Writers In The Storm

A bit of bippity-boppity-boo dust, the help of two sisters, and a dress with sparkles turned my special needs daughter into Cinderella last night. Prom night.

Cameras, strobe lights, hip hop, line dancing, off-key Mamma Mia choruses, a live band, Italian cuisine, friends holding hands, hugs, and laughter. Something every mother wants her child to experience.

Ten years ago, I struggled to accept the reality of my daughter’s special needs. Developmentally delayed? Mentally retarded? No, not my child. The wheelchairs, faces of Down syndrome young adults, and awkward dance moves would’ve unmasked my fears, revealing the concrete reality that my child’s future would be different.

But last night amidst the disco lights I envisioned a brighter future for my daughter. One with people who invested in her life-the workers in the college transitional life skills program who put together the event, the musicians who volunteered their time to enrich the kids’ days, the parents who daily walk beside their kids, the siblings who cheer them along. And the friends. Other young adults who know their struggles, accept them, and love them.

Throughout her life she’s had friends, but they were there for a season, until they “outgrew” her. Kind kids, but they didn’t have special needs, and their lives moved on. Bethany always seemed to be left behind looking wistfully at the dust of long-gone friendships.

These kids who bounced around the dance floor with her last night will probably never outgrow her. They genuinely like her. She finally fits somewhere.

“Let’s go Riders! D, D, D!” Bethany knows basketball. Over the years, she’s cheered through more games than I can count with Caleb and Grace both playing. She’s known by the THESA (Texas Home Educators Sports Association) families as the number-one-Rider-fan.

A few years ago at the national basketball tournament, the top-ranked girls’ team surprised Bethany with a specially decorated Rider t-shirt before the big game. They wanted to show appreciation for their most enthusiastic fan. She still wears the black and red treasure to most games.

Yesterday, we walked into another basketball gym. This day was different, though. The players struggled to dribble, pass, and shoot. A few times they seemed confused about which basket to dribble toward. But they smiled. Players celebrated plays with high fives. They cheered for each other and themselves.

Bethany was on the court playing in the state Special Olympics basketball game.

And sitting in the stands were Rider players and their families. They got up early on a Saturday morning to cheer for their number-one Special Olympics player.

Every year when baseball season begins my son’s coaches focus on fundamentals-basic skills in fielding, batting, pitching, base-running, and other baseball essentials. Throughout the season, they continue to drill the fundamentals in regular practices. My kids’ piano teacher emphasizes scales, technique, and regular, disciplined practice. As a teacher, I encourage daily studying rather than waiting to the last minute to cram for a test. At least the kids listen to two out of three.

It’s the same in other areas of life. When we practice the fundamentals in daily living, we have a reserve to fall back on when we encounter the “big leagues,” the high-pressure moments that threaten to un-do us. Those moments when we don’t have the luxury to think, to ponder, to analyze, to work through a number of scenarios, to brainstorm… when we need an instant response, and we need it to be right. That’s when all the practice pays off.

Luke touched on this principle-He who is faithful in a very little thing is faithful also in much. When we learn to live with integrity when no one’s looking, we’ll make the right choices in different moments on a larger stage. Paying attention to the details that matter to God reaps a benefit beyond the scope of small things.

We learn to live in those “little” moments by sticking to the basics of our faith-trusting and obeying God, saying “no” to wrong choices, sitting quietly in His presence. Listening for His voice as we read His word. Believing in His goodness. Taking our questions to Him. Giving Him our messes with all the accompanying emotions, fears, and anxieties. Expressing gratitude for Who He is and thanking Him for all He does. The “little” everyday moments of Christian living.

Getting back to the basics of practicing Christian disciplines on a daily basis prepares us for the bigger moments of life. Figuring out how to struggle well in everyday issues makes it easier to battle in the hard times. If we’ve practiced the basics in low-pressure moments, those fundamentals will carry us in the heat of the game.

God gave Joseph a dream, and he dared to share it. Joseph spoke the truth; he shared what God had whispered to his heart as he slept. He shared his dreams.

