Mealplans and Denial and Prayer

Today my Sunday school class was talking about prayer.

We do this every week this semester, an hour on Sunday mornings after we've all worshipped together, all of us in a room to talk and listen and to pray.

And today I was thinking about two things as we discussed the Lord's Prayer and why we don't pray as we ought to, why we don't ask for our daily bread and why we don't beg Him for His Kingdom to come. About why I don't.

Mealplans.

Denial.

First, mealplans.

This summer almost every weekend I stayed somewhere different. Every place I went was good, but every place was strange and different. Different families. A different bed. A different road to get there. A different church. A different way back to the next week of work, the next week of camp.

I like routine.

I like knowing my schedule, and being able to move within it as I please, to disappear when I want and return when I want, to know the lay of the land and where to run into certain people.

I like control.

But this summer, I didn't know what the coming weekend held. A lot of times I didn't even know where I would be staying a few days from then.

It always worked out beautifully. Because... in Aaron Shust's words, "It seems You're aware of so much more than I give You credit for."

I was always uncomfortable with it.

But it meant that I did a lot of praying. (And a lot of worrying.) And then a lot of more praying about my worrying. And then more praying. And then praying thanks when I had a place to go and when it was good.

At college, on the other hand, I have a meal plan.

I have a schedule. A backpack full of schedules. A syllabus to mark out the coming months of my life.

I have an apartment where I live, every day, all year. A plastic card that I swipe to get in.

It's comfortable.

And I forget to pray.

Forget that the meals that I eat here every day are provided by God just as graciously as the meals that were fed to me by almost-strangers all summer.

Forget that having a bed with my comforter on it and my pictures hung around it, and not having to pack everything I own once or twice a week and move, is evidence of God's provision as much as the couches and floors and beds that He gave with all my worrying.

And it is fitting to give thanks for these steady blessings just as much as the surprise ones.

May my mealplan not be excuse for ingratitude.

Second, denial.

One thing we discussed was that we don't like praying for God to change other people when we can see that they're being sinful because... well... you know... sometimes we do that stuff too. So... if we just don't pray for Him to change them, then we don't have to pray for Him to change us either, right?

Other way denial comes in works like this in my mental dialogue.

I have problem x.
I should pray. And get other people to pray.
If I pray, it's serious.

Therefore... obviously... if I don't pray, it isn't serious?

My brain is messed up.

My whole self is messed up.

Hence why I need a Savior.

So what are the mealplans and denials in your life?

At the right hand of the Father
Enthroned in majesty
Sits the perfect Son of God and Son of Man
And the hands He lifts in prayer for me
Still bear the marks of Calvary
And through those hands the Father bids me come
So I will boldly go
Before the throne and there bow low
And plead for mercy, grace and peace
On the merits of my great High Priest
Yes, I will boldly go...
[Gene Helsel]

Grace

These days, I'm thinking about grace.

I'm working on developing a character named Gras Chwerthin -- grace-to-laugh.

I'm praying for more grace in my life, because I'll often say words fast and sarcastic, or unthinkingly, and not make sure that they all point to him.

I love songs that speak of grace. Right now, especially Lifehouse's Breathing. Last year I had them hung on a wall in my room. This year they just echo in my head.

I'm finding my way back to sanity, again
Though I don't really know what
I am gonna do when I get there
Take a breath and hold on tight
Spin around one more time
And gracefully fall back in the arms of grace

I am hanging on every word you say
And even if you don't want to speak tonight
That's alright, alright with me
'Cause I want nothing more than to sit
Outside Heaven's door and listen to you breathing
Is where I want to be

I am looking past the shadows
Of my mind into the truth and
I'm trying to identify
The voices in my head
God, which one's you?
Let me feel one more time
What it feels like to feel
And break these calluses off me
One more time

'Cause I am hanging on every word you say
And even if you don't want to speak tonight
That's alright, alright with me
'Cause I want nothing more than to sit
Outside your door and listen to you breathing
Is where I want to be

I don't want a thing from you
Bet you're tired of me waiting
For the scraps to fall
Off your table to the ground
I just want to be here now

I wonder, when I realize that I do not know how to accept help offered some times, when I am confronted with the fact that it is necessary and good to accept love as well as give it...

