as "new".

Perhaps, though, it is a good thing that old words become new once more.  For though in this world we had men like the apostle Paul and Peter the headstrong and the leaders of the early church and other champions of the faith throughout the years all the way to the likes of Horatio Spafford and Carl Boberg, writers of some of the powerful hymns we sing today, as post-Christ psalms, or writers like C.S. Lewis and George MacDonald who inspire us still with their words of wisdom...all this fades in memory, sooner or later.  And so it is good that new men and women arise to re-tell the stories, to "sing a new song", as David said, to inspire and drive the world and the church to action once more, for we are forgetful beings.  When old words are forgotten, so must they rise again one day from the mouths of new speakers, as God's way of reminding us of the truths left in the dust of history's plodding march, and they give us strength to go on.  All things grow old and become new, remade once more to bring joy.

Is this not our picture of salvation?  We, as our old, tired selves, receive with joy the gift of Jesus, and we become new once more, so that God may use us as gifts of joy to the world, so that the lives we touch may eventually lead back to Him, and so rises up even more joy to give back.  The old becomes new and our worn-out souls become fresh, strong currents of love-water that washes over others, giving them a taste of the living water of the Christ.

Aimless, wordless babbling receives a purpose and new words rise to flesh out and the old, empty self is left behind as words become a gift.  This is the miracle of God.  Old will become new once more, and He will rejoice over it, and breathe into it an abundance of life that spills over until all is filled with perfect Love, seeping into the very earth in its extravagance.  Oh, how He loves us.