Struggle
Much to the cricket’s misfortune, our cats found him this morning has he scampered across the living room floor. The kitties love critters like him and will creep across the room next to him, batting him when he plays dead and lightly chewing on him as if trying to revive him, his legs and pieces breaking off along the way. I didn’t mean to but I assigned him a name – Charlie.
The kitties are indifferent to Charlie’s survival. To them, he is a fun friend who will soon become a snack. THey have no interest or desire to sustain any life but their own. After Charlie ends up in one of their tummies, they’ll proceed to take theyr usual morning nap in the sun.
For now, Charlie is alive – and I hurt a little to watch him struggle across the floor.
See – my heart is magnetically drawn to displays of struggle from even the most insignificant creatures – this morning’s being a cricket, with one leg and half an antennae left attached to his body. He struggles to untangle his remaining bits from the wool fibers of ouro rug while seemingly coordinating his survival plan, strategically timing his “playing possum” intervals to when the cats are looking away.
Poor Charlie is really trying. I’m rooting for you, Charlie.
I root for Charlie because I see me in him – tangled, limping, body deteriorating more with each inch of ground gained, silent, alone, tiny, leaving a trail of loss and damage behind him, growing slower, slower, slow.
I root for Charlie because I want me to make it, as beat up and disabled and tired as I am.
Watching him from across the room, I think these things and wonder: is struggle a distinction of our fallen world? Did Adam and Eve struggle before the fall?
Webster defines struggle (verb) as:
- to make strenuous or violent efforts in the face of difficulties or opposition
- to proceed with difficulty or with great effort
Did Adam have to make strenuous efforts in his work in the garden? Did Eve face any difficulties in helping him? Was difficulty or great effort required of them to survive? Did “hard work” mean something different in the pre-fall context?
God is always working, and work is good – but nothing is ever hard for him, and at no time does God struggle. I tend to believe that before the fall, Adam experienced the same in the context of struggle and that while he had lots of work to do, at no time did he struggle with difficulty.
BUT – struggle was required when faced with temptation. Right? And temptation not acted upon is not sin; in other words, temptation was pre-fall….
Much to meditate on today.
Protected: It’s been a week
Suffering Well – Fear
What emotions did Jesus experience in Gethsemane?
Fear is the first word my mind generates. Panic, distress, fear. Perhaps it’s the influence of that one iconic painting of Jesus in nighttime Gethsemane, his frightened eyes and furrowed brow turned heavenward from his glowing face. I guess it’s kind of tricky to capture the face of anguish without fear, without distorting it into something unpleasant.
I never questioned if fear was an accurate assessment of his experience that night, until this morning.
Me: What were the emotions Jesus felt at Gethsemane?
Him: Dread and fear, I’d say
Me: Isn’t fear a sin? Like, one of those gray-area ones that isn’t a specific commandment but more like an admonition?
Him: (pause)
Me: Like, can Christ in his perfection actually fear?
Him: Think you’re right about fear being a sin…so, maybe more like extreme anguish/dread.
I’ve been studying up on the theology of suffering. Truly, if there’s anything I want to show for these past several years of cancer, depression and despair, I want it to be that I learned to suffer well. Still not there yet, but by God’s grace and patience I’m inching closer with each day, I think.
Jesus is the ultimate case study on the art (?) of suffering well.
And as we approach Good Friday and I meditate on all that Jesus may have experienced on that night, I’m struck by the fact that he had no fear. I’m realizing that those blood-infused sweat droplets were not indicative of off-the-chart levels of fear and panic, but deep, gut-wrenching anguish.
anguish /ăng′gwĭsh/
noun
- Agonizing physical or mental pain; torment.
- Extreme pain, either of body or mind; excruciating distress.
Jesus agonized in torment within his body and soul from the weight of what lay ahead. Physical pain and torment, yes. But also the weight of the world’s sin – past, present and future – all to bear on his shoulders, alone, without a single soul’s support and especially without his heavenly Father’s presence, poured excruciating distress over his entire being. I can’t begin to fathom what it may have been like for Jesus, in that garden that night.
But I know one thing: he had no fear.
No fear of the cross. No fear of rejection. No fear of shame. No fear of pain and torture. No fear of armies, high priests, angry mobs, hateful insults, evil authorities. No fear of any man on the planet. No fear of walking this path alone. No fear of Satan. No fear of death.
