The Patience In Between

It’s times like these, I wish I were a poet.

That the hundred thousand thoughts on my heart could succinctly transform themselves into a dozen or so lines on a page. A cathartic way to juxtapose the beauty and the pain of the things I see and feel every day.

This thought has been mulling around in my mind for quite some time. Not quite ready to land. But today seems fitting. On this misty winter day, when Valentine’s and Ash Wednesday converge.

But this is not a post about Valentine’s Day or about Lent.

Two Sundays ago I said goodbye to the church that has been my home for the last ten years. It astounds me that I’ve lived in my neighborhood that long. I can close my eyes and am instantly transported back in time. Memories of both the plentiful and the scarce.

My decision to leave was not made lightly. It was a long time coming, really. A mixture of burn-out and grief.

The burn-out, first. I have this fault. My love-language is service. And when I am where I am supposed to be, I serve. . . to a fault. Even when I begin to sense that I am not where I am supposed to be any longer, I keep going. Week after week, day after day. What began as love, seeped into duty. Through the gentle guidance of friends, I finally realized this was a leap God was indeed nudging me towards.

And grief. It’s such a strange thing to grieve that which was. Even if it wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine, the gap between a once full community and the now simple few is great indeed. As I walked out the doors for the last time, I realized that grief had been meeting me at those doors for a very long time. A sense of relief washed over me. Not giddy relief, or even enough to bring a smile. But it was a clear lifting of a burden. Of routine service offered seemingly in a vacuum. Of clung-to memories and faded faith.

When I first made the decision to step down from my roles at church and find a new place to worship, I imagined what the time after would be like. A time of re-connecting with God in a meaningful way, without the distractions of “making Sunday happen.” A time of refreshment, connecting with a new church. But it turns out I need a little bit more time to heal. Time for my heart to catch up with my mind.

For with this courageous step, I am again left with a gap. It is a fragile place between that which was, and that which will come. Some may find that exciting, but for me, it is a scary place to be. Blogger Addie Zierman puts it this way:

The space between two solid landscapes feels like water, and sometimes you feel like you’re being baptized, and sometimes you feel like you’re drowning, and it’s all just very hard to pin down.

So where does the beauty come in?

Another water analogy: I feel like a little child near the sea-shore. Gently collecting stones in my pocket to take back home. Some days, the beach is calm and serene. I am at peace. Some days, the waves are crashing too high to get near the smooth small stones. And I must stand back and wait. Both scenes hold beauty. But one is far easier than the other.

I want to plunge ahead and gather so much from this season, but I am at the mercy of my own emotional short-comings and mental wellness. And when that is not enough to hinder, sin always has a way of creeping in.

If, like Aslan, Jesus says to my soul, “Courage, dear heart,” why am I constantly stumbling against my own anxiety and fear? I think patience plays a part. I yearn to overcome these hurdles in one fell-swoop. But that is not how it works. Like faith, the casting out of fear is a journey.

Last week I began listening to the audiobook of Hannah Hurnard’s, Hinds’ Feet in High Places. It is a tenderly simple allegory of the faith journey, yet each time I listen I am pierced by its profoundness. The main character is named Much Afraid. I can equate with that. For her journey, the Shepherd gives her two seasoned companions: Sorrow and Suffering. At such names, it is easy to recoil, but I have learned, companions such as these are indeed gifts from the Lord. Sorrow and suffering can be such helpful companions on the ups and downs of valley roads.

I am slowly seeing this: each new encounter with sorrow and suffering has a way of shedding layers of fear and replacing them with the certainty of Christ. But it takes patience. For,

“the Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance."
(2 Peter 3:9)

If I were a poet, would this lesson be any easier?

"The Valleys are His"

The last time I posted, I wrote about courage. Well, you’ll never guess what was attacked by the devil after that! That’s right, my courage. Instead of boldness and confidence, my weeks were clouded by anxiety and fear. And it really shook me. I am sensitive to a lot of things, and my own unease is high on the list. As my fingers fall to writing these reflections, a part of me feels like I’ve come a long way. But then I look at the past weeks and I see how difficult it is for application to sink in. It makes me feel two-faced and faithless; unequipped and weak.

So I stopped typing. I literally wrote the above paragraph and then left it sitting there with lots of blank space beneath it. It wasn’t until 11 o’clock last Sunday night that I felt I had something more to share. And the irony of it: it’s about how unworthy I ultimately am, in all of this.

I’d already been in bed for a half hour. But thoughts kept nagging at my brain. So I got up and began typing as quickly as I could by the light of my laptop screen (I’m not a great typist—there were lots of mistakes). If I’ve learned nothing else: when the inspiration hits, write it down.

