as a little bit of background info, i decided at the beginning of the year that i was really going to concentrate on the Gospels for my devotions this year. i know it seems like a long time to park it on 4 books (and i do read from other places from time to time), but i just really wanted to concentrate on the life and person of Christ… and figured there was no better way to do that then to concentrate on where we see Him, His decisions, His reactions… His life.
one of my favorite stories that i read a few weeks ago in mark is the account of the woman with the issue of blood that is healed by touching His garment… and i LOVE his response to her. it’s just one of those moments where you just see desperation reach out in one last attempt to find hope and answers… and Christ doesn’t disappoint. He heals her. He forgives her. He makes her clean. He gives her hope. He is her answer. i LOVE that. i’ve read the story who-knows-how-many times, and for whatever reason, it just grabs me and won’t let me go.
anyhoo, i’ve finished mark and moved on to luke. read chapter 6 this morning, and there is SO MUCH there: the man with the withered hand, the beatitudes, the comments about loving enemies and not judging others, bearing fruit, and building your house on a rock (i.e., building your faith on Christ). but tucked in the middle of the chapter is this paragraph:
“andhe came down with them and stood on a level place, with a great crowd of his disciples and a great multitude of people from all Judea and Jerusalem and the seacoast ofTyre and Sidon, who came to hear him and to be healed of their diseases. and those who were troubled with unclean spirits were cured. and all the crowd sought to touch him, for power came out from him and healed them all.”
right away, it made me think about what Christ did for that unnamed woman. and it just made me stop to think about this characteristic of Christ that, i don’t know about you, but i don’t think about too often. Christ had so much power, that it just came out from Him. it almost gives the impression that power literally seeped from his pores.
and to think… that power that they saw… that power they touched to tap into…
was just a fraction, a minutiae, a drop-in-the-proverbial-bucket, a glimpse of the total, infinite power of God.
that is the God we serve.
and that God somehow finds delight in us when we attempt to worship Him.
“no one comes through unscathed. and those who appear to do so are usually just better pretenders….God is my only certainty. so if my future holds some repeat of my past (which is sometimes the case), then what I know is that He will be there. Jesus will still be there… His love and care in those moments is what will make for a new chapter and not an old bad dream. it’s an incredible dance of trust… where dreams and expectations don’t work out… you are being issued the invitation of your life. disappointment is, strangely enough, a doorway to the real adventure. it’s the point where you start to leave behind most of your notions of how your story should read– and enter your relationship with God as a journey.” (paula rinehart)
this week, i had a strange feeling of deja vu.
it’s a unique opportunity when you are presented identical situations at two different points in your life. it’s amazing how the same feelings flood back, refusing to change with time. the sadness still aches. the shock reemerges. the hurt proves more familiar the second time around.
i remembered a blog post that i wrote shortly after identical incident #1 happened a couple of years ago. i can’t help by sadly smile at the lines that i ignorantly wrote then that hold the most irony now, such as: “you cannot help but be skeptical if [those that hurt you] suddenly seem to grow too nice. you wonder about their sincerity. you wonder if/when another time will occur, all the while wanting the one ‘mishap’ to simply be that– an accidental mistake that only happens once.”
the sad smile shrinks a little with the realization that the hope for only one “mishap” was a bit… misplaced.
as i read through my past post, i remember everything i was feeling when i wrote it then, in large part because they are identical now.
however, there is something new in this deja vu moment. i find myself a recipient of something i didn’t allow myself to experience the first time around:
peace.
the first time, i had no peace.
i was so hurt. i was so confused.
and i allowed that man-inflicted pain and confusion to eat away at me until i realized that my bitter thoughts weren’t just being thrust at those who caused my pain. i was shooting accusatory darts at God, making Him the cosmic bulls’ eye of everything i didn’t understand.
oh, but God is patient.
oh, but God is forgiving.
oh, how God proves to be a loving parent, that wraps His arms around a angry, screaming child… allowing the tantrum until the confused child succumbs to stillness in His arms once again.
