Living in the unexpected

The other day, I was reading the story of Jesus calming the sea (8:23-27), and I found myself wondering, "Just what did the disciples expect Jesus to do, anyway?"

There they were in the middle of the Sea of Galilee in a boat when they found themselves suddenly being tossed to and fro by huge waves of a storm! The text says that the boat was "covered with the waves" but Jesus was asleep. It's easy for me to picture Jesus (the Prince of Peace) sleeping in the midst of a violent storm, likely getting wet from the spray of the waves and the falling rain, but still sound asleep. Then the disciples in a panic, wake him crying, "Save us, Lord; we are perishing!"

He arises, calling out to the storm to stop; and it does!

The text says that the men "marveled, saying, 'What kind of a man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him?'"

Clearly this is not what they expected. So, what did they expect?

For that matter, what do I expect when I cry out to God for help, or for anything? What do I expect as I come each day to "just be with him"? Are my motives really that pure?

Returning again over the next days to Matthew 8 & 9, I began to see that with each story Jesus was doing the unexpected -- touching a leper, honoring a Roman centurian, leaving when the crowds began to gather, setting his own terms for discipleship, rescuing the demon-possessed, forgiving sins, calling a tax-collector to be one of the chosen twelve. . .

Because he was always doing the unexpected, people reacted in a variety of ways: fearful, amazed, praising God, angry, celebrating.

How do I react when Jesus does the unexpected in my life? Why are his actions unexpected anyway? Could it be that I'm caught off guard and surprised because I just don't get him? I forget that he refuses to be kept in the box of my theology, rules, and ways of interpreting the world. He continues to be infinite God and therefore by definition beyond figuring out within my finite reason or explanations. He is and always will be messy and mysterious and if he ever fails to be, he will no longer be God.

And so, if he and his ways are beyond finding out; and his plans for me are likewise not always clear and often unexpected in their process, how do I trust a God like this?

As I have sat with him these days enjoying his presence and offering these musings to him, this night as I write, he answers. He reminds me of a truth I learned one special weekend last Spring:

Jesus is present.

Jesus is active.

Jesus is good.

When all other lights have gone out this is my star of Eärendil. When my world is rocked by uncertainty and tossed by circumstances out of my control and my habits of activity and anxiety offer their false refuge, to these truths I return. To these truths I hold.

Repeatedly Jesus gives me a picture of a path of stones in a dark world. I cannot see what is around me and the noises of the night sometimes fill me with fear. All that is visible is a light similar to a flashlight shining on the stone in front of me where my next footfall is to be. If I stand too long without taking that next step I begin to topple and at times he has had to set me aright and support me because of my hesitancy. Moving on is the key to maintaining balance. Yet, a single step is all that is given at a time. When I allow my anxious thoughts to quiet, I can hear his soft voice saying, "Now step here, and now here. Good. Now one more step. . ." To me this is what it is to follow Jesus, and why I must cling to the truth that he is present, active, and in all his being good.

Return to the place you know

Although I have written quite allot since I left for my trip back in August, I haven't posted anything. I've kept meaning to go back to what I had written and clean it up before posting it, but after reading deAnn's post today, I've been challenged to write from where I am today, because I am writing and God is moving.

The activity of these months has left me in a state of burnout feeling trapped by my circumstances and wondering when things might change. Thankfully a friend challenged me to return to the place of quiet, being fully present with my Lover-God, hearing His voice and feeling His touch.

I was reminded how much I value time with Him -- not just time for processing or writing or reading, but time to just sit with Him -- to enjoy His presence. No agenda -- freedom to speak or not -- a chance to just be -- to exist -- to abide with Him.

The clarity that comes in purpose and being out of these times is amazing. The focused sense of who and whose I am is more impacting and of greater worth than anything else in my life.

The activities of any given day pull me forward into them and away from this time with Him. But this time is like breathing, like coming up for air, without which I risk drowning, losing all perspective and meaning, and having nothing to give.

And so this day, I return to my preparatory prayer, a quote by Ted Loder, and I sit in quietness in the arms of Jesus.

Now, Oh Lord,

Calm me into a quietness

That heals and listens,

And moulds my longs and passions

My wounds and wonderings

Into a more holy and human shape.