How do I do that?

Is there a way to accept grace gracefully?

Or do we always grab onto it with desperate greedy fingers?

Sometimes it is more easy to live in the grace, to live in a piece of shalom, because it makes sense right then and fits and the world hums softly, strings in tune.

But then when something happens that opens a rift in how things should be, it is like being dragged underwater until I can't breathe, cannot see.

So what then is the proper response to the grace He provides?

How do I model the assured confidence that His grace that His grace has never let go of me, that He always pulls me out of the waters that wash over my head...

...and also the gasping gratitude that clings to the lifesaver, gulps in the oxygen, and falls at the feet of the Rescuer in extravagant worship?

I don't know. I don't have answers to these questions.

So I'll wait. And ask Him more questions.

And tangle my fingers in His grace and goodness.

Beneath Your fingers
The wood glows
Grains grown patterns and light catching in it
For You are the Master Craftsman
And in You
We live
And move
And have our being.

So what of the trees
That once grew green
And provided sanctuary
For those who hid in their leaves?
What when the storm came
And lightening struck
And all was left in shattered
Blackened
Charred
Ruin?

We still seek Your hands
With the thunder and wind
To come searching through
And take out Your tools
With Your drawn-out plans
To rebuild us again.

So what of the wood
When those You entrusted
With delicate tools
Grow careless and harsh?
What when they pound
And scar through the grains
And only
Gashes
Are left?

We come back to You
The One who first knew
And run to Your arms
And cry out for healing
That Your word would sink in
And close up the broken.
That the jagged ends
Would not be left splintering sharp.

So what of the dust
That has spilled from the gouges
Covering the surface
On which we live?
What when our hearts
Crumble in pieces
Can we say
Father
Forgive?

We stare in Your eyes
And find the reflection
Mixed with Your dreams
Of who You have made us
And it is more
And it is good.

Older Sisters

It's almost three hours we've been talking for now, three hours that stretched long and hard, me silenced and unsure of what to say. The hours stretched over two days, over a table with benches and a bridge that we dangled feet and shoes off of, a pavilion and a bench and now a bench in a shelter, watching rain come down, or the possibility of it coming. I don't remember which it was, now.

It seems like it should be raining and grey. The stories are all broken and weary, and I look at her face when I dare and marvel at the wrongness of it. She's barely the age of my youngest brother, and this all hurts for so many reasons, but her face and her voice say that she doesn't let it hurt, not any more.

I guess that I wouldn't either.

I still wonder how we connected, why she decided that I'd be the one she'd talk to there. Because when I thought back on it, I realized that she had been my small shadow even in the days before I especially noticed her. And it is right, but I didn't know at the time where my attention should be, and I wonder how she did.

Somewhere in there, both of us giving and both of us taking and both of us reaching for a place where it is safe to say these things, I must have asked something.

Maybe it was something like, What do you need?

Her answer came clear.

"I wish that my older sister would just talk to me about it."

I'm not her older sister, I can't be that.

"She's been through the same stuff and I just want to know how to deal with it."

And my heart cracks all over again, sadness at so many things in this sad story.

And I agree with her.

When I was younger, I thought being the oldest kid was the best. No one to boss you around. No one's shadow to fall under, no one's reputation to live up to.

And then I came to college... and it wasn't long in at all, interacting with older students, that I thought...
Wow.

God has been gracious in giving me, a few years later than I would have liked it perhaps, a number of girls who I consider "older sisters".

And so I in turn seek to find out: What makes someone a good older sister? I have four younger siblings, two of them sisters.

I have begun to ask. Girls with older sisters: What did she do well? What do you wish she had done? Girls with younger sisters: What do you do? What do you wish that you had done?

The conversation sometimes fizzles away into awkward, uneasy looks, or a few short sentences. But sometimes it's all love and memories, wrapped up with heartache. Sometimes it's raw pain and warnings to do better.

Here is the answer I seem to have gotten most: Be there.

For me, it's been having someone saying,
"...you're not alone...
...I know where you're going, and it's not that far...
It's too far to walk, but you don't have to run...
You'll get there in time."
[Jars of Clay]

Why I Do What I Do.