I used to really love worship music. Summer camp was a spiritual high as we sang songs that were buoyant with praise and expectation; the early years of attending a church that sang modern music made me feel vocally connected to God. But in recent years, and in recent months especially, these cheerful songs have rubbed me the wrong way. Give me a good somber hymn, or at least a modern version of one. This trend parallels my spiritual appetite as well. As I follow blogs and look at the books on my to-read list, I don’t gravitate towards the ones that are too uplifting or cheery. I find comfort and relatability in the struggles, suffering, and yearnings of those who have walked ahead of me.

So on Sunday morning, when the congregation began singing a children’s song before the little ones were dismissed for Sunday School, I had quite an epiphany. The words are simple enough: My God is so Big. So strong and so mighty. There’s nothing my God cannot do. But then the next part hit hard: The mountains are His, the valleys are His, the stars are His handiwork too.

The mountains are His. The valleys are His. The highs are His. The lows are His. I should not feel “unspiritual”, unworthy, or hypocritical for dwelling on the hard things. They are God’s, just as much as the times when my soul is ready to respond with praise. What fortuitousness!—as I continue to carve out this theology of suffering—that a simple children’s song would speak volumes to my heart.

Now, with most of the things I’ve learned in this journey, this Truth had a big impact in the moment, but later on I am left wondering how to apply it. I feel like a peddler with a cart full of useful trinkets but no idea how any of them work. I can share them with you (and I will), but I am still learning what they mean for my life. And in the same way, you will have to go through the process like I am. My experiences are not the same as yours. But I take comfort in knowing that the Holy Spirit uses any truths that come out of suffering to speak to us, in our own unique ways.

With no planned connection to the month that hosts Valentine’s Day, the following are heart descriptions I have had- , and hope to have. If the valleys are His, my heart in the valley is also surely His. Each of these helps me take a step closer to understanding what that means:

A BROKEN HEART: A few evenings ago I was speaking to my friend (who moved to another city in October) on video chat, when she said, “Becca, we left you with a broken heart didn’t we?” Unquestionably, I was distressed by my friends’ departure (then and also through the years) and the ripple effect this has had on my life, but I hadn’t thought of my pain in those terms. But the brokenness is important. Where there is pain, there can be healing.

The image of light helps make this point: I thrive on light. I don’t often like to be in the dark, especially metaphorically. But when there are times of great contrast—of sorrow or pain—it is those times that speak more deeply to my soul than when my life is full of light. The challenge is to look for these contrasts and respond rightly, even when the heart doesn’t “feel” it. That’s why, since the beginning of January, I have tried to be extra diligent about reading a Bible devotional each morning. Some mornings nothing I read seems relevant or impactful. Other mornings, my heart is itching for some healing and the following nuggets of truth sink in.

A MINDFUL HEART: I read the First 5 devotional app every morning, and this month we are going through Judges. If you’ve ever read the book of Judges you’ll know that it’s full of stories of God’s people doing stupid things, but then being turned back to the truth of God’s faithfulness and plan. These are reminders that we need to seek God’s wisdom in all things, and at all times. Not just once, but as a repeated action.

AN OPEN HEART: I often feel ill-equipped for what God has or might have for me. This is what I like to refer to a pre-worry. I’m really good at it. But there’s a story in the third chapter of  Judges (and similar instances later on), where the Israelites succeed in battle with tools much simpler than war-ready weapons. I often grumble in my heart, “I’m too tired; I don’t have enough money, or time, or faith to do x,y, or z.” But do I have a willingness? Perhaps that’s what needs to change. The writer of the Judges 3 devotional reminds me, “God’s hand is never limited by what we have in ours.”

A STEADFAST HEART: Do the next thing. I have read multiple devotional and articles this month that reiterate this. I think it’s a natural response to the dreariness of winter and the very real seasonal depression that can settle in around us. Elizabeth Elliot often spoke of this. She would quote an old Saxon poem by the same name:

"At an old English parsonage down by the sea,
there came in the twilight a message to me.
Its quaint Saxon legend deeply engraven
that, as it seems to me, teaching from heaven.
And all through the hours the quiet words ring,
like a low inspiration, 'Do the next thing.'

Many a questioning, many a fear,
many a doubt hath its quieting here.
Moment by moment, let down from heaven,
time, opportunity, guidance are given.
Fear not tomorrow, child of the King,
trust that with Jesus, do the next thing.

Do it immediately, do it with prayer,
do it reliantly, casting all care.
Do it with reverence, tracing His hand,
who placed it before thee with earnest command.
Stayed on omnipotence, safe 'neath His wing,
leave all resultings, do the next thing.

Looking to Jesus, ever serener,
working or suffering be thy demeanor,
in His dear presence, the rest of His calm,
the light of His countenance, be thy psalm.
Do the next thing."

Whether it’s spiritual or physical exhaustion, this plus God’s grace is what gets us through the valley. We are not left to our own devisies. The Lord places people, and events, and circumstances in our path, urging us to do what is next with diligence and trust.

In Judges 6, God saw Gideon as someone who was faithful in the small tasks set before him. So He confidently says to Gideon, “Go in the strength you have and save Israel out of Midian’s hand. Am I not sending you?” (Judges 6:14). The author of the devotional for Judges 6 states, “God often uses the weak and lowly things of this world to accomplish His will (paraphrased from 1 Corinthians 1:26-29). . . He is not looking for our ability. He is looking for our availability.”

A HUMBLE HEART: There’s a section of Judges 7 where God tells Gideon that he will not allow Israel to boast in their own strength when they go into battle against the Midianites. So He diminishes the Israelite army from 32,000 to 300. But God goes on to say that He will give Israel the victory—and He does! The writer of the Judges 7 devotional puts it this way, “Any time I make myself bigger, I make God smaller. Our God refuses to be made small.” This is a reverse comfort to me because in this current season, my life feels very small. My influence, my circle of friends, my accomplishments—they all seem to be shrinking rather than growing. In earthly terms, this doesn’t look good. But in the light of this story from Judges 7, it’s the “right” place to be in. God demonstrates time and time again that He chooses to work from the desperate, seemingly impossible circumstances.

This is something I can hold onto! But it is also a warning. Only once chapter later, in Judges 8, Gideon arrogantly seeks his own glory after the victory over the Midianites. I often don’t think of my desires for a new job, a steady income, friendships, and relationships to be about “my glory,” but they can easily fall that way when my focus, and even the direction of my prayers is too inward. For both James 4:6 and 1 Peter 5:5 says, “God opposes the proud bu gives grace to the humble.”

Knowing that in the valley, my heart can be both broken and mindful, steadfast and humble—these are the things that help me understand the lyrics of that song: 

My God is so Big. So strong and so mighty. There’s nothing my God cannot do. The mountains are His, the valleys are His, the stars are His handiwork too.

 

"Courage, Dear Heart"

There have been many, many times that I feel the desire to write, but then I find myself poised with my fingers above the keys, and I find I don’t have the inspiration I need. This can go on for days or weeks. But then, without even voicing a prayer about it, God provides a word, an image, or an idea, seeming to shout, “write about me!”

I am reading through the books of both Joshua and John right now. I chose John to start off the new year, but Joshua presented itself when I remembered to use the Bible Study app “First 5,” that I had downloaded back in October (I highly recommend it!). It’s not necessarily an obvious pairing, but one common theme has emerged. And that is the theme of courage.

At the beginning of a new year, many people speak of resolutions or key words they will try to live by. I’m not one for this type of thing. But if were to choose one word I want to define this year, it would be courage. I would readily not classify myself as a courageous person. I have times of confidence and boldness, but usually I wallow in that horrible place half way between fear and faith. Yet these last two weeks reading of God’s command for Joshua to be strong and courageous, to not be afraid, to set aside discouragement, I asked myself, “if all scripture is God’s Word, how is this a Word for me?”

There is a passage in Isaiah that speaks a little bit more into my question:

Although the Lord gives you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, your teachers will be hidden no more; with your own eyes you will see them. Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, “This is the way; walk in it.”  (Isaiah 30:20-21)

The times when I need courage are hardly ever grand or explosive. It is in the daily decisions to be guided by God. To trust that He will go with me wherever I go (before and behind), and that His peace is with me, saying gently, “this is the way, walk in it.”

“Is it wrong for me to be sitting still?” This one of the hardest questions I pose to myself, almost on a daily basis. It’s high within the Christian vocabulary to speak about taking leaps of faith. But I’m going to tread out on a limb with this: sometimes I think we make leaping into an idol. A better question I should ask myself is, “What does risky faith look like for me?” Though my friends who have moved away are often models of what this looks like, I cannot and should not compare my own faith journey to theirs.