Some say taunting arrogance, lack of discernment, and naivete led him to speak of his dreams. Some say he deserved the scolding from his father and even the harsh treatment he received from his brothers. Some say he never should’ve spoken of the mysteries revealed to him in the darkness.

Perhaps.

Perhaps if he’d just kept his mouth shut, thought before he spoke, put himself in his listeners’ shoes… maybe if he had just pondered the words in his heart without spilling it all out to his family…. He could’ve avoided the pain of the next thirteen years-slavery and imprisonment in a foreign land.

But as we witness the life of Joseph unfold, we see a young man who believed God. Speaking of God’s work was a natural part of who Joseph was-he couldn’t stop speaking of what God was doing in his life. He certainly didn’t hide from his own family what he learned from God. Surely family was the place to share his most intimate thoughts, his quirky dreams, his good news. Wouldn’t they want to know what God was up to in his life? Who else was he going to tell?

His message was true. The events he foretold eventually came to pass. But his willingness to trust his family with his dreams came with a price. Joseph was misunderstood, rejected, and even hated. It wasn’t his own sin that led to Joseph’s slavery. His brothers chose to embrace murder in their hearts. Joseph wasn’t responsible for their hatred and he didn’t deserve their response.

But Joseph didn’t let their unfair treatment muzzle him. We later see him boldly proclaiming the truth of other dreams-even though he knew the listeners could’ve responded like his brothers, with ridicule and harsh consequences. He understood God was behind the dreams, and knowing that truth gave him the courage to speak up. As in the dreams of his youth, God had given him a message and he couldn’t keep quiet.

Baseball, basketball, school, hanging out with friends-all demand a portion of my son’s time. Playing Halo, Rockband, and Madden also claim spare moments. Well, okay, hours. My rare attempts to join his computer game world usually end abruptly with the simple message of my incompetency-”game over.” I chuckle when I see the proclamation, and quickly abandon my post at the controls to someone more qualified than me-usually a teenage male with an extra gaming gene.

Funny how this comes to my mind as I’ve spent another weekend by a graveside; I’ve mourned at five funerals in eight months. Three of the loved ones were under the age of twenty-two.

The caskets proclaim the shortness of life, how quickly it’s over. Eulogies feel incomplete-they only tell a brief synopsis of a life story, and they’re inadequate to herald the worth of one life. The tear-filled chapels goad me with a sense of urgency to make this life count. And then I’m reminded that I’m completely inept when it comes to making anything count in life. Accomplishments are inadequate. Success measured by the false scale of this world’s standards is worthless. I only have empty hands as I kneel before my Maker.

But His word reminds me there’s more to the story of my life than my faded, dusty moments of glory. Some things about this life are precious to Him. My prayers today are a fragrant aroma to Him. He finds pleasure when He is the object of my devotion, the focus of my heart. He delights in my loyalty, my knowledge of Him, and my obedience to that knowledge. He loves a cheerful giver; He smiles when we share about His goodness. He rejoices over us as His children, simply because we belong to Him-we who name Jesus as our Savior are precious, honored, and loved because Jesus stands before our heavenly Father and calls us His own.

Death swallows up mortality and awakens us to real life, where true treasures are stored up and heavenly rewards are waiting. Just as suddenly as the x-box message flashes across the screen, we’re transported to a place where time stops. Minutes, hours, and days no longer mark life. Opportunities are gone. Earthly riches fade away instantly. The game’s over. And in that moment, the only eulogy that matters is the one Jesus offers to our heavenly Father on our behalf-she believed in Me.

We celebrated Christmas at my grandmother-in-law’s yesterday. Ninety-three-years-old and still living independently. Family members lined the walls, lounged on the floor, and grabbed places on sofas and chairs when someone relinquished their spot in search of more chocolate truffles.

I remember when she first moved to this home. She announced to everyone she didn’t want to clutter it up like her last home. She had plenty of decorations and housekeeping items. She didn’t need anything.

Made it hard to shop at Christmas.

Twenty years ago the options included consumables, restaurant gift cards, movies, and books. Jewelry. Photos tucked into albums or exchanged with older photos in already-displayed frames.

Today she has a limited diet and driving isn’t an option, so restaurant gift cards are out. She can’t fasten jewelry anymore. Retrieving photo albums from the shelf is a major undertaking.

Most days she sits in her lift-chair and watches the trees across the street blow in the wind. Her mobility is limited; she can’t raise her arms above elbow-level. Each step requires monumental effort. Relatives of her generation and siblings have already passed away. Most of her friends from church have gone on to glory. Her daughters visit on a daily basis to check on her, and grandkids stop by occasionally. A neighbor takes her to church; it isn’t the church she fellowshipped in for more than fifty years, but it’s still a blessing.

Before we showered Grandma with presents, we all played the familiar Chinese gift exchange. Five-dollar gifts aren’t a lot to get excited about, but watching Grandma was-she giggled like a child when a gift was stolen and complaints were offered about losing a coveted bottle of lavender bath soap. We stole gifts from Grandma just to give her the fun of opening new gifts (she never has the heart to “steal” a gift from anyone else).

After the game, it was time for Grandma to open her gifts. She made eye contact with each gift-giver and politely thanked them. Trash bags were filled with boxes of ribbon and discarded wrapping paper. As the afternoon wound down and we hugged her goodbye, she said to each one of us with tears in her eyes, “Thank you for coming-it means so much to me.” And I was reminded that the gift we so carefully selected and wrapped wasn’t what she cherished this Christmas.

Spending time with family was her gift.

My mother, an English major and history minor, enjoyed tossing around old sayings. “Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” She used that one with one of my feistier friends. “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” None of us kids took that one too seriously. If someone was mad, she’d say, “They can get glad in the same shoes they got mad in.” Happiness and anger are both choices.

Mom had other phrases for angry people, especially those that whined when they were verbally one-upped by someone-”If they can’t stand the heat, they need to get out of the kitchen,” or “Those who live in glass castles shouldn’t throw stones.”

Agreed. Those who have their own failings, their own sets of frailties, and their own areas of vulnerability, incompetence, and deficiency shouldn’t be casting stones. They’d be wise to step back and take a look at their own life before pronouncing judgment on others.

Jesus had His sayings, too. Hypocrites “strain gnats” in your life while they “swallow camels” in their own lives. They’re more than willing to point out the “speck” in your eye while they have “logs” floating in their own eyes. And those who carry a whole arsenal of stones to cast your way don’t seem to hear Jesus’ admonition, “He who is without sin may cast the first stone.” Or maybe they’ve heard the words and truly believe they’re justified in rock throwing. Other sayings probably apply to them.

Difficult people are a fact of life-we’ve all encountered those who are harsh, critical, eager to be angry. Like the “pot calling the kettle black” they will be oblivious to their own failings while they magnify our inadequacies. One of life’s certainties is that we will encounter stones hurled our way, and it helps to be equipped with more than just a few clever sayings.

So, when someone tries to hurt you… when someone hurls a verbal spear your direction. When someone takes aim because you didn’t meet their expectations. When someone scoffs at your pain. When someone triumphs at your mistakes or blames you for their insufficiencies, you have a choice.

Instead of flinging back the stone in a return volley, leave it on the ground. Don’t pick it up, don’t roll it around in your hand contemplating the damage you could do in return-choose grace instead. Look at it, yes, recognize and acknowledge the pain it caused, then choose to leave the stone where it lies. Let the stones fall. Let them heap up to become a monument to the grace you’ve chosen to live in, the freedom of forgiveness you’ve experienced and can now bestow on those who hurt you, and the peace of releasing your antagonist to God’s realm. You can choose to rest in the confidence that God is good and He freely bestows grace, to you, as well as to the stone-thrower.

As Mom would probably say, grace is just a stone’s throw away.

 
“Do not be eager in your heart to be angry…” (Ecclesiastes 7:9).

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.

“God has given me the gift of pain.” The speaker lived with a chronic debilitating disease as she struggled in a difficult marriage. But she saw the value of her pain-she recognized God had entrusted her with a gift that few, if any, welcome, and most resist. I listened to her story about twenty years ago, and I’ve pulled that memory out to ponder many times as I’ve gone through my own experiences with pain. Can I really view pain as a gift?