We slammed our bodies into seats, backpacks onto the floor, all in a rush of exchanging last minute greetings and reminders before our test in Augustine today. Hey! How're you doing? and Epistemic authority is someone who knows what they're talking about, moral authority is one that lives it out -- to be a good authority you have to be both. And I got teasing about not being at the Reformed Campus Ministry presentation last night -- yes, I hung signs for it, yes, I ran into some of the guys coming out from it, and yes, I was doing something else.

Keith turned to shut up both me and Matt as we semi-argued about it. "I know how to get her there, how to make sure that she comes."

"No, you don't," I said.

"Yes, I do," he insisted.

"Nuhuh."

He grinned. "I'll get Professor Miller to come speak..."

There was a second while my brain thought of our humanities professor -- who I loved -- but it's hardly failsafe. Then I realized who he meant.

"She loves him," he added.

"YES!" I said, rather loudly. "I WOULD COME!"

Poor Matt, he had no clue who we were talking about, and our exclamations of "WHAT? YOU DON'T KNOW WHO HE IS??? HE'S AWESOME!" hardly helped.

But I thoroughly recanted as Keith continued to list more and more ridiculous scenarios of things I'd miss to come hear him speak.

The truth is, though, I wouldn't necessarily miss all those things to hear him speak. I do love hearing him, and I have great respect for what he says. College has been an exercise in figuring out which things to make time to listen to, though, because there is not enough time to listen to everything that could be good and beneficial to listen to.

I'd go to see him.

I'd go because I love him, because he changed my life with his Missionary Preparedness Test of unquestioning, prompt, cheerful obedience for a year.

I'd go because of him.

It's a point that made its way into my head as we read through John in staff devos at camp this summer, one that I have blogged about before. Following.

Following is relational. Discipleship is relational. What I will drop schoolwork and other responsibilities for is, ultimately, relational. To this day, as a junior in college, I'm pretty sure that the latest I've ever stayed up doing homework is three in the morning. (Which, granted, is late.) But I do not even have a count on the times I've stayed up past that with someone else, or the times someone else has stayed up past that with me. For whatever reason -- because we needed to talk, because we were having fun, because we just didn't feel like being in our own beds, in our own rooms, alone.

It's something I've come to pinpoint as the driving factor what I will or will not do -- what are the relationships that drive this? (Useful if you want to understand me, I guess...) It's not always the only factor, but it tends to be primary.

And that makes it hard to answer why questions sometimes, the questions of friendship. Because, in the end, I can only answer by saying that it is about communion.

But it's legit. Jesus came to seek and to save the lost. To bring us back into a right relationship with God. So we love God because He first loved us and love others because of the same reason.

Not-Real and Real

Lately I've been listening to a lot of music by Sandra McCracken. At first listen, her music does not always have the most polished sound. Or something. I'm sort of an atrocious music critic, because what sells me is the same thing that sells me on a movie: the story.

And her songs have story.

I've especially been appreciating her song Lock and Key.

You can hold your world inside
You can scream out loud
Or you can fight these enemies
And kid fears tonight if you want to

You can drive your car out to L.A.
You can lose yourself just to make your way
You can change your mind
Or change your name if you want to

But you're under lock and key
All by yourself
And sometimes you just need somebody else

I cannot read your complex mind
I can't understand
All the reasons why
But if you let me in, I can try if you want me to

And I can say I'm sorry if you wanna hear it
It might be too little too late, my dear
I can't take back the pain of all those years, but I want to

But you're under lock and key
All by yourself
And sometimes you just need somebody else

If you want someone by your side
I could build a bridge
Across the river where we can
Wash these broken pieces downstream...
Do you trust me?

But you're under lock and key
All by yourself
And sometimes you just need somebody else

Sometimes you just need --- somebody else.

I feel like that's the song of my semester. Please note that it really has been a great semester so far. My classes are great, or at least easy; Dag is going well; I love all three of the girls I live with, and C1 is around. My college world is pretty great.

But I've also been smacked in the face (very lovingly, of course) over the past year or so with the fact that I have trust issues. Maybe we all do, but I don't have to deal with everyone's, do I? It can be pretty well boiled down to a few things, namely, hubris and fear of vulnerability. Oh, I love people, and I love getting to know people... but only to a point.