“No going back”

Oops.
I so wanted off this ledge. I thought I could make it, but in mid-step, I slipped. And now, I’m hanging here for dear life. (A rabbit clinging to a small shelf with its out-stretched front paws, near falling. A small rabbit, yet too big for the smaller shelf.)
I long for freedom from this small space, this small story I’ve found myself trapped in. But when it comes to jumping free, at the very moment of potential release, I try to turn back, and in my maneuvering, I fall and find myself clinging to the very thing I have so long loathed. Is it not better to let go and risk the consequences of the fall than stay in this small, restricted space? (Later. . .) Now that I have been hanging on so long, it’s almost become comfortable. Maybe I could stay here, if I just stop struggling.

What a waste! What are you doing, rabbit? Let go! You are so much more, can be so much more. Where do you think you will fall? Don’t you see? Don’t you know? He has been trying to get your attention for years. He can be trusted. His heart is good. To let go is to fall into the center of love. Can you imagine what that would be like? Just let go!

Lord, you have written a story so much larger for me. Give me the courage to release, let go of this known and risk the unknown with the confident assurance of your character to depend on.

(These thoughts came while interacting with a similar rabbit in an exhibit by Beth Cavener Stichter at the Renwick Gallery.)

One step beyond the threshold (June30)

I now stand one step past the threshold – the door has slammed shut behind me, even startling me the way it closed so fast and so firmly. With this closing, I spin about to face the door again realizing that the way is closed and closed for good. There is no need to even try opening it again. I’m thankful that the door is made of glass so I can see through to where I’ve been. And so as I look – what do I see? What do I feel? So many scenes, and people, and experiences. So impacting – I am changed because of all of these. – but I know that standing gazing too long backwards serves no purpose. The door is here, it is closed, and I am on the other side.

As I slowly turn, there is a touch of fear, of caution, of anxiety. What do I expect to see? Will it be bright or dark? expansive or small? warm or cold?

As I consider my new world, this unknown place, I find it somehow familiar.
A clearing of grass, nicely trimmed, soft, inviting.
A gravel path leading off to the left winding into the surrounding trees and undergrowth and disappearing beyond my sight.
The sun’s brightness beginning to fill this space almost as if rising to meet me from above the trees, burning away the clouds of morning, now illuminating this place.
Gazing through the surrounding “wall” of trees, rays of sunlight can be seen passing through the canopy above bringing out the various shades of green from the leaves of the trees and shrubs.
A soft, cool breeze brushes my face as I turn toward it closing my eyes and listening to its affects on the leaves around me. I hear the call of birds and their flitting about along with the movement of squirrels and other life in the undergrowth – yet, their movements are distant and are unseen from where I stand.
The fear fades, my heart settles.
Your presence surrounds me.
I sense Your love.
I am a peace.

No call to press on, no pressure, only rest. I move away from the door with a backward glance and then a leaving behind, walking into the soft grass. Slipping off my shoes to see if it feels as good as it looks. It does. The feel of St. Augustine beneath my feet and between my toes, there’s nothing like it to this Texas girl! The grass is cool, but the air is warm and comfortable.

I notice a rolled blanket against the wall near the door – it spreads easily and softly out onto a section of open grass – lying down and looking up, I see the clear, brilliant blue of the sky – the previous misty clouds are gone – I settle – I rest – and soon I sleep.

And so I do.

(I could add explanations for what I’ve written, but nothing seems as well to convey my feelings on that day. Be in this place with me, adding your experience to mine, and I think you will understand what a gift from God this was to my heart after so long a journey and on the verge of such an amazing future.)

Written the last day of residency (June 29)

And so, here it is – the last day of my medical training. After all of the time, energy, effort, sacrifice, victories, successes, failures, and losses of these eleven years. What does it mean to come to the end of something like this – it feels like reaching the end of my life because for at least thirty years this is the direction I have been heading – to say I’m done seems so ethereal.

I know life’s not over – far from it! Yet, to close a door that for so long has remained opened. . . To walk through this door today and out into an unknown as vast and broad as being an attending physician. Wow! If I were walking alone, and if I had not grown to accept the goodness of my Companion’s heart (as demonstrated by how he has shaped me to this point), I would probably have found a way to stay in the safety of this educational experience – but I know that such a choice is not for me. I may return to the residency setting but not out of fear but out of calling.