We all have our tragedy stories. None of us are exempt from the pain of living in a fallen world. Yet, we want the storybook ending, the Cinderella ballroom experience of rising above our difficult circumstances. And if you’re like me, you’d like to throw in the fairy godmother dust of immediate relief and changed circumstances. You know, the snap-of-the-finger deliverances.

But how would our lives be different if we viewed pain as a gift-an invitation for the most intimate relationship with our majestic God? If we recognized that His gift, wrapped in suffering, was a treasured glimpse into His mysteries, His glory, His grace? A divine appointment. The difficulties become easier when we see through His eyes-that we are privileged recipients of the promise of His presence. Suffering beckons us to embrace Him a little tighter… to cling to Him… to know Him.

Oswald Chambers said, “If God has made your cup sweet, drink it with grace; or even if He has made it bitter, drink it in communion with Him. If the providential will of God means a hard and difficult time for you, go through it.” Go through it. Go through it with Him.

Pain is our gateway to an intimate walk with a holy God (who has every reason to throw us out of His presence). To discover a life of wonder as we commune with Him. To even welcome the difficulties as well as the times of ease. I’m not there yet. When difficulties shake my life, I’m hiding, not welcoming. Give me the cleft of the rock. Where can I find His pinions? Does anyone know the way to His bulwarks? That’s where you’ll find me when pain hits. And I’m certainly not singing for joy. I’m usually begging for His help, whining for His intervention, and crying for relief. 

And He hears. He assures us that our tears are precious to Him. He keeps them in His bottle. (Wonder what He plans to do with our flask of sorrows.) The tears represent moments of our lives that only He can explain, when we presented before Him the surrender of our hearts, the sacrifice of our souls, in response to His gift of pain. Only He knows the worth of the gift, and only He knows the value of our offerings.

One advantage of being a football fan is that I get plenty of opportunities to partake of the wisdom of the sports analysts. Defensive schemes that don’t work and how to incorporate dink-and-dunk into the offensive plan. The nickel, three-four, four-three, crossing routes, finding the seam-the-crease-or-whatever discussions. But a few Sundays ago, when the Cowboys’ performance was dismal at best, I heard a nugget from Darryl “Moose” Johnston… probably borrowed from a preacher. “Adversity doesn’t build character, it reveals character.”

Some of us-the character-builder advocates-live our lives with the attitude that the harder life is, the better off we’ll be. The folks who herald this philosophy (cranky relatives and difficult bosses) often take it a step further. The harder I make life for everyone else, the better off they’ll be. They’ll thank me in the long run. And some of us adopt the attitude of embracing adversity in an attempt to attach some meaning to our pain.

Moose had it right-adversity reveals character. When things get tough, we find out what we’re made of, and it usually isn’t pretty. The unveiling almost always reveals depravity. Failings. Weak-heartedness and selfish motives. Sin. Less-than-admirable character.

But Moose also had it wrong. Adversity builds character, too. The Bible tells us that trials come to produce endurance. Consider Peter-adversity built, as well as revealed, his character. We see his weakness as he denies Christ, and we witness the new and improved Peter after going through his betrayal of the One he claimed to love. The testing produced an endurance that enabled Peter to become a leader in the early church-to display “the rock” of the profession of faith in Christ to a clueless world. Peter’s former failure launched his deep motivation to rely on Christ-he knew how far he could fall without clinging to Jesus.

When Moose made his sage comment during that first quarter football commentary, he left out some important points that most preachers would’ve emphasized. Hard times reveal our need for God. Sometimes we don’t turn to Him until our options are gone and He’s all that’s left. Difficulties also give God the opportunity to reveal Himself as a faithful Caregiver to His needy children, to woo us into a deeper intimacy with Him, and to give us a glimpse into the mystery of His ways. Adversity allows us to experience the deliverance of our majestic, mighty God.

Ah, the things we learn watching football.

(James 1, 1 Peter 1:6-9).