When that becomes me asking for help, I'll shut down a lot. Which usually works fine for my purposes, because I think a lot of people are content to not be asked for help.

Yet sometimes I do need someone else.

So my friend Elaine and I talked a lot recently about this sort of stuff. We both have a lot of miserable memories of things that we failed on, decisions that we second guess and break with sadness at the consequences and wish that we could have done differently, could have known more, could have...
something.

Some days it seems like both of us breathe in rhythm with the pain of the Newsboys' song Elle G: "Every old demon/ playing back a crime// If they'd needed blood/ I'd have gladly given mine." But there are costs that you cannot pay, however much you're willing to. You can't change the past, the decisions that you made, or that other people made.

It's a variant of what I term the "what-if game". And it is deadly and destructive, poisonous and addictive, so easy to see someone else doing and tell them to snap out of, so hard to snap myself out of. It seems so innocent. But it strikes at the very root of who He made us to be. It whispers, You did badly. You are bad. You can say, "I just want to consider what I could do differently if the situation comes up again." Yeah right. It is a self-bashing that is a denial of the sovereignty of God, and a time when I need to preach to myself, as John Piper calls it.

A time when I need to hear the words of John...

By this we know love, that he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers. But if anyone has the world's goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God's love abide in him? Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth.

By this we shall know that we are of the truth and reassure our heart before him; for whenever our heart condemns us, God is greater than our heart, and he knows everything. Beloved, if our heart does not condemn us, we have confidence before God; and whatever we ask we receive from him, because we keep his commandments and do what pleases him. And this is his commandment, that we believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he has commanded us. 24 Whoever keeps his commandments abides in God, and God in him. And by this we know that he abides in us, by the Spirit whom he has given us. [I John 3:16-24]

Whenever our heart condemns us, God is greater than our heart...

That is easy to say, hard to believe.

It's hard to believe the truth, to reject the lies.

Suzanne Collins concretized it nicely in her book Mockingjay:

Peeta's sitting in a circle with the soldiers from 13, who are armed but talking openly with him. Jackson has devised a game called "Real or Not Real" to help Peeta. He mentions something he thinks happened, and they tell him if it's true or imagined, usually followed by a brief explanation.

"Most of the people from Twelve were killed in the fire."

"Real. Less than nine hundred of you made it to Thirteen alive."

"The fire was my fault."

"Not real. President Snow destroyed Twelve the way he did Thirteen, to send a message to the rebels."

Sometimes you just need somebody else.

Somebody to say Real or Not Real.

"I wasn't ready," I cried out to Elaine.

"You were," she said.

We're both right. In the specific situation that was under discussion, there was a lot that would have been beneficial for me to know. But there was no way for me to have known it, to have known that I needed to know that... no matter how many layers I take it back, there wasn't another way. And she is right, because for me to say that I was not ready is for me to challenge God's timing. Don't I believe that He is sovereign? That He knows best? That He put me where I was, with all my ignorance and naivete, for His own purposes? Maybe His purposes were not what I thought they were.

Ouch.

And she added, "You only remember when the stakes are high and you failed. You don’t ever remember the ones where the stakes were low, or when the stakes were high and you succeeded. You only remember when you failed and the stakes were too high to do that."

Because I am naturally contentious (which she may have been taking slight advantage of), I pretty immediately started coming up with situations where the stakes were high and things worked out without all the collapsing brokenness.

Know what? There were a lot of them. And some of them were huge. And my guess is that we tend to know way more of the situations where everything went wrong and we fell short than the ones where it was enough. The It's a Wonderful Life phenomenon.

And it's something to wrestle with, because I don't want to pass off my mistakes as fated. I want to give all that I am to being faithful, to living faithful.

But I am also called to heal and be healed, to make things right and to be made right. To trust Him and to trust the people He has put around me.

To be content to be human, finite and fragile.

So I work on learning to sing another song by Sandra McCracken, Now and Then

Stay with me now and then
From all sides hem me in
Sing me a song
So I can close my eyes

and in church today, we sing Zephaniah 3:17.

And I remember.

And rejoice.

And trust.

And it is good.

Yahweh your God is in your midst,
a mighty one who will save;
He will rejoice over you with gladness;
He will quiet you by his love;
He will exult over you with loud singing.