The Clause

“When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you’ll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?” (C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces).

"You were wearied with the length of your way, but you did not say, 'It is hopeless'; you found new life for your strength, and so you were not faint" (Isaiah 57:10).

Dear God,

Quite some time ago, a legal transaction took place between us. You adopted me as your daughter, and I confess that I’m still a bit perplexed as to why you did it. But you and I are both well-aware of what happened on that day. There’s no need for me to rehearse it. Let me move on to what has transpired since that time.

I’m not sure if I ever mentioned this to you, but I drafted up a little legal document of my own not too long after the adoption. It’s not even a separate document; it’s really a minor clause, just enough to allow me to set up some healthy boundaries (you remember how my psychiatrist encouraged me to establish these). And in light of what has happened this year, it is glaringly obvious that I need to let you know about the clause.

The clause clearly states that if you remove/withhold 2 or more of the following self-evident needs from me—health, beauty, marriage, or children—then I have the right to full control over my physical body and its care. Since the necessary preconditions have all been established (really, I was even willing to give you some latitude here!), I write to notify you that I will be invoking the terms of the clause. Thus far, I have implemented the following:

#1. In order to most efficiently regain control of my physical body, I’ve re-engaged my eating disorder. Now that my more carnal incentives for “getting better”—like feeling attractive and healthy, having energy, etc—have been removed and my body is in constant pain anyway, I figure that I might as well get some payback. This familiar misery and obsession is much more comfortable to me than the self-denial to which you have called me. I don’t really understand all the talk about walking by the spirit and fighting the flesh, so I’ll just feed the flesh and keep walking.

#2. I’m rethinking this whole “Gospel only” mentality. The truth is that, throughout this past year, I have only gotten sicker—physically and emotionally. So it would seem pretty obvious that this approach is inadequate. I’m quite certain that the time for healing is now, so I’m investigating a few “Gospel-and” strategies. I’ll let you know what I come up with in case you need some help with the next case.

#3. Your Word defines shame as that which fails to bring honor to you. But I would submit to you that shame is much broader than that. Since you have called me, repeatedly, to things that make me look weak, foolish, and inadequate, I have learned that shame has more dimensions than I realized. I mean, what does biblical shame have to say to the critical glances of the females around me when I’m dressed wrong or when my body doesn’t look like it used to or even should at my age? What does it say to the strangers who shift their eyes pityingly when I’m limping and in obvious pain? Believing that these changes are ways that you can be glorified has not made any of them go away. So I’m thinking that perhaps if I use this shame as a prod, it might motivate me to push harder and somehow overcome. Again, I just want to try out some options. I’ll let you know how it goes.

#4. In light of all the work I have to do (see items 1-3), it probably goes without saying that I will have to drop out of a few things. I know that you have called me to love and serve at my church and through some specific relationships, but clearly I need to rethink these things during this time. As you know, I can hardly be expected to care for others if I’m not first caring for myself. I'm sure you appreciate my focus here! Really, it's just good stewardship.

Now, I’ll admit that I never got your signature on the clause. But I’m certain that you will acquiesce when you consider the merits of my case. For you are a kind and compassionate God, and you would never give me more than I could bear! Remember? You promised. While I believe that you will ultimately work things out for my good, it seems as though I need to set an interim plan in place until you get things back on track. I'll keep close watch, though, and render the clause void just as soon as you do.

Respectfully,

Michele

Oh God, help me to look at all the provisions that I make for my flesh and to cry out, "It is hopeless." Help me not to just regroup and plot more evil; oh, bring me to the end of myself. Let me live not in my unbelief but in my faith! God, I write this ridiculous letter to "dig out the word"--to expose the pernicious lies. Let me see my face as it is and not as I imagine it to be. Help me, by your powerful spirit, to cast myself on the cross of Christ; to dwell in my adoption as a son; to hold fast to my sure hope; to have faith that you will not forsake the work of your hands. Help me to rehearse the Gospel when I am tempted and not to move beyond it; help me to see your kindness there and to be moved by it to repentance. Preserve me, oh God of my salvation. I trust in you.

"For thus says the One who is high and lifted up, who inhabits eternity, whose name is Holy: “I dwell in the high and holy place, and also with him who is of a contrite and lowly spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly, and to revive the heart of the contrite" (Isaiah 57:15).