He did that with me, then.
i hope that, this time around, my Father doesn’t find such a stubborn response.
oh, His child is hurt.
oh, His child is confused.
but this time, instead of throwing a tantrum during this test of trust… i want to just walk in His arms and rest.
but… i know myself.
i know i’ll be tempted to wonder why.
and wonder what to do.
and worry about what’s next.
but i pray that, in this deja vu trial, my response will be different… because my prayer is.
this time, i’m not demanding answers. this time, i’m just asking for grace.
grace to trust Him more.
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(re-post of my response to identical incident #1. originally written march 2nd, 2008.)
it’s been about a month since–
if you aren’t sure what i’m talking about, you don’t need to know. what’s done is done anyway.
besides, i’ve learned that there are things more important than the past.
what is important is how God uses the past to shape us into what He wants for the present and the future. it isn’t so much what happens to us in the past that is ultimately important (oh, that’s not to undermine what has happened–right or wrong); it’s our reaction to it. our response to the good or bad circumstances. our reaction to the pain or pleasure.
with that said, a lot can happen in a month.
wrong things happen. whether or not people do it intentionally sometimes doesn’t matter. the wrong still occurred. and with that, the wronged still feel hurt. still feel betrayed. still feel “bruised.”
(please note that the following is a metaphor.)
those who are bruised often try to cover it. they might be trying to protect the one who delivered the blow. they themselves might be denying that the incident happen. they might be assuming that if others can’t see the bruise, it might not hurt quite as badly.
no amount of foundation or cover-up can completely cover discoloration. it might fool a lot of people. however, there will be a few that look closely enough to notice the difference. and, as any make-up wearing girl can tell you, it is impossible to have flawless coverage all the time. it will wear off.
at some point, it has to be removed.
there were a few people, a month ago, that noticed my bruise. they could tell by my face that something wasn’t quite right. the coverage was more flawed at certain times and at certain places than others. some saw that there was something pained me.
but i don’t think that anyone, besides God Himself, knew how badly that bruise hurt me. perhaps it shook me more than it should have. whether or not someone means to inflict pain upon you, you cannot help but begin to take a second look at how that person treats you. you cannot help but be skeptical if they suddenly seem to grow too nice. you wonder about their sincerity. you wonder if/when another time will occur, all the while wanting the one “mishap” to simply be that– an accidental mistake that only happens once.
i will ever be thankful for the few who noticed something was wrong and went out of their way to help me get through that time. they will always, always be thought of so highly– my godly mentors and friends. there were so many lessons that i learned through that– very deep and personal lessons that i could never begin, especially in one post, to cover them all.
however, the only One that saw me and my hurt entirely– all makeup removed– was my Father; One who was wronged and wounded Himself in ways we never can and never will be.
i think that we are more willing to understand bruises that are man-inflicted. men make mistakes. i mean, aren’t we all sinners? don’t we all do wrong? aren’t we all, at one time or another victims of each other’s misunderstandings, bad days, wrong conclusions. besides, we all have deposited more than our share of injuries on each other. (for my rhetoric-inclined friends, think Burke’s comedy . . . )
but what’s hard for us– or at least me– are the pains that aren’t delivered by a person. there are other kinds of pains– unfulfilled desires, undesirable circumstances, an unforeseen change in plans– that we can’t pin on a person. these are things that only Providence is responsible for.
so what then?
i don’t know about you, but i react the same way to these perceived pains as i do with human-inflicted injuries. i turn skeptical. i feel wronged. i feel like some grand injustice has occurred. i turn away from the Father that i ran to before– because now He is the one responsible, not some sinful, unthoughtful, or mistaken individual.
how quick i am to click and drag attributes of man to GOD! how quick i am to place Him in the same category as fallible man! how quick i am to assume the worst about my Creator and mentally– oh, never outloud (i wouldn’t want others to see this . . .)– accuse Him of the very things i accuse other “pain-givers” with! i accuse Him and see Him as unloving, good-lacking, merciless. as if my Father is fickle, caring one second, disregarding the next . . .
how quick i am to forget that this same Father that creates beauty out of any ashes, that constructs good out of any/man’s evil, gives nothing outside of His character. The denied desires, the change in circumstances and plans, are always inline with who He is– Good. Sovereign. Gracious. Loving. Merciful.
what might be construed on my part to be a heaven-imposed bruise is a God-sent blessing.
