The Truth About Today

I was going to write a cheery post about how the sun is shining off of the snow in our yard, there are men outside shooting nice warm insulation into our walls, and THAT DOG is dozing on the couch next to me.  You know, an "All is right with the world, at least in this moment" post.  Because that's what I want it to be.

But the rest of the picture is that as I sit here next to THAT DOG, I'm writing.  Working on what I hope will be a new book about all of the things that have happened over the past couple of years.  Life has changed in ways we never saw coming (as Steve said to me one night, "Thank God you don't write fiction...if this stuff wasn't true, it would be unbelievable.")  I'm taking the advice I give writing students, wrestling the important scenes onto the page without worrying about how they'll all fit together later. And in this, I'm forced to face how much is at risk in our lives right now, and how much has been lost already.

I forget that in order to tell stories of how miraculously God came through, I have to start with stories of being face down in the mud, wondering what the hell happened, in desperate need of a miracle.  Those scenes aren't fun to write.  Nor are the ones about not knowing what will come next, or admitting how afraid we are sometimes, and how angry. These tough scenes aren't the whole story, of course. But there is no story without them.

It's worth it, I've learned: both the real-life cleaning off the mud with God, and the stress of reliving it all as I write.  But wow, does it make it difficult to notice the sun shining off the snow in our yard, or how THAT DOG is still sleeping next to me, happy as she can be.

I guess this is the both/and of life right now, this place where the story isn't finished, where there are still so many scenes to be lived before they can be written.  It reminds me to pray for those future scenes, to believe God's promise that as many twists and turns as there are in this road, in some mysterious way it will lead us to a good ending.

And even as I write this blog, it makes me think of the anguished words of a struggling father in the Gospel of Mark who came to Jesus needing help for his son. He said, "If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us."  Which is how I feel so much of the time, praying like I'm begging, unsure if it will make a difference.

Jesus' response to the man is interesting.  ""If you can?"" he asks. I can't decide if Jesus' tone is sarcastic or merely incredulous here, but whatever, he's making it clear that the dad is missing something important.   "Everything is possible," Jesus says, "for one who believes."

To which the father exclaims, "I do believe! Help my unbelief!"

That's me today.  That's what I'm writing, trusting that the today's scene is not the end of the story, that everything is possible for one who believes. Even if that one is me.

What To Do With Empty Space

"Blessed is she who has believed that what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished!" - Luke 1:45

I'm thinking about promises this morning. Conceptually, that is -- I've not yet progressed to specifics.

At church yesterday, the sermon was on joy. The pastor noted how much of our joy is anticipatory: we feel joy when we get great Celtics tickets, even though it's weeks before tip-off and we have no idea how the game will go.  He described the joy he felt in waiting at the alter for his bride, even though he didn't know how their marriage would unfold. What we have in these moments, he said, is the promise of something we're excited to witness and be part of.  And we have joy in those promises.

I have all kinds of promises from God, both the ones in the Bible and the personal ones He whispers in my ear.  It's hard to believe these promises sometimes. (I tend to have more confidence that the Celtics will show up and play than I do that God will.)

And so I wonder: What would it look like for me to let myself be filled with the joy that comes from anticipating God's promises?  Over the years, I've gotten rather "realistic," as the ways I can imagine God coming through have blown by.  It feels more responsible to pursue acceptance instead, acknowledging that what I see today is the life God has given me, and if I can't find joy in that then I'm a faith failure.

What I love about yesterday's sermon is that it gives me a Biblical way out of this messy patch of lies. The Bible doesn't tell us to accept our sorry plight, or force ourselves to be happy.  Instead, it says, "LOOK AT ALL THESE PROMISES!" and suggests that we believe, and let anticipation of what God is rolling our way cause us to wiggle with joy, like little kids on Christmas Eve.  Just because we don't know how Santa will get those giant presents down the chimney does't mean he won't :)

As we were driving to school this morning, Princess Peach and I were listening to the Ryanhood song, I Didn't Put Anything Into Your Place (listen here).  She was singing along in the backseat, while I was navigating a traffic circle and thinking about how the lyrics remind me of Advent: the struggle to wait and hold the space for God's promises, rather than filling it up with other things.

Some drink in coffee and some think of shopping
Some get new lovers and some get new drugs
I wrote you to say that it must have been grace
I didn't put anything into your place

This is my prayer today:

Dear God, help me anticipate Your promises. Help me feel joy as I trust that the holes in my life will be filled with Your good gifts, and resist the urge to fill the space with placeholders. 

The Fault In Our Stars

Last night I stayed up a bit too late finishing this book. It's a love story between two teenagers who have cancer.  The narrator, Hazel, is fairly certain she'll die in the near future. She meets a boy, Augustus, at a support group meeting. They fall in love, and John Green somehow writes their story in a way that makes you feel like you're right there, a teenager again, watching these lives unfold.

When I turned the last page, I just sat there on the couch, staring at the back cover. I wanted to stretch out that moment, to stay with these characters a bit and think about what had happened.

I realized: as much as this is a story about dying...and living...it's mostly a story about waiting (which makes it perfect for Advent).  For one small example: it was weird for me to imagine what it would be like to wait for a boy to contact you when you don't know how many days you have left to live.

Without giving the story away (it's too good...you should read it), one of the most profound things the author explores is the idea of legacy: what we long for when we consider how (or if) people will remember us.  Augustus longs to be bold and heroic, to make his days count for something public and significant.  Whereas Hazel is more pragmatic about how cancer has made her world smaller-- her parents, one friend who tries to stay in touch and talk about normal things like shopping for shoes, Augustus--but she seems to have made peace that this is her life, and her role is to do the best she can within that.  That would be her legacy, and that would be enough.

I've always been more of an Augustus than a Hazel.  There's a line in Nichole Nordeman's song, Legacy, that gets me every time.  She asks God, "Did I point to You enough to make a mark on things?"  



How to measure such a question?

It makes me realize that much of the waiting I do is for opportunities: to point to God, to love someone or something in a way that makes a difference. And most of these moments aren't hugely heroic. They're small, and can fly by without me noticing if I don't pay attention.

Paying attention is just another word for waiting.

I tend to think of "waiting" as what we do before things get better. This book makes me think about all the waiting we do for the chance to be part of the solution, rather than rushing in, or walking away because things didn't work out in my timing.

If you're looking for an unusual way into Advent, try this book. (Here's a heartfelt review by novelist Lev Grossman if you're still on the fence). It gave much-needed depth and nuance to my understanding of what I (and we) are waiting for.