And no fear of the Father turning his face away.
Why, and how?
Because he knew how it would end. He knew that he already had the victory. He knew this would be a “light and momentary affliction” that would prepare for him an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison. He knew the incredible redemption his death and resurrection would bring to the world. He knew the joy of obedience to his Father’s will, and the steadfastness of his Father’s immutable promises.
If Christ had no fear, how much more should I not? In the face of these light and momentary afflictions – truly 1000% lighter and more momentary than his – I remember that, unlike Christ, I am not alone. I have a helper and a protector, a provider and a comforter. A good, good shepherd.
Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them,
for it is the Lord your God who goes with you.
He will not leave you or forsake you. Deuteronomy 31:6It is the Lord who goes before you.
He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you.
Do not fear or be dismayed. Deuteronomy 31:8Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for you, Lord, are with me;
Your rod and staff, they comfort me. Psalm 23:4I will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler
and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his pinions,
And under his wings you will find refuge:
his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.
You will not fear the terror of the night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness,
nor the destruction that wastes at noonday. Psalm 91:2-6For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways.
On their hands they will bear you up,
lest you strike your foot against a stone. Psalm 91:11-12Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him;
I will protect him, because he knows my name.
When he calls to me, I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble;
I will rescue him and honor him. Psalm 91:14-15Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace,
that we may receive mercy and find grace to help
in time of need. Hebrews 4:16
When My Best Isn’t Good Enough
Another co-worker got promoted today.
When I read the news, my immediate instinct was to walk away from my computer screen. I went to the kitchen and mindlessly opened a can of cat food for the kitties. My fingers were cold and tingly as I grabbed their food bowls off the dish rack.
My colleague is a great worker, young and smart and hard-working, and the promotion is deserved. But it’s yet another painful reminder, as others surpass me in speed and status, how stuck I am despite my best effort.
I tend to think people should be rewarded in proportion to the amount of effort they give to their work. Hard workers deserve more than the lazies. Greater sacrifice deserves greater reward. It’s one of the reasons I’m prone to working myself to the bone – I’ve so often been enticed by status and recognition; to hear the words, “you’re great,” “there’s no one like you,” “you’re indispensable.”
But oh, how dispensable I am. Even on my hardest-working, near-bone-breaking, days.
Going through cancer and its aftermath, I’ve thought often about disability and how the playing field will never be level for those of us who have this cross to bear. No matter how hard we try or how much we sacrifice, the simple truth is that our disability diminishes our capacity, and we are physically and/or mentally unable to do the same amount of quality work in the same amount of time as those who do not have to carry these burdens.
Life isn’t fair.
I wish I could be a better person and celebrate those who are recognized for their unhindered, disability-free achievements.. I have hope that someday I will. But for now, I mostly hurt.
Because my best isn’t good enough.
I filled the cats’ food dishes and walked them over to their feeding spot, the kitties leading the way with cheerfully upright tails. As I watched them lap up their lunch and purr in contentment, I dug deeper into the pain I was feeling about my best not being good enough, and those words kept repeating in my head.
Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.
Good enough, for who?
Can my best be good enough for me? Because I know in my heart of hearts that my best is not for the approval of man, but for the glory of God.
Though my colleagues and bosses cannot appreciate my best efforts and more often than not cannot even see my sacrificial efforts to go beyond my call of duty – God sees. And when I work for him, striving for excellence for his glory only and in obedience to what he has given me to do in this season, with the strength and provision he provides me, I trust he is pleased. Even though my best only amounts to filthy rags in his holiness and perfection, he accepts my works of obedience with pleasure.
And that should be – will be – more than good enough for me.
Beginnings – Clay
There is a pottery studio just around the corner from where I’m staying. I was so bummed to discover this only now, but thrilled I was able to snag a spot for a wheel throwing class a few days ago.
Instructor: so, let’s go around real quick and share what the highlight of your day was.
Me: This! This class, this clay, this wheel – all of this!
I’ve wanted to throw on a wheel for as long as I can remember. There is something so mesmerizing about a blob of clay transforming into a beautifully smooth, symmetrical shape between two slippery hands gracefully pressing and lifting the clay. Like a ballerina.