My Father knows how hard certain things are for me to see this way . . . He understands. There were cups He prayed would pass Him by. The cups I would pass by, He sometimes takes my hand and forces me to sip.
That– that is the absolute best thing He could do.
but the great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love for us does not. it is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us… at whatever cost to Him.
this past week, i was able to see a production of great expectations… not once, but twice. in perhaps his greatest classic, dickens constructs a very intriguing female character: his jilted, bitter, miss havisham. left alone, hopes dashed, life shattered, she responds by stopping all of the clocks at the precise moment things proved painful. she remained in her dress; she observed a rotting cake; she banished herself to a cold house with an even colder heart. lonely, she grew old in a house without time.
as a watched this wrinkled representation of a woman, i realized something. i’m guilty of the same thing. i have my own ways of pausing clocks and refusing to face hard truths.
i stop writing.
this might come as a complete surprise to people who know me well. who know that my journal is where my brain plays, releases, and organizes my mindstuff– where i attempt to make sense of my life and thoughts about it. i record. i remember. almost everything.
i haven’t written since august.
oh, i’ve jotted down an idea here and there. and i’ve taken notes on sermons on sundays and some chapels. but my thoughts? what’s happened in my life? the ups and downs?
not a word.
pages left blank.
dates mysteriously missing.
writing is a very concrete thing. it’s a way of claiming. it makes whatever happened, whatever was thought, whatever was said more real. ink forces both pleasant and unpleasant things permanence on paper. it forces you to not only remember once to write, but enables you to keep on remembering whatever it is that you have written.
let’s be honest: sometimes, you wish things weren’t real.
sometimes, you wish you didn’t have to remember.
unfortunately for miss havisham, time didn’t stop just because a clock refrained from ticking. and life still goes on for us, even if we refuse to admit it or want it to. even if we wish to erase memories; change our minds; reconstruct our worlds.
life has a way of taking words away.
but sometimes, you just have to insist– ready or not– to find them. speak them… write them anyway.
i understand miss havisham. she marked the moment her world changed drastically in a drastic way. she wanted, in a weird way, to have her life stuck, even if tortured. over time, this defining moment of pain, shock, unmet expectations somehow became a bittersweet friend. see, fear comes by letting these life-changing moments go. more pains will be brought, more shocks will emerge, more expectations will be unmet…
sometimes it’s just easier to keep the hurts you have instead of learning to deal with new ones.
refusing to move on, however, changes nothing of the bad. no matter how you strive to keep yourself from further injury (stopping clocks; refusing to write), it cannot and will not be avoided. and in the meantime, you hurt yourself.
who knows how miss havisham’s life could have played out differently. she might have had another shot at love–and actually worn the shoes; actually eaten the cake. she would have raised an estella with a “natural” heart instead of an ice replica. in an attempt to prevent further injury, she robbed herself–and all around her– of joy.
i can think of more than one moment in the past few months where my personal clocks have stopped, unexpected events shattering my great expectations. (more characters than pip in dicken’s tale had hopes and dreams. they all did. we all do…) and my way of protection, my way of time freezing–my refusal to write– has paused me. has kept me from sealing hurt… moving on.
it’s time for clocks to be wound again.
so, here it is: a new writing debut. a restart. an attempt to release bittersweet pains in order to be open to more of everything life likes to bring.
i’m sure there will be more hopes deferred along the way, more dreams apparently dashed; but by moving on, i just might find myself surprised by joy along the way, too.
“bruised and broken, but hopefully in a better shape,” i lift my pen.
i find my words.
and write my way to new, hopefully improved, expectations.