Hope and Doubt

I crawl out of my bed, my short legs stretching for the long awaited floor. I grab my laptop, and tiptoe out the door. Stumbling through the darkness I plant myself on the living room carpet of an apartment that breathes uncertainty, pregnant and swollen with the fraternal twins Hope and Doubt.

Hope that this will all work.
Doubt that I'll ever healthfully live with people.

I am afraid of planting myself here; afraid of God uprooting me again and not having my own piece of the earth to call Home. I fear that I will never grow tall and strong like the majestic redwoods of my new state, that my trunk will never grow wide and provide hospitality to all who seek shelter, that my limbs will never stretch beneath the blazing sun to protect all those who seek comfort, that I will be chopped down or blown over or burned to the ground before I ever have time to reach my full height.

There is a fear that I will never have time to grow.
There is a fear of growing, only to be transplanted.

It is there, in the darkness, Doubt is silenced by Hope. The one true Hope whispers, "My child, I have laid your days before you. I know where I will plant you."

My dreams of being a tall, beautiful, glorifying redwood are cut at the foundation and I am reminded that they are not the only things of the forest. They stand firm and tall, and yet perhaps I am designed to be something more small.

Something that can bend and move with the changing winds.
Something that is free and untamed and always searching.

Something that can come and go without a care, leaving my mark everywhere; a simple taste of the Son in many places rather than a landmark settled in one. A dandelion is small, but it can overcome an entire garden in days. The small spores are released and carried and soon the whole land is covered with the scent of pollen, lingering a few weeks then migrating again to the next location.

And as I sit here in my unfurnished apartment, unpacking the boxes of move number twenty, I cannot help but think, "Lord, what is the meaning of this?" My soul rips in two as it finds both excitement in the travel and fear in the uncertainty.

I spend half my days searching for international airfare and mission-esque jobs around the world, living as an annual garden.

The other half is spent daydreaming about white picket fences and cul-de-sacs and raising my kids in small town America as an established forest.

And the Lord says, "Forget about your stuff. Forget about your comfort. Follow me. My dreams will become your dreams." And I fervently pray for all of my Maker's will to become all my own.

I pray for me to forget about the white picket fences.
To forget about the bicycles in the cul-de-sac.
To forget about the comfort and the control and the contentment.
To let go of everything else and let God flow.

My fear shifts from one of uncertainty of control to uncertainty of obedience.
What if I never grow because I am too afraid to allow the wind to carry me to a better field?

My body longs to be a landmark, settled and steady in one land; yet my heart knows this is not true. My heart knows that I have been shaped for another life; it knows that it cannot beat to the same rhythm for long. It is here that Doubt and Hope collide again.

Hope that the Lord will use all of this for good.
Doubt that the Lord will leave me unfulfilled.

"For everything in the world - the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life - comes not from the Father, but from the world. The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever."

1 John 2:16-17

All whine, no wound

I don't usually do a blog about the oddities of my life without some mini-sermon attached, but here we go...

It's been a bit of a blood bath over here.

I got this brilliant idea one day to get a pet betta fish. Which I did - his name is Glitter. (No, I wasn't an idiot who got two males together).

We then discovered these adorable little fiddler crabs and bought three of them (MacBeth, Hamlet, and Romeo). Google told me guppies could live in perfect harmony with our Shakespearean friends.

Google lied. Within twenty  minutes Gatsby #1 was dead. A half hour later Stella #1 suffered the same fate. (We like to name our creatures after literature. Call us honors students.) We threw the surviving fish into a mason jar and made an emergency run out to the thrift store to find some vases for our poor refugees.

My mother was of no sympathy. After expressing my frustration, she simply replied with "Yeah, crabs eat fish." Simple as that. 15 years of living on the swamp and I have learned nothing. Apparently I am an aquatics idiot.

We returned to find that Glitter had killed his shrimp (aka tank algae eater) friend. The shrimp that was with the guppies has recently gone missing...

Fish keep dying. (We keep naming the fish Stella and Gatsby. So if you want your fish to live, don't name them this.) And we keep feeding them to the crabs. It's like a train wreck - too horrible to watch, too intriguing to look away. It's like National Geographic in my kitchen. I took a picture, but I think it's too gruesome post on such a lovely blog.

I pulled Gatsby #2 out of the bottom of his guppy bowl this morning. That's five creatures dead in less than a week. I am a horrible mother and should never be trusted with living creatures, sentient or otherwise.

Except for babies. I love babies. They're easier to keep alive than fish, anyway. Babies make noise when there is something wrong, and it's much harder to put them on a bookshelf and forget about them.

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I enjoyed a lovely wedding, celebrating the union of two of my dearest mentors.

I think we were three seconds into the ceremony before I was getting misty.

Thirty-five seconds and I was red-faced, choking back tears.

Thank God for large sunglasses and all eyes on the bride, but good Lord - get this child a tissue and some self control.

I danced with the groom. Which ended up me looking up at him, holding my hands out and saying "I don't know what to do with these." Good thing he is a decent lead, