Writers In The Storm

I went to the doctor today. Pain twinges too near the heart, an achy arm, another deep sigh.

Serious? Indigestion? Hypochondria?

My doctor is great. She entered my exam room wearing a mantle of care and concern. A soothing balm on its own, when walking in for advice on a sensitive matter.

She listened, asked questions, empathized. Of course, she did all the doctor stuff: EKG, BP, and when all that looked good, scheduled me for a stress test. She suspects hunching over the computer and a summertime ski injury as the twin culprits.

Her simple attention to this particular need brought me comfort. Okay, a clean EKG was a blessing, but having someone listen is becoming a rarity.

When my mother passed on, I had to fly home. I don’t remember the details as to how it happened, but I ended up with three of the wrong sets of tickets-through no fault of my own-and a maxed out credit card. I called the airline to get it straight. The woman would not let me finish a sentence without interrupting. I became less than gentle with her.

I finally got my story out, my credit card charges reversed, and the proper tickets on order. But it took considerably more effort than I wanted to spend. I needed someone to listen.

It’s easy to blame technology, but I bet this has always been true. Listening well is a gift. A gift I can give, one I hope to receive, and it is free.

That exemplifies the beauty of prayer. I can bow my heart before the Lord of the universe anywhere, anytime, in any situation, and He receives me with a ready love. Even if I cannot commit my plea to words, but offer only a silent release, I am unburdened. And if I ask it, all is forgiven.

I can listen, but only God can forgive. I am thankful His promises cannot be broken. May my attention to others mirror the mercy, love, and grace which He bestows upon me.   Including the lady from the airline.

I have many faults. Some are irritating, some are mean, some are selfish, all land under the general heading of pride. I wish that weren’t the case, but as they say, wishes ain’t horses. My faults and I are well acquainted. When I start to lose touch, one of them quickly pays me a visit, in order to maintain the relationship.

There are a few of the faults, with the grace of God, that have been away so long that we are now strangers. When I see the fault on someone else, I may not even recognize it at first glance. I might even remark on how ugly that fault is, on that person, over there. Another of my faults.

But the Holy Spirit is always on duty and reminds me that I used to own that one too. And I remember what it was like to live with that fault, the unpleasantness, the ignorance of its true effect, the chain that held it as habit. Then I realize what it must have looked like in me.

My fault quakes open to reveal a character of sin. Those moments bring either shame or plain-old-gratitude. Shame looks back and condemns. Gratitude looks forward and steeps in the gift of mercy. I can’t imagine worshipping a god unfamiliar with mercy. I’m too constant a patron of the concept.

Once again, I’m grateful for that which I cannot earn, cannot repay, and cannot fully appreciate on this side.

Poor Jonah. We sometimes laugh at this pouting prophet, but I’m probably in his company more often than I would want you to know. Perhaps we all share a similarity to this comic-relief specimen of humanity. Maybe we should go a little easier on Jonah.

God had a plan for Jonah’s life-a specific mission to deliver a warning to Jonah’s enemies about God’s coming judgment. Jonah didn’t like his assignment; he knew that sounding the warning might cause the Ninevites to repent and then God wouldn’t destroy them. He preferred to see God annihilate his enemy. (I suppose mercy wasn’t one of Jonah’s spiritual gifts.) So Jonah ran. God redirected him-that’s the part where the whale comes in. God eventually used him to deliver a message Jonah didn’t want to deliver. God showed mercy on Jonah’s enemies-that’s the part of the plan Jonah didn’t like (can’t you just hear Jonah saying “@!#%! I knew it!”). So Jonah was mad at God. God challenged his thinking by questioning Jonah’s anger and using the illustration of caring more for something stupid like a plant (the plant enriched Jonah’s life at the moment) than showing compassion for the lives of men, women, children, and even animals.

God’s questioning resembled the tongue-in-cheek kind of questioning that parents do with their kids when the parents already know the answers and the kids are inventing outlandish explanations to nonsensical behavior. I’m sure God must’ve had a private laugh at his clueless prophet’s expense while Jonah crossed his arms, stomped his foot, and jutted out his bottom lip. Jonah was mad and by-golly he had good reason.

I understand. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve been in Jonah’s position. In my earlier years I snickered at Jonah’s childish pouting, but I really can’t be that hard on Jonah-he thought God hadn’t delivered on the promises of deliverance and retribution. Jonah felt like God let him down. God hadn’t behaved the way Jonah thought a deity should-these people had mistreated Jonah’s people and justice demanded that the Ninevites be punished. It wasn’t fair. God’s ways confused him. God’s sovereignty left Jonah grasping for a world set aright. This didn’t look like anything Jonah had envisioned for his world. Not at all.

I chuckled at Jonah’s silliness until I encountered my own undesirable God-assigned missions. Then I joined Jonah’s ranks. Okay, now I get the pouting thing. God is asking too much of me. This just isn’t fair. Like Jonah, I’ve had days when I preferred the belly of the whale to carrying out God’s divine task.

Does God ever roll His eyes at us? I wonder if He sighs and groans that I’m a lost cause or shakes His head at my inability to “get it.” How many plants-the material creature comforts of life-do I pout over? Do I even care that there’s a lost-and-dying world needing a message of hope? And do I prefer revenge to compassion? Really?

I’m quick to choose His mercy for myself-why not for others? Maybe I should consider how quickly God withered Jonah’s plant. Or how consistently He extends mercy to me.