So, Youtube videos make throwing on a wheel appear waaaay easier than it is. Steadying and centering the clay – the first step – had me gasping for air. Ha! Demoralizing. But, creating pots and toning my biceps? #winning.
Thankfully, I’m scrappy and was able to pull my first pot/cup without too much struggle.
Instructor: You’re crushing it. That’s the best beginner’s wheel piece I’ve ever seen.
Me: You’re kidding. Really??
Instructor: Are you sure you’ve never thrown before??
I often wonder about possible pasts. In middle school, I was voted “most likely to be a sculptor.” It was largely based on this huge – thing – I built out of wood and barb wire, then panted blue and purple, for an art project. Semi-ugly, but no one else’s project was nearly as impressively large as mine, and I’m fairly certain that was what won me the title. Anyway, I think about that once in a while – the things I have created or accomplished in my distant past that have left impressions on others, and the possible paths of my life had I pursued something other than law.
What if I had gone to art school instead? What if I had opened that coffee shop I’d always dreamed of? What if I’d taken that job in Cambodia?
It’s a delicate balance, evaluating the past against today’s reality to chart the course towards the future.
There’s a quote from Eric Liddell that I love: “God made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.” I always felt I could relate. God made me creative. And when I create, I feel His pleasure.
Comments like the one from my clay instructor the other night make me wonder if God has gifted me with a measure of artistic ability that could take things somewhere beyond recreational. I would love to pour into artistic endeavors more regularly, maybe even professionally.
But how?
I will continue dreaming and playing with my air-dry clay and paints as I ponder this.
Wait For Me
One of the first things we discovered about S, even before we brought him home to the U.S., was that he loved to run.
“Najababayo!,”* he’d shriek as he’d tear off, fully expecting someone to come chasing after him. We chased him around the house multiple times a day, slowing our pace to match his in order to support the delusion in his 3-year-old mind that he’s the fastest human on the planet, never to be caught. He would cackle in delight.
The love of being pursued. While I can’t be sure why this child who is my son but not from my womb loved it so much, I can take a decent guess.
I remember a time when we took him to a park near our neighborhood, not too long after bringing him home. After playing several rounds of Najababayo in an open field, J and I started to head towards a big shady tree for some relief from the sun. S was oblivious to this and was happily running around until he looked back to see he was alone on the field. “Wait for me!” he cried in his broken English, his high-pitched plea carrying in the air as his little legs scurried beneath him towards the safety of our presence.
He’s 10 now, and while 3 is now a distant memory, I’m surprised at how often I still here him say these words. In the grocery store, from the back yard, on the playground or hiking trail. “Wait for me!” – still loud and high-pitched, followed by the same scurry to catch up as he leaves behind the creeping caterpillar he was examining in the dirt.
The fear of abandonment; of being left behind. I recognize a degree of this lingering in S’s heart. I know how it feels.
Throughout my life, I have experienced varying degrees of being “left behind.” Cancer and its aftermath have particularly sharpened this experience for me.
Some of it is passive, like watching people in our chronological life stage from the sidelines, healthily progressing through the stages in natural order – pregnancy and family building, corporate ladders, financial planning and savings.
Other experiences are more active. Employers, passing on me for opportunities because my health can limit my abilities and availability. Friends, omitting me from conversations and plans, assuming I wouldn’t be able to relate or join in. Family, keeping distance for reasons that are probably too complex to put in words and feels like a slow, painful fading of our names from their hearts.
I don’t blame anyone for these things – after all, the only human who has promised never to leave me behind is my husband – but in my heart, I ache in secret.
Wait for me. I often cry this from a deep pit in my heart, to no one in particular.
Wait for me to be healthy again. I will work harder, try better, give more. Please don’t leave me behind. If I could just freeze time for everyone else, to give me some extra credit time to catch up.
I watch my brothers and sisters in Christ pouring out their time, energy and talents into kingdom-building work within our church, communities and throughout the world, and I rejoice yet weep.
Wait for me to be healthy again. I will work harder, try better, give more. Please don’t leave me behind.
I lay in bed, immobilized by pain or sickness or weakness or medication side effects – or a combination of them all. All I can do is stare out the window, watching the world and seasons pass me by, and I wonder if God has passed me by, as well.
Wait for me.
Have you left me behind, God?
In our darkest, loneliest moments, it can feel like God has left us behind. After all, Satan is the most skillful deceiver. But God’s word tells us that this is impossible.