At the beginning of the book of Joshua, God says,

"Be strong and courageous, because you will lead these people to inherit the land I swore to their ancestors to give them. “Be strong and very courageous. Be careful to obey all the law my servant Moses gave you; do not turn from it to the right or to the left, that you may be successful wherever you go. Keep this Book of the Law always on your lips; meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do everything written in it. Then you will be prosperous and successful. Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go." (Joshua 1:6-9)

God was not only speaking of boldness for their military advancements. He was talking about strength and courage for all parts of their lives. The Israelites’ “leaps of faith” were when they stayed put and waited for the Lord to move or speak. They were not idle, they were striving to live according to the law They even set up pillars of remembrance, to recount God’s faithfulness.

The waiting is hard. I know that. Joshua knew that. Jesus even knew that. Multiple times in the book of John, Jesus is recorded as saying, “My time has not yet come.” As one with the Father, Jesus surely knew his timeline here on earth. But as a man, I bet he was a bit impatient with the badgering of his disciples (and mother!) who were beginning to understand God’s power and wanted to see Jesus’ supernatural abilities at work. At this point, if Jesus had been an ordinary man, he might have felt a bit like a fraud or a failure. I know I would have. As my expectations and hopes deflate, maybe Jesus’ words here can be an encouragement. Throughout scripture, we see that God’s timing is perfect. Therefore if we are holding onto a promise not yet fulfilled, we can confidently say, “my time has not yet come”—not with an inflated ego, but with faith, knowing that the Lord is continually weaving millions and millions of webs together, for His glory and our joy.

In the mean time, there are two more things we can learn from Joshua.

When Joshua encounters the commander of the Lord’s army at the end of chapter 5, he expects to receive detailed plans about the upcoming battle. Instead, he receives a call to worship:

Now when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing in front of him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went up to him and asked, “Are you for us or for our enemies?”  “Neither,” he replied, “but as commander of the army of the Lord I have now come.” Then Joshua fell facedown to the ground in reverence, and asked him, “What message does my Lord have for his servant?”  The commander of the Lord’s army replied, “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy.” And Joshua did so. (Joshua 5: 13-15)

Lysa Terkeurst (one of the writers for the First 5 Bible Study app) says of this passage: “God is not only big enough to handle the battle before Joshua, but also loving enough to address the doubt, fear, and insecurity running through his mind.” Joshua is called to worship more, and worry less. If you’re anything like me, when something goes wrong or there is a daunting hurdle in front of me, the last thing I think of doing is worshiping God. Worry kicks into high gear, and once I breathe in and out a few times, I eventually turn to prayer. But worship? But Lysa points out that this type of change in attitude, “quiets us and strengthens us, perfectly preparing our hearts and minds for whatever battles lie ahead.” There is boldness in worship. Especially when we don’t “feel” it. In His mercy, God enables our hearts to catch up with our mouths. It might take some practice and lots of courage. We might feel like we are repeating the same Psalm or hymn over and over, but that is when we learn every spiritual practice is a discipline. A discipline that honors God and changes us. If this is how we are sitting still, then we are doing it right.

The second thing we can learn from Joshua is about the courage to just keep walking. At this point, a repetitive Veggie Tales song might be floating through your mind. . . whatever it takes to get the message across, my friends!

In Joshua chapter 6, the Israelites finally reach the city of Jericho. I won’t go into this too much because we all know the story, but suffice it to say, Joshua and the people of God were probably a little more than confused (maybe even angry) at these bizarre marching orders. Yet by the end of the chapter, we know that God’s plans and timing equaled victory! As simple as this story is, it is a powerful reminder of God’s command in the first chapter: “be strong and courageous, do not be discouraged.” Do not be discouraged by having to keep going when there’s no evidence of our situation changing. Keep walking. Or sitting... but actively moving forward in faith, holding tightly to God’s promise. In John 14:17 Jesus echoes this by sharing this promise with His disciples, "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.”

Let us not be deceived into thinking this is an easy task. Waiting well is as difficult a thing as taking action. In the 15^th chapter of John, lies the iconic analogy of the vine and the branches. I don’t know if I’ve ever realized this before, but verse two packs a heavy punch: "Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit." Either way, things in our lives are going to be cut back. We often mistake closed doors and thwarted experiences as punishment or a heavy “no” from God. But not necessarily so. Even the most fruitful and hope-filled parts of our lives must be pruned by the Master vinedresser. The good gifts of God that are just beyond our might still be in the pruning stage. We need courage to acknowledge this, and humility to respond well.

None of this is by our own power. That is why I want to end with Jesus’ promise to His disciples in John 16:33: “I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.”

This reminds me so strongly of Aslan’s words to Lucy in the Voyage of the Dawn Treader, when everyone aboard the ship thought there was no hope:

“Courage, dear heart.”