The view through this door appears broad and the path turns sharply and quickly out of my view, obscured by the shadows of the unknown. It’s like a thick undergrowth beneath the woods just beyond this small clearing surrounding my exit? Or is it an entrance, a way into a world to be explored? Why do my thoughts take this turn? Is there a lesson here greater than a transition in life? Could this be what it will be like to exit (or enter) through the door of death one day?

Leaving the familiar behind, the formerly comfortable to enter a world I’ve only heard about from those who have gone before – a world Jesus knows well – one that He has shaped for me, unique to me – common to others who have walked this way before but not the same – a future experience shaped by and through my previous experiences – my interpretation, appreciation, and awareness of my new world is a direct result of my journey to this point. Could this be what Heaven is like?

Prior to this, through the years I have caught an occasional whiff of what it might be like to be done with my training, to be a REAL physician. Those times encouraged me in my journey but also served to enhance a growing dissatisfaction with my current state of being still in the process of residency. But it was this dissatisfaction that compelled me on to complete the journey. Is it not the same with Heaven? Don’t I catch a whiff of the fragrance in the experiences here on earth? The brilliance of colors in the sunset last evening, the words of a friend spoken at the right time, the presence of something (Someone) with me as I settle into a new understanding of how I am made. Each of these, an encouragement in the process while also intensifying my longings for more.

And so, I pass through the door . . .

A life discovered

While hiking recently through Pinchot State Park, I sat to consider, to draw, to write. As I sat quietly long enough, I began to see a change in the world around me. When I stopped, I initially heard an occasional insect flying by and the distant call of birds. Suddenly a noise prompted me to look up from my book. As I did so, my eyes met those of a grey squirrel. Her white furry belly was exposed as she stood upright. She looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her frozen in the middle of the path beside which I sat. Scurrying behind a nearby tree she hid for a time before gathering enough courage to cross the path on into the underbrush on the other side. As she did, I began to hear the sound of other squirrels scampering about in the trees above until I saw two venture onto the path to my right oblivious to my presence. Soon other squirrels were seen and heard moving about. Birds began calling to one another and could be seen flitting around in the underbrush.

So much life,

Previously hidden due to my loud pace through these woods,

Visible only once I stopped

And quieted.

Likewise it is with my own life,

Missing so much because I scare it away with all of my activity,

A life that bravely pursues its desire to venture out when I am willing

To sit quietly,

To watch,

To listen,

To learn.

The Potter's Hands

Have you ever worked with clay? I guess I did as a child but never as an adult. At a Shalem retreat, I had the opportunity to work with clay, and wow, what an experience!

The clay – a dark grey block, irregularly shaped. Gripping it – unexpectedly cool – firm – now softening – becoming warm in my hands as I begin to work it. Pressing, squeezing, clutching it tightly in my grip, I leave an imprint on it as it leaves one on me, staining the ridges and lines of my hands and finding its way under my nails. Initially with force and strength I work the clay, but soon – quicker than I imagined – it becomes soft and pliable, malleable and workable.

As I form the clay into an initial shape, I soon abandon this plan for another. It becomes apparent as I work the clay that I have more than I need, at least for the initial part of this project. I tear off a piece, and then another until I reach a size that enables me to form it more easily into a vessel initially resembling a rudimentary vase. Choosing then to turn this tubular wide-mouthed form upside down, I place it onto one of the before discarded pieces. It now takes the form of a tower, planted firmly on a broad and solid base of rock.

Initially, working the clay takes strength, with my fingers pressing hard into its form leaving clear marks of influence, but as the larger shape is completed and my work moves to the subtleties of the piece, this changes. A light touch, a gentle stroke from a single finger, these are sufficient for smoothing a rough edge or unifying a place of irregularity. A hard press will mar the work and must be withheld. Likewise, in the piece of clay called Me, in the past His fingers have pressed necessarily hard into areas of my life needing re-shaping. During these times, His influence has been large and obvious, and I thank Him for this. Now however, He works in more subtle ways, almost hidden and imperceptible. His touch is gentle and loving, smoothing out irregularities and edges while adding details and qualities of beauty and grace. It is these, when complete, that will demonstrate the character of my Potter, that of imagination, creativity, beauty and love.

Jesus, forgive me for not recognizing the various ways in which your hands mold me – at times with strength and large marks of influence while at others with gentleness and subtlety that actually create the greater beauty. And thank you that You are willing to hold me and work me in your hands, willing to be stained and marked by me.