OPEN

Most of the time, people ask very little of me. They want a few minutes for a phone call or a lunch; they want some advice or maybe a small favor; they just want me to listen. Very reasonable requests, really.

Often, my internal responses to these encounters reveal that I consider myself to be the owner of my time. This is a sole proprietorship--this carefully managed Tuesday of mine. And the sign in the window really says closed, although I painted over it with the word OPEN.

As the Lord reveals to me more and more of my selfishness, I cry aloud to Him and ask that he would unfurl me. I return often to these words in Isaiah 58:

Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh? Then shall your light break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up speedily; your righteousness shall go before you; the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard. Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer; you shall cry, and he will say, ‘Here I am.’ If you take away the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness, if you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday. And the Lord will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail. And your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to dwell in.

In this passage, so much of what I have sought furiously and independently--guidance, healing, righteousness, satisfaction--is offered to me through a self-forgetful service.

I think also of the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr on this, the 40th anniversary of his assassination. In spite of his moral frailty (he, too, struggled with indwelling sin), he refused to live among the privileged and educated African-Americans, choosing rather to be mistreated with his people than to enjoy the fleeting pleasures of what was--according to his conscience--sinful. I echo the language of Hebrews 11 intentionally, for his vision was motivated and sustained by faith. His example of self-forgetful service also challenges me to see the panoramic view--a view of a kingdom bigger than myself.

But we don't conquer the flesh in the flesh. I can't just download "I Have a Dream", put it on repeat, and stir myself up to seek justice and serve others. I must, all the while, be fighting the war that wages against any service that I can offer--the sin within me. A pursuit of justice starts with capturing those small moments--those little opportunities to mortify the flesh, to hold the tongue or to loose it, to dispense mercy and not judgment, to choose kindness and act in faith. In these ways and more, we pour ourselves out on behalf of others--in humility, considering them better than ourselves.

I have repented in my heart, though my honest desires are not yet changed. The Lord is at work; I'd stake my hope on it (Col 1:27). I changed the sign in the window a few days ago. The OPEN is no longer just a whitewashed CLOSED. I pray that the Lord would grant to me a legacy of servanthood for the sake of His Name.

Hi, My Name is Michele.

Over the past year, I've found it hard to meet people. Though I've never considered myself an extrovert, I always enjoyed those initial interactions. It was a chance to make a careful and controlled presentation of myself—the Michele that is gilded with southern charm. That simple, "My name is Michele" has always been a confident assertion for me.

In my heart, I stopped extending my hand to strangers about a year ago. Sure, I’ve met dozens if not hundreds of people since then. The smile, the handshake, the pleasantries were all in place, but the self—the heart—went into hiding. Though it was never a conscious decision, I seem to have embargoed all new relationships until the return of the old health and confidence.

I look around my office, my church, and my life, and I see swarms of people who intrigue or inspire me—people to whom I would have reached out a year ago. But I slink away from them now, dragging a heart full of fear behind me. They don't know why I limp down the hallway and wear these ridiculous shoes; they likely wouldn't guess the path that these feet are walking. I don't want to just unload my story on them, but my pride cannot bear the thought that they would assume that this is just how I am.

I liked to think of my three-inch heels as an extension of myself, as a part of what made me “Michele.” But I now see that I was sowing lies. I was training myself to believe that my value—both real and perceived—lay in a pleasing presentation of myself. It seemed harmless, but lies never are. Have I, as a human being, changed fundamentally over the past year? Of course not! Why, then, this sudden reticence to love, to serve, to move boldly away from myself and into the lives of others? Let's call it what it is--it's just plain, old-fashioned pride. And that's just plain, old-fashioned sin.

If I suddenly find myself to be boast-less, then it is fair to ask what I was boasting in to begin with. Jeremiah 9:24 says, “Let him who boasts boast in this, that he understands and knows me.” The truth is that, over the course of the past year, I have come to know and to love the Lord more. Should I not therefore enter into his world with more confidence and humility instead of less confidence and humiliation? Yes, I should. But I am confessing to you that I have not.

In John 8:32-33, Jesus says to the Jews who had believed in him, “If you abide in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” If I abide in God’s word, I am not a slave to the deceitfulness of sin. If, on the other hand, I abide in my "harmless" lies, then I will never be free—free to love, to serve, to live in the freedom of the glory of the children of God. And that is what I am! I am a child of God, and I have not "received the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear" but have instead "received the Spirit of adoption" (Rom 8:15-17). When I extend my hand, then, I can "kick off my shoes" and do so in the name of my Father--confident in him as my unfaltering righteousness and my immutable worth.

Overwrought

Overwrought. Lonely but without comfort in the presence of loved ones. Wearied so by self that all other things grow wearisome beyond measure. Can't eat it away, can't sleep it away. Neither words nor silence still it. “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night.” Assuaged not by the presence of light, though no longer preferring shadows. "Be careful lest the light in you be darkness." Even the darkness is not dark to Him.

Once innocuous desires charge past cursory defenses. "She who is self-indulgent is dead even while she lives." Unblinking fear, frail yet defiant; sinful yet self-righteous; broken, yet self-sufficient. Strengths and weaknesses inverted by a heart deceitful above all. "But I have come to give you life." Knitted, broken, hemmed, held. Even my wrestling against is now wrestling with, and Orual's complaint is uttered in my voice. "Be not rash with your mouth, nor let your heart be hasty to utter a word before God."

Preserve me, O God, for in you I take refuge--not in the courts of my mind, the chambers of my hearts, or the audience of man. Wait in faith, soul, and be not overwrought! For the Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save.

It is good that I should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.

Suffocating

I've always associated losing control with suffocating. This probably gives you some idea how much of a control freak I am. I feel like I'm suffocating when I walk into my apartment right now. My dining room table is covered with medical bills and EOBs and, as one who always pays a bill immediately upon receipt, I'm becoming more than a little frantic. I've never even had a fine at Blockbuster, for crying out loud! So what happens when...what happens if? How will these accounts ever be settled? Debt = Oxygen debt. Suffocating.

My tidy little life is anything but tidy right now, and I can see quite clearly that peace has flown with order. Romans 5:1 tells me that, since I have been justified by faith, I have peace with God through Christ. If I have peace with God, why do I not have peace?

My lack of peace is indicative of a lack of faith. It is not my standing before God but, instead, my running from him that leads to this lack of peace. My faith is other things right now, like in my own ability to manipulate all the data of my life. As goes my ability, so goes my peace.

Though my physical pain is abating for large portions of the day, a spiritual and emotional ache seems to have settled into its place. As I told a friend earlier, it almost seems as though for each little bit of physical stamina that I gain, an old fleshly desire comes back with it. So I find myself afraid of the unknown and even more afraid that the pain has been wasted—because I thought that I knew what the pain was for.

How can I be honest, humble, and teachable before God during these days? I am a poor man to relate to Job, and yet I confess that his words minister to me. I cried when I read this verse in Job 9, "He will not let me get my breath, but fills me with bitterness." Job knew this feeling of suffocating, and he confessed it to God. Lord, this is how I feel, too. Teach me how to see your truth in this situation; grant me faith to say, “Though he slay me, I will hope in him.”

A few days ago, a friend pointed me to this verse in Isaiah 30: “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.” I've thought of this verse often since that time. This taciturn surrender is a difficult remedy for me, and yet I know that these are days for endurance. Lord, grant me eyes to see your strength and your salvation. Make me willing to rest in you and to trust in your good purposes. You have given me life by your very breath, enable me to wait for you to provide all that I need to sustain it.

Learning to Sweat

I didn’t intend to contemplate obedience tonight. Instead, as I passed by the mirror, I reflexively thought about how hard I had worked to get myself into shape and how wasted it all is now. Poor Michele. Six hours a week at the gym—lifting, running, sweating. One hundred and forty-four hours in the past six months, all for naught.

My diligence was even obvious to the staffers, one of whom commented that I was among the “most fit” members of our gym. “Most fit.” “Most fit.” Yeah, I was proud. It didn’t come easy. It involved a lot of planning, a lot of determination, and a lot of….sweat.

Though fitness wasn’t my “work,” there was a level of devotion to this pursuit that was rivaled only by my real job. I remember that verse in Genesis 3, “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return” (Gen 3:19). By the sweat of your face you will provide for yourself. But what was I providing?

One hundred and forty-four hours. I wonder how many hours I spent in Scripture during that same period of time. It seemed so arduous to spend time every day in Scripture. And yet, even though it was inconvenient to get to the gym and laborious once I got there, I got there.

I've been willing to continue to fight my flesh where fitness is concerned, and yet I'm tempted to view obedience differently. I tend to believe that, if I can just put my heart in order, obedience to the will of God will begin to come naturally.

