Monday, May 28, 2012

Grace and Truth

        Recently, I participated in a Bible study entitled "Grace and Truth" based on the verse from John 1:14 - "The Word became flesh and took up residence among us. We observed His glory, the glory as the One and Only Son of the Father, full of grace and truth."   Jesus represents total 'grace', the sacrificial, forgiving love and endless mercy of the Father, as well as 'truth', the impossibly high standards of the law: "be ye perfect, therefore, as your Heavenly Father is perfect" (Matthew 5:48). Wow! What a huge chasm separates these 2 concepts!   At times, I can feel myself scaling the cliffs of grace; other times, I'm drowning in the deep waters of truth.
    This past year, Jim and I have been running together several times a week and working on memorizing Scriptures while we run.   Of course, I'm the one that struggles with actually putting one foot in front of the other instead of just passing out on the trail!   So, we came up with the great idea of memorizing verses about running (surely it couldn't hurt!).  Currently, we're working on Hebrews 12:1-2, "let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith."  The more we talked and thought about that verse, the more it felt like a lifeboat in those floodwaters of truth!  Yes, I am called to a high standard that I continually fail to reach, but my Savior, full of grace and truth, is not only the origin of my faith but, also, the One who promises to bring it to full maturity! Unfortunately, though, just like the Apostle Peter, I have a hard time keeping my 'eyes fixed on Jesus', especially when the giant waves of life are surging over me. . . but, I can just imagine Him reaching down His hand, like a father reaching for his little child, and gently pulling me back to His boat of grace!
    As I continue to ponder these verses, I'm struck again with the need for honesty. If I'm not honest in my own reflections of myself, my sins, and my constant failure to be 'perfect' or 'sweet' or 'good' or any other self-affirming adjective you might choose, where is the need for grace? And, if I'm not aware of my own desperate need for grace, how can I manifest grace to others who are just as desperate?   How do I sit with others, screaming at God in pain and grief, and offer love and grace? How do I, without judgment, listen to a friend's struggle with doubt and fear?   Growing up in the Bible Belt, I was comfortable with the blacks and whites of right and wrong.   Now, I'm not so sure. . . I'm a flawed, broken crayon living in a box filled with countless broken colors desperate for a touch from the Great Physician.   And, if God is glorified when we "accept each other just as Christ has accepted you" (Romans 15:7), then who am I to argue?  Thank God, for grace and truth!

Friday, May 25, 2012

Faces

  
   I've been thinking a lot about honesty lately . . . maybe because I'm realizing that I'm not very good at it. Growing up, the adjective I remember most often used to describe me was "sweet". Yes, I was that "sweet" girl . . . smile nicely, be polite, follow the rules, help others . . . in public.
   I grew up, got married, had beautiful children, watched as one suffered with leukemia, and then buried my little girl. And, I still tried to put on my sweet face before marching out into the world. The drive home alone in my car was when the sobs and screams at God would force their way out from my soul. And, the shower before bedtime was a great place for silent tears.
      Two years later, I had a miscarriage and lost my much-wanted baby. The sweet face got lost in the anger. Rather than reveal the monster hiding within, though, I withdrew from life, rarely went to church, wouldn't answer the door, and threw unread Helen Steiner Rice cards in the trash. When I was forced to leave the house, I found a different mask to wear . . .maybe it was a little like the Phantom of the Opera . . . one that would stoically conceal the gruesomely scarred and bleeding tissue underneath.  Even with my mask on, though, people would see me coming and would turn away to avoid catching a glimpse of my pain.  Finally, every week, Tuesday would come, and I drove to our Compassionate Friends bereavement group.  I sat down with about twenty other people, and we all took our masks off, enjoying the feel of cool, fresh honesty against our damaged spirits.  Slowly, gradually, the healing came.
      Sometimes, I wonder how much quicker my grief could have diminished if I had learned the value of honesty sooner.  Has my family suffered unduly because I was not willing to let the horror and intensity of my pain be exposed?  I chose hiding and suffering silently over being real with my doubts, depression, and fear, and I lost the opportunity to be genuine before my children, my family, and my church.  "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.  Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known" (1 Cor. 13:12).  I'm old now, tired of trying on different faces, ready to start knowing and being fully known.  Better late than never?




Thursday, May 17, 2012

Questions, questions, . . .

   "And how many children do you have?"  Simple, innocent question . . . unless you've buried a child.  Then, what do you say? 
   The first time after Allison died that I heard that question, I was stunned and speechless.  I have two kids; I have two beautiful daughters . . .so, I finally said "two".  And, of course, people who ask that question don't really know you, so the next question is, "Oh, that's nice.  How old are they?"  Now, it's really tricky.  "Well, my daughter, Bethany, is seven, and my other daughter died recently and is in heaven."  Next come the embarrassed, pained expressions accompanied by apologies . . . and I end up reassuring the questioner that it's okay (even though I'm not)! 
   After experiencing several similar exchanges, I came up with a planned response.   I would never imply that Allison hadn't existed; I could never say that I only had one child, but sharing the loss of my precious child with someone who couldn't handle it felt a little like "casting my pearls before swine". So, if the questioner was someone with whom I expected to have a friendship or working relationship, I would tell her that I had two children and then share a little of Allison's story; otherwise, I would simply reply, "I have a seven year old daughter."  Now, over 20 years later, I easily respond with a little about my beautiful daughter and her precious family and my talented son, but Allison is never far from my mind.
   "How do you do it?"  Now, that's a question I'll never understand, seeing as how I didn't exactly have a choice.  What's the only alternative to surviving, because that's about all I managed to do for a few years after Allison died?  Now, I can testify to the grace of God and patience of family and friends, but when the pain of loss was fresh, I had no answer to that question.
   "How are you?'"  "Why do we always answer 'fine' to that question?  We lie because we don't want to burden people; then, in the quiet of the night, we sob," a dear friend texted me last night.  I don't have an answer for that one, either.  But, I do know that we need at least one person in this life that can truly walk with us and hear all the pain, confusion, anger, and grief jumbled inside (and I highly recommend good grief support groups)! 
   What kind of questions do you struggle with?
 

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Living in a daycare kinda world

   My son likes to tell me, "Mom, you're such a preschool teacher!".  Usually, it's because I've done or said something goofy, but I don't mind. . .I love being a preschool teacher!  And I love spending time with children, learning from them, listening to them.  Recently, I was struck by some of the things Jesus said about children: "unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matt. 18:3), and I started thinking about what 'being like little children' means. 
   One of the characteristics of very young children is 'object permanence', the idea that objects and people continue to exist even when they cannot be seen.  Jim was in his last year of college and I was working full-time when Bethany was born.  It broke my heart to see her little tears when I had to leave her in the daycare.  Despite my assurances that I would return and take her home to her loving family, she continued to cry, not able to comprehend the truth of my words.
   Is that the way God is with us?  He sent Jesus to show us the true Kingdom and to remind us, "Child, don't let your heart be troubled.  I'm returning for you, and I'm taking you home to your loving family."  But I get so wrapped up in my grief, in my busyness, in my life, that I forget or maybe I just can't comprehend.  In The Jesus I Never Knew, Philip Yancey says, "Jesus' first coming did not solve the problems of planet earth, rather it presented a vision of God's Kingdom to help break the earthly spell of delusion."
   So, I'm here, living in this daycare kinda world, working hard, trying to do the right thing, trying to keep my eyes and my hope fixed on Jesus.  And, my little Allison has already been picked up and is living in the reality of Heaven!  So glad that I'll be seeing her again!