“You have encircled me….” That’s what David says of God in Psalm 139:5 (CSB). I like that visual. He is all around me, a circle with no end or beginning in time or space. I am Enveloped. Hemmed in. Encircled. So snug and secure. I cannot slip away of his presence or stumble out of his protection.
Some days, in these strange valleys as I watch the seasons change and the world pass me by, I still cry silently to myself. Wait for me.
And God looks down on me with fatherly love.
You never have to ask me to wait for you, he says to me. Remember: I have encircled you.
—————–
*Najababayo – “Catch me if you can.”
10 is where
10 is where we stand at the precipice of some big unknown.
I expected this while traversing through the land of nine, through which I marched alert and ready – noting every time he reached for my hand before crossing a street, the teetering ratio of “mom” to “mommy;” tracking the fading interest in trains and fast cars and the growing intrigue for computers and mechanics.
10 is where cancer came back to meet mommy for the fourth time. 10 is where he starts wondering out loud what it means that it keeps coming back, and when, if ever, it will stay away for good.
10 is where we began to discuss death, the frailty of humanity. All living things will one day die – nothing on this earth, including us, will live on forever.
10 is where we learned about the birds and the bees, sitting on the couch one Tuesday afternoon when he couldn’t understand how an unwed woman could possibly become pregnant.
10 is also where he began asking big questions about his birth and adoption stories and wondering – out loud – what his birth mom might have looked like.
10 is where a sweet ignorance gives way to a little more reality.
10 is where innocence gives way to a deeper understanding of this fallen world.
This is the Beginning.
They’ve come to cut her down, my beloved Japanese Maple, rooted strong and proud in our front yard. We tried for years to save her, but her roots are decaying and her upper branches stopped pushing out those beautiful star-shaped leaves for too many consecutive springs. She tried so hard to make it, awkwardly shooting out bushels of baby leaves up and down her trunk to catch as much sunshine as she could to stay alive, because she knew her roots were dying. It was all she could do – but it was not enough.
There comes a point when your everything is not enough, and it’s clear it’s time to call it. So today, they are here to cut her down. Today, I am choking, struggling to say goodbye because – I love her. Call me crazy, but my Maple gave me so much joy. She was magnificently beautiful, especially in the fall when her green turned golden red like bright fire. It was pure magic when her fiery dress, like a twenties flapper’s, shimmered in the breeze. Fall was her season, and mine.
We had talked about planting another tree to take her place. “A new beginning,” he said, as if it would comfort me. It didn’t. How could I replace her?
I watch through my window as they take their loud electric tools of death to her limbs and trunk, and I cry. I turn my gaze to the suitcases sitting next to our door, holding two weeks’ worth of clothes and toiletries we will take across the country tomorrow to see the specialists.
Because the cancer is back, again.
I’m sobbing now, because I feel like my beloved Maple is me – trying so hard all these years to stay alive, losing hair and body and mind to try to catch as much luck as I could. I stare out at her stump, then suitcase; stump, suitcase. And I wonder if my time to go is around the corner, too. These feels so much like an end – but. I will choose to believe.
This is the beginning.
Green Balloon
What’s bursting out of me today is that I’m really tired.
(Does tired “burst”?
Maybe oozing or seeping might be better –
like a balloon’s slow deflate, sink-floating, never to return back to the heights it once knew.)
They’ve cut five tumors out of me already. By this time tomorrow, it will be seven.
More hope, energy, dollar bills seeping from each slice;
I ooze, I bleed, I deflate.
BUT. I stay afloat.
I have not touched the ground yet, my string still dancing in the wind, pivoting around the mountains and through the forest tress that always wave hello…. I ride the wind, the gust, the storms that blow through and once in a while raise me back to the heights of my youth again.
Now I know, grief is green.
Green like the Hulk,
it sometimes rages and smashes.
Other times, it is almost delicate,
a baby reed bending and blowing with its sisters.
It is green with envy when they have what you never will,
or green like the benjamins spent on kayak or amazon to
fill the holes you can’t stop feeling.
Grief is green bananas with no sweet
and green gators with sharp teeth.
Grief isn’t always angry.
It is sometimes gentle, like a mother
and soft, like moss.
And every once in a while, like a green deflating balloon,
it floats.
glorious ruins 