Then I recall Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. Luke writes, “And he withdrew from them about a stone's throw, and knelt down and prayed, saying, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done.” And there appeared to him an angel from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down to the ground” (Luke 22:42-44).

Christ sweat drops of blood, for what? That He might do the will of the Father. His heart was (of course) in order, and yet he had to fight for obedience. By the sweat of his face, he ate his food—which was, as he said in John 4, “to do the will of him who sent me.”

I can remember only a few times in my life that I have fought for obedience even to the point of tears. Lord, teach me—in this suffering—how to sweat. Enable me to, like Christ, learn obedience by what I suffer and to be willing to fight for your will. Even now, Lord, be my strength...

Men as Trees

Something in my heart switched off a few days ago, and I just can't feel anything right now. It’s almost as though the glut of emotions over the past few weeks—toward God, toward my friends, toward my family—has just saturated my heart. I cannot hold one more tear (of joy, sadness, or any commixture of the two). The puzzling thing is that I can’t seem to release them either. Suspended. Frozen. There’s something in front of me that I cannot see.

I'm going through the motions of interacting with people, of praying, of studying Scripture, and yet everything is wearisome. I feel restrained or sedated, or somehow reduced to an unresponsive state. There’s something in front of me that I will not see.

I think that I'm a little bit afraid to hope now. It's been five weeks and I still (for all practical purposes) can't walk. I have no diagnosis, no treatment, and no clear path to a sustainable lifestyle. People assume that things are "getting back to normal" for me, but normal is not yet in view. There’s something in front of me that I haven’t yet seen.

Like the blind man, who had received Christ's healing touch and yet whose vision remained distorted, "I see men as trees, walking." I am not blind, yet I hardly see. I am not walking in despair; neither am I walking in faith. In the face of the indistinct, I am tempted to rely on what is most clear—the weakness of my limbs, the limits of my stamina—and stand warily where I am. Jesus, touch my eyes and restore my sight—that I may see you clearly and see myself and my circumstances in your light.

From Foot-Washing to Feet

No theological or philosophical reflections today, friends. Just the facts:

After being off those horrible steroids for only two days, my feet are swollen again (for the first time in nearly three weeks). I had to search for a pair of shoes that would fit this morning and have had much more trouble walking.

It seems logical to now assume that the steroids have been serving some useful purpose. But the new facts beg further questions, like this one: If my pain level was that high on steroids, what am I to expect now that I'm not medicated?

It is hard not to dwell on these questions and fears, so I am grateful that Scripture makes known to us the consequences of doing so. I read in Romans 8 that "to set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace." Here I am warned of the effects of clinging to this fear, which is neither fruitful nor faithful.

But to actually fight it, I must throw myself upon the God who is faithful. I must remember the God who has forgiven all my iniquity if I am to trust him to be the God who heals all my diseases. I'm going to spend some time doing that now.

Afraid

I am so afraid tonight that I can’t even tell where the paralysis is coming from. Is it in my feet and legs? Running along my spinal cord? Or is it only in my head? The debilitating pain has been with me all day, and it’s keeping me up tonight—Vicodin notwithstanding. Morphine notwithstanding. None of it has helped.

I always knew that my mind was an enemy, but I never suspected my body. Will I be able to run again? To live alone? To work a 40-hour week? Will I get to have sex (and enjoy it?), to have kids (and enjoy them?). Will a man find me attractive after a few years with a disability? What will “beautiful” even mean at that point? How will I cope with the pain? What about the depression? What, how, why, why, why?

Lord Jesus, save me from myself. Let me see myself as your blessed child instead of feeling myself to be condemned.I’m lying here and remembering the doctor’s questions, “Did you plan to get married? Have kids? What were your plans before now?” I offered only tears in response. He looked at me directly and said, “Your life is going to change, but your plans don’t have to.” Though I get the point, it’s not so easy in the dark night to differentiate between the two. The land of the living looks pretty dreary through these shades.

Oh God, “be to me a rock of refuge to which I may continually come. You have given the command to save me, for you are my rock and my fortress." Save me now, my God, not from this diseased body but from this faithless heart. “You, who have made me to see many troubles and calamities, will revive me again.” I will wait for you, I will trust in you, and I will hope in you, my God. Whom have I in heaven or on earth, but you?