Life has been a whirlwind in the last month or two. Filled with so many good things, certainly! A sweet family reunion, time spent in His creation and a couple of amazing youth mini$try trips, all interspersed with work and time with dear friends. Yes, so many good things.
In the last week, however, after the conclusion of all those amazing events, my mind has begun to look ahead toward the quickly-approaching end of life as I know it, and the sheer amount of logistical/spiritual/emotional/financial preparation that will be necessary in the coming 3 ½ months has begun to overwhelm me. Added to all of that is my resistance to change and my annoyance at having to deal with the inconvenience of a move that will happen before I had planned.
It has become clear to me this morning, as I write this and spend time with the Savior of the World and the One Who has never left – and will never leave – my side, that I have done a fine job of not surrendering my every moment to Him Who is completely trustworthy.
A few thoughts on the matter:
1. Oswald Chambers, in My Utmost for His Highest (July 28), asks, “What is my vision of G0d’s purpose for me? Whatever it may be, His purpose is for me to depend on Him and on His power now. If I can stay calm, faithful, and unconfused while in the middle of the turmoil of life, the goal of the purpose of God is being accomplished in me…. What He desires for me is that I see “Him walking on the sea” (Mark 6:49) with no shore, no success, nor goal in sight, but simply having the absolute certainty that everything is all right because I see “him walking on the sea.” It is the process, not the outcome, that is glorifying to G0d.”
2. I was created FOR HIM. Not for myself. “You are not your own.” (1 Corinthians 6:19) This is not a bad thing, nor a restrictive thing! It is quite possibly the most freeing truth we, as believers, may ever know!
3. . This world will pass away. Says so in 1 John 2:17 and elsewhere. It is not for me, then, to hold on so tightly to the world, or to give the things of the world (including relationships, work, mini$tries) so much importance that I begin to worry about them as they slip from my grasp. It is only for me to know God and to love Him and to delight in Him.
4. “Find rest, O my soul, in G0d alone; my hope comes from Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will not be shaken. My salvation and my honor depend on G0d; He is my mighty rock, my refuge. Trust in Him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to Him, for G0d is our refuge.” (Psalm 62: 5-8)
We are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. (James 4:14)
This truth has been proven to me again and again in the last two weeks. Proven by the loss of a co-worker and friend, Ruth Bowen. Proven by the loss of a wonderful man of God and the father of one of my dear middle school girls, John Kelly. Proven by a snowboarding accident that resulted in a brain injury of one of my dear friends, Beth Born. Proven as I gently washed the face and removed the lines from the body of a woman who had just died in the hospital, who a sliver of time earlier had been speaking and smiling and living.
When people around us pass away or devastating accidents occur to people close to us, our minds often recount our last interactions with them. I remember talking about church and spiritual struggles with Ruth in the hallway by the nurse’s station during one of the many weekends we worked together. I remember talking with John when he picked up Shea after Girls Group. I remember sharing the delight of snowboarding and a hug with Beth right before I left the mountain early, right before she slammed into a tree. I remember the reports of the beautiful smile and laughter of the woman in the hospital now lying in a grave.
It is stunningly clear: we are a mist.
The waves of mourning come for those of us remaining in this foreign land. A constant deluge for a time. Then in ebbs and flows. But rarely do the waves altogether cease. Rarely does the ripple flatline.
But the pain is only allotted to us, as visitors of this earth and runners of this life race, until we have reached the goal (Philippians 3). And this will be a crazy joyous day, just sayin.
A few thoughts regarding this thing we humans call death:
1.In C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters, two devils seek to weaken a new Christian. One of them, the senior devil, warns the other:
“ They, of course, do tend to regard death as the prime evil, and survival as the greatest good. But that is because we have taught them to do so.... The long, dull, monotonous years of middle-aged prosperity or middle-aged adversity are excellent campaigning weather. You see, it is so hard for these creatures to persevere…. The truth is that the Enemy, having oddly destined these mere animals to life in His own eternal world, has guarded them pretty effectively from the danger of feeling at home anywhere else.” (chapter 28)
2.In Phillipians, the book known as the epistle of joy, Paul says so very clearly, “I want to know Christ and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in His sufferings, becoming like Him in death.” But don’t end there. Why in the world would Paul want to suffer? “To attain to the resurrection from the dead.”
3.John 16:33 – “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."
And so we continue to suffer. Pain – in countless ways – continues to scald us and wash over us. But not for long, people. Not for long. J
I was on a plane today sitting next to a dear, elderly woman - probably in her 80's - who was flying to Seattle to visit some of her grandchildren. We talked for awhile of life and family and traveling and her embarrassment about getting to the point of needing to use a wheelchair. And then we noticed a small boy about 2 years old sitting 2 rows ahead of us.
The woman started smiling at him, and his eyes lit up, instantly enthralled. She contorted her face into all sorts of shapes, widening and squinting her aged eyes, pursing her worn lips, blowing her wrinkled cheeks out, and scrunching her weathered nose - all for the sake of connecting with this small, 2 year old boy. And he loved every minute of it. His look of interest turned into a smile, which soon transformed into giggles of glee.
The bonding of an elderly, gentle woman getting nearer and nearer to leaving this earth with a young boy who had just recently entered it. What a precious sight!
Katelin and I had just learned to knit and crochet from two brothers in their 50’s, Chris and RJ. They frequently sold their needlework wares at the Saturday market and also taught knitting and crocheting “classes” to anyone on the street who had an interest in learning the art along with the desire to listen to their ceaseless banter. Check and check: we were in. After spending some time talking about how they got their starts in the realm of needlework, their families, their past, and working clumsily to create a few rows of knitting, then purling, then knitting, we decided to offer our gratitude for the training and the conversation and move on to be blessed by other homeless men and women of downtown Portland.
We got up and moved to the outer ring of the gathering that was taking place under the Burnside Bridge, looking for people who seemed lonely or available. Suddenly a man approached Katelin and me, wearing 3 coats on a warm September evening and walking with a slight limp and a hooked cane.
In a rough, accusatory voice, he dryly stated, “Let me guess. You guys are volunteers.”
“Yep,” I hesitantly replied, not knowing where this conversation was headed. We had driven the two hours down from Olympia to have the privilege of being a part of the weekly Thursday evening event called “Nightstrike,” put on by Bridgetown Ministries. Dinner was being served, clothes and sleeping bags distributed, popcorn popped, hair cut, feet washed, nails cleaned and filed, litter picked up, and prayers and encouragement offered.
The man continued, “Let me tell you why it’s wrong that I knew you were volunteers just by the way you looked. It’s because of this” – he held up his cane – “that I go into coffee shops and other places and they refuse to serve me, all because of the way I look.” He shook his cane back and forth in emphasis. Before I could respond, he blurted, “so right now, I need 2 straight up dollars to get on a bus.”
My mind struggling to follow the seeming spin in conversation, I replied, “I’m sorry. I don’t have any cash on me at all.” The truth. But another wrong answer in this man’s eyes. “This is the problem with you volunteers. You don’t have cash because all you carry is plastic. Well, I had to earn my way in this life after Vietnam, and you all” – he waved his creased, life-worn hand at us – “get your education and credit cards and everything else given to you by your parents. You don’t have to work for it at all. Now right now, I need two straight up dollars so I can get myself a beer.”
“Not a bus ticket,” I stated.
“Of course not a bus ticket. And of course I wasn’t going to ask for money for a beer because you wouldn’t have given it to me. Let me tell you something, it’s not your business what I spend my money on. I need it, and that’s all you should care about. Now I know you know people here who have some cash, so go ask one of them for a couple of straight up dollars.”
This man had a tough exterior. Really tough. But I wanted to get deeper than the exterior. What was going on in this man’s life that made him so coarse and angry. Not responding directly to his plea for beer money, I held out my hand and offered, “My name’s Kristin, and this is Katelin.”
Hesitantly, he shook my hand and said simply, “Wes.”
“Hi Wes,” I said. And somewhat randomly, yet cutting straight to the point, I continued, “Thank you for serving in the military. Can you share your story about Vietnam?”
His face darkened and he shook his head. “No. And don’t thank me. There’s not a place in Heaven for me because of what I did there, so don’t thank me. I’m not worthy of it.”
My heart rate increased because of the untruthfulness of his comment. “No,” I said, “no matter what you did there, you can be free from that. You can be forgiv….” “No,” he cut me off forcefully, “there’s not a place in heaven for me!” Perhaps he had already heard about the forgiveness offered by Christ’s death. Perhaps he even believed it for other people. But the burden he was carrying would not allow him to believe that his own sins were covered by the death of Christ.
I pressed him, perhaps foolishly. But not willing to remain shallow, I urged, “Tell me your story.”
His already angry demeanor worsened, and his voice became louder and louder throughout his account, but he willingly shared.
“In Vietnam, they used to drop bags of candy from the air for the children, bags that looked something like this.” He held up his half-eaten sack of popcorn.“Then one day, a very small girl” – he held his hand up a little below his waist - “came up to us and stuck one of the candy bags out toward us.” Wes suddenly shoved his bag of popcorn into my sternum, knocking me backward a bit. I tried to suppress my surprise, and willing him to continue, I held my stance and my gaze. By then, his voice was loud, and he was making emphatic hand gestures.
“Except that there wasn’t candy in the bag. There was a bomb. This little girl’s parents had sent her over to us to blow herself up. I watched as my friend and the girl exploded, and then I started firing at anything that moved. I killed men and women and children. And babies. Even babies who had bottles in their mouths. I killed them. When the bomb exploded, I just started shooting everything.”
I looked for emotion on his face and found hardness. My heart broke for this man of 61 years. His actions during a horrible war had left him with an unbearable burden, and he had carried this burden for decades. I wanted so badly for him to find freedom, a deeper freedom than he could have ever imagined fighting for. If only he would realize that no matter what he had done, those things could be forgiven by a God who had already paid the debt for those actions.
Our conversation ended with Wes backing away into the crowd, his hand waving in anger and guilt, continuing to adamantly proclaim that there was no place in heaven for him, refusing to listen to words of Truth.
I do not know what it is like to fight a thankless war, take part in a killing spree in the name of self-preservation, and then live under such an agonizing weight of guilt for 40 years. But please pray for softening. Pray for release. For freedom for all who are yet unwilling to accept the definitive sacrifice that Christ gave. Please pray for Wes.
Yesterday I had the privilege of hanging out with my long-time friend, Suzanne. We spent the day in the Mount St. Helens area, hiking the entire length of the 2+ mile long Ape Cave and checking out the St. Helens area. It was beautiful and full of wildflowers, and it was wonderful to catch up with Suzanne again!!
Touching the end
Suz told me to frolic among the wildflowers. So here I am, frolicking... ;)
Right before descending into "The Crawl," a 35 foot lava tunnel formed by three interconnecting tree molds
