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.

To Change, or Not to Change? (It's Not Even a Question)

Yesterday I read a blog post from author Susan Isaacs where she considered a question she'd heard at a conference:  Where will you be in one year, three years, five years if you don't change anything?"

She shared her answer re: art, and how, if she changed nothing, she'd be exactly where she was that day, not having produced anything new, all of the ideas percolating in her heart and mind still unrealized. She shared how this pushed her to move forward and accomplish a HUGE artistic feat - inspiring stuff :)

The question stuck with me. At a certain point I realized that I was considering it not just as a writer, but across the larger span of my life. What I found surprised me.

Let me preface by saying, I've seen a lot of change. Steve and I are well-paired in that we're both pretty comfortable with risk, and so whether we put much intention into it or not, our life looks remarkably different year-to-year, even as the infrastructure (faith in Jesus, marriage to each other, cleaning up after THAT DOG's various misadventures) stays the same.

In this, I've learned:

1. There are some changes I control.  For example, whether I write, clean up the house, work out, reach out to friends, or take THAT DOG for a real walk rather than just another tour of the backyard. And some I do not.  Such as when I met my husband, if we have children, how well my books sell, or what my hair looks like on any given day (you'd think I'd have some control there, but no.)  So when I think about initiating change, I'm limited to group one. I've tried a bunch of times to force change in the second group and failed. (But found material for 2/going-on-3 memoirs, so not a total loss!)

2.  Change finds me. I don't have to hunt for it. As I think about where my life will be in one/three/five years if I don't change a thing, here's what I see:  I may not have finished any of the book projects on my laptop, which is sad.  But still, my life will look nothing like it does today, because I'm not the only player in this drama (or comedy) of life.  There are intervening factors, choices by other people, phone calls that come out of nowhere and reroute everything.  There's God.  He has a plan, and while I think I know the details, I don't.

What does this mean in terms of Advent?  Nothing, really.  Or maybe this: We think we know what we're waiting for...but we don't, not entirely.  We see pieces of the salvation we need: artistic motivation, romantic turnaround, family fulfillment, professional breakthrough (a trash can that will keep a dog out of the garbage once and for all...)  And yet God has more in store.  I'm excited about that possibility.  And it feels so vast and untamed that I can pray into it with boldness, having no clue at all what I'm asking for.

This thought, just now: What if bolder prayers are a bigger change-maker than I've considered?

Hmm...

Some Embarrassing Thoughts on Angels

We decorated for Christmas this year.  It's been awhile since we've done that - Steve and I typically celebrate the holiday at family members' houses, availing ourselves of their trees and tinsel.  But this year we went all out.

What surprised me as I looked around yesterday at our newly festooned living room was the prominence of angels.  With no specific intention on our part, there are angels everywhere.  And in that, I sensed God trying to tell me something.

Now, I wish I could say that the Lord led me to the Christmas story in the gospel of Luke, and I was awash in wonder at the miracle of the virgin birth.  But alas, no.

Instead (and perhaps because He knows me so well) God pointed me to a book. It's a paperback novel I've read at least four times, because it describes the battle between good and evil in a way that helps me believe.

The book is called This Present Darkness by Frank Perretti.  I first read it a the behest of a friend. She's a numbers person who never raves about books. So when she said, "You HAVE to read this," I did.  The prose is a little...unsophisticated.  But once I stopped being a writing snob, the plot swept me up in a story that felt very real, detailing a world where the people in power who are charged with looking out for others are corrupt, knowingly cooperating with evil, and hurting everyone they're supposed to be helping. In the midst of this, the prayers of the little people--the powerless--feel futile.  And yet a few  pray anyway, because that's the only thing they can do.

And in that, here's what Perretti shows us:  How their prayers summon angels.  Not sweet old-lady angels with harps and rhyming promises about sitting on your shoulder, but big fighting angels ready to deliver God's message, take down ugly spirits with their swords, and change things, miraculously, in the way that we hope for when we pray, but don't quite believe is possible.  (Sort of like Touched by an Angel...only with weapons!)

THAT is a Christmas message I can get excited about.

I doubt that things work exactly the way Perretti depicts in his novels. But I think he's onto something, offering a glimpse of the truth that invites us closer to God--to ask for more insight, more heavenly help, more belief that what is happening is not limited to what we can see.

That seems like an Advent-y kind of place to be.

My prayer today: Dear God, help me believe in Your angels. Help me trust that You are working in places I cannot see, bringing good I cannot anticipate, winning battles I'd give up on if left to my own devices.  Thank You for not leaving me to my own devices. I believe - help my unbelief. In Jesus' name, Amen.

Whatever

That Harry Connick Jr. movie insists that Hope Floats, and for the most part, I agree. But there are seasons in life where no matter how stubbornly buoyant my hope has been in the past, a sharp pointy object comes along and punctures it. Then hope is in pieces all over the pond, floating away.

On most spiritual paths I've walked, there is the belief (sometimes spoken, often not) that my hope is my responsibility. If it gets stabbed, shot, or stepped on, it's my fault for not taking better care of it. And it's up to me to find all the pieces and cobble it back together, STAT.

This is especially difficult in church settings, where my failure as hope's babysitter doesn't just let down some vague force or the universe, but God Himself.  Yikes. Better get that special hope glue, or rush to the hope store and ask for a new line of credit...  Because the only think worse than being hopeless is being hopeless and disappointing God.

And yet with all that, there's one thing worse.  I call it Whatever.  Meaning, I'm so numb that I've reverted to neutral, waiting to see what happens, dealing with life as it comes at me, reacting rather than acting (and yes, I think hope is an action).

Whatever feels safe, but it's not.  It's evil, hidden in a Slanket, or Pajama Jeans.

The antidote to Whatever's poison is asking God for help. Prayer. Not in certain special words, but honest ones.  One of my favorite grim passages in the Bible is this letter the Apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians, where he admits how flat-out lousy life has been:

"We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about the troubles we experienced in the province of Asia.  We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired of life itself.  Indeed, we felt we had received the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead.  He has delivered us from such deadly peril, and he will deliver us again. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us, as you help us by your prayers. Then many will give thanks on our behalf for the gracious favor granted us in answer to the prayers of many."  (2 Corinthians 1:8-11.  Read the full chapter here.)

Jesus is the answer to our despair. I don't get it, but I believe it is true. We reach out to Jesus via prayer. Prayer is the alternative to Whatever.

When I can't pray, I ask someone else to pray for me. I wonder if there isn't power in this act of asking...even if the person wanders off and forgets all about me, I suspect that God treats the asking someone else just as if I'd gone ahead and asked Him.  (But that's just my theory.)

Today, instead of hiding under yards of fleece on the sofa, I'm going to pray:  Dear Jesus, please repair my hope. Make it float. And then steer it, so it lands somewhere good and solid and true.  Thank You. Amen.