Not Always a Tragedy . . .It May Be Redeemed Yet

I heard a woman sing tonight. It was beautiful. But more than her singing style, I was drawn to her story. She gave her testimony of sweet redemption. Of being her pregnant mother’s “almost-choice” . . . she was born, though almost not. Her mother chose life, though I believe Another really chose it for her. And, though life itself was such a gift, He also chose a purpose for her . . . to proclaim the saving news of Jesus Christ through music.
Later on, the congregation and I stood with our Pastor as he led us in an acapella song – “Jesus, Jesus, there’s just something about that name.” I looked around me at the Christians, fellow-believers standing with me, beside me. I imagined some day, far, far in the future. Oh, that we will no longer imagine, but that we will be WITH Him. Together, standing in His presence, singing the greatness of our God. I felt that joy, that hope, that eager expectation around me!
But I also felt humanity. A type of groaning in me, in us, waiting, for a deeper redeeming of so many tragedies. Knowing my own life’s tragedies, being “let in” on the ones around me, sometimes my heart weighs heavy. I see us. Some with painted faces, just like my own. Some more willing to pull down the mask, and let others in. But all of us, needing grace. Needing hope. Needing to know there is redemption. There is a place where our story is read with great delight . . . a place that we hope for, sometimes with pain inside of us too deep to put into words.
But then I knew. Yes, He is not only looking from above, merely anticipating our coming to Him, but He is here! He is painting each story on a canvas as a precious, beautiful telling of His greatness, His love, His mercy, His redeeming power.
Oh, that I could be an artist to tell the story. But, then I realize . . . I am the art. Yes, I am the art! I am the moving, breathing art of God’s story.
Yes, those tears are certainly not the ending. Look, look, oh beautiful art to your Artist. How He smiles. How He delights in creating your story. Now, now, soul, relax. Let be. For it will be beautiful. It will. Tragedy does not have the last word . . . it may be redeemed yet.

Missions

I saw a young family on the stage of my church. We prayed for them and their work in Missions. People applauded. “Awe, so cute,” the women around me smiled as they looked at the two beautiful daughters on stage. A crowd of 2,000 clapped, smiled, thought of them. The Pastor explained their work. It was an honor to be up there, appreciated, for sure! Perhaps it showed their lives to be a little glamorous, a little adventurous . . . maybe it was even a little guilt-producing or inspiring as we thought about what WE were giving in our own lives. But it was nice. Yes, nice.

Well . . . I don’t really know what anyone was thinking, or if they would think about it much more than the two minutes the young family stood on the stage. But whatever my eyes showed, or however politely I clapped, I knew I felt more than just a little bit amused, or encouraged. It was too reverent of a moment to cry . . . tears could not express my emotion . . . I held my face still, foggy memories becoming clear. I wondered if anyone knew what I knew of this young family . . .

I met that couple my freshman year in college. The girl and I fast became friends. Our personalities were different . . . me thoughtful . . . her as bubbly of a girl you ever met. But we both loved the Lord, felt a call towards Missions, and loved being with people. Our last year in college, we had each been praying, unknown to each other, about taking a particular trip to Thailand, and then decided to share it with the other on the very same day, a day we met for accountability. The chances of us both praying about the same trip were . . . unlikely. It didn’t necessarily confirm that it was meant to be, but with my excitement and all of the logistics working out, I knew we were to go!

Another girl joined us, and our team of three went for a month in the summer. My friend’s boyfriend, travelling around the area at the time, came to welcome us when we first arrived in Thailand. He took us to restaurants and taught me my first Thai words. I practiced them as I volunteered at the school and as we made our way around the crowded city every afternoon and evening. Both of their hearts for Southeast Asia were contagious. I saw His love for the people in their lives, hearts, words, and even their eyes as they talked!

I cannot explain my feelings or thoughts towards Thailand . . . as much as I journal, I have never been able to really put them to words. Perhaps words can never express them. But there was a tug, almost an aching pull, in my heart, which, I didn’t know at the time, I would never be able to lose. My three friends left, as was planned, at the end of the month. But . . . I decided to stay, unplanned, for another month. Another year . . . another 3 years . . .

I came back for a couple months to be in their wedding. I cried when I watched her walk down. When I saw the hearts of two people I respected and loved so much come together, to make a commitment of forever to each other.

However, during my two months back home, I encountered reverse culture-shock, a feeling of being out of place back in the States. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but it felt lonely. They invited me over to their new home, cooked a Thai dinner for me, and we sat around a mat on their floor, Thai-style! We talked about our hearts again for the people, mixing in Thai with our English! They asked about my feelings with being back in America, and explained reverse-culture shock to me-- the concept of returning to a familiar place, but feeling so different. I felt for the first time of coming back to the States that I could be real with someone. I had so many things to say, to share with everyone, but many people did not know the questions to ask me. I started to close in, to feel so alone. With so much compassion, my friend’s husband explained that people only know what they’ve been experienced to, and it is not something they can be judged for. His compassion for people in general inspired me, and I too felt grace towards those who didn’t have the same burning desire for, or knowledge about, seeing the world evangelized . . . but I was so glad to talk with two people who did!

They raised their support, sure now that they were called to full-time work overseas, and moved to Southeast Asia my last year in Thailand.

They came to visit me in the small town I lived in. I heard again their heart for the people, the stories of what they were doing. While they were with me, we went into the city for my friend to get a sonogram of her first little baby on the way! I knew the city well, and led the way on our motorcycles down side streets. Road laws in Thailand are not always, or even often, followed, and as I had done for the past year, we went the wrong direction on a one-way only street. A motorcycle cop waved me down. I knew more Thai than those two, at the time, and explained our “mishap” . . . we rode away without a ticket . . . um, not my proudest moment . . . but I did enjoy the smiles of my friends behind me at my finesse in Thai ways.

I hated to see them leave, as I felt so lonely in that town by myself. But I knew we each had work we were called to. Hugs were brief . . . till next time . . . till we see each other next time . . . I kept telling myself. Goodbye was just too hard.

I finished my year . . . they’ve been there for four years . . . but have recently just come back for a sabbatical. I had dinner the other night at the home they are living in . . . met their second daughter for the first time. We started with superficialities, laughing, what’s new with me, what I’ve been up to, what their plans for the ministry are, cute things the kids do . . . I was almost afraid to let it go deep . . . but I did. “Are you lonely,” I asked her. She looked at me. Sometimes it’s hard to go deep . . .

We got to talk a little bit that night, but knew we still had much more to talk about. Knowing that they are here for this time, I feel so glad . . . and I wonder . . . what things might my heart be stirred to . . . again . . .

Better Than Most

I recently watched the movie Warrior, about two estranged brothers who both entered professional mixed martial arts competitions. Each made their way through each of their components to the top of the competition. Each were talented, yet each were driven by something greater than themself.

They had grown up with an abusive, alcoholic father, and each had to reconcile their feelings towards that. The younger adopted bitterness and rage, hating the world and everyone in it. He abandoned the military in the heat of war, and lived in guilt of that too. Filled with bitterness and guilt, the younger took out his aggression in the ring against any opponent. More than strength itself, rage drove him. Nothing kept him from brutally beating up each man he encountered. His attitude seemed to say, "No one, and no thing, can ever break me" ... Though you almost sense a defiance, a desperation, that someone would.
The older didn't talk with his father, but still had forgiven him, and raised a family of his own. Financial hardship in paying his mortgage and daughter's medical bills made him desperate for money and he entered the fighting ring too. The need to care for his family drove him. Though far behind all of his competitors, he managed to find the strength to beat each one of them.

In the end, the two brothers faced each other in the ring. The older looked in compassion at his younger brother, the younger exuded a mix of cold contempt with hateful rage. The younger could care less what damage he did to the older, could care less about anything. The older could not bear to hurt his brother, but knew that only strength could break him.

As the two fought, the audience is drawn into every emotion felt by either brother. At the end of the last determining round, the older brother held the younger in an excruciating, painful lock. The younger brother's shoulder was broken, yet he would not give up. His emotional guilt pained him more than any physical hurt. Though the older brother was near tears to hurt his younger brother so much, he would not give up. "I love you," he yelled above the noise, as he held even harder. In the dramatic scene, the younger brother taps the ground three times to indicate defeat, surrender.
The better man won. The weaker, masquerading in a wall of bitterness, was broken. And yet, the younger looked in awe at his older brother. There was someone better than him. And his soul had secretly hoped there was. Amidst the sweat and blood, an unspoken love and admiration was felt. There was a better man.

Even from a female perspective, that movie moved me. So that I can be a good wife and mother someday, I love learning about how God created each men and women in their unique ways.
Sometimes I meet men that have so much confidence, and in the past, have interpreted that as condescending, rude, and even prideful. But lately, I've wondered at how I've been so wrong.
Maybe the man I've accused of thinking himself so much better than other men, IS better than many. Maybe I have masqueraded a self-degrading denial of being good at anything as humility and eagerness to grow... maybe because I am female, or had many interactions with proud Christians, or have experienced faulty teaching on humility. But I now find myself corrected. Perhaps this man's self-assessment is more accurate than mine, and it is really pride in me that condemns those who assess themselves positively. It is embarrassing to admit, but I think true.
Maybe I can conclude, with authority, that those who seek God with all their heart are better off than those who don't. That those who work hard are better, in some sense, than those who don't. That those who choose right, choose better, are better, than those who choose wrong. That the man who protects and loves is better than the man who cheats, uses, and abuses.
Have I perhaps been unknowingly influenced by a certain worldview into believing that we are all essentially the same, and all of our works mean nothing? I don't know.
Certainly, my works don't contribute to salvation, but can works mean something? Perhaps. Maybe more than perhaps. I stand corrected.

And it is kinda nice to be corrected. Though slightly humbling, I think my soul really wants to know I don't know it all. I, too, would like to know there is strength and wisdom beyond what I can grasp. I like knowing that I can be mistaken, broken. And ... I kinda like knowing that there is a person, a man, who is quite good. Not perfectly, not inherently, but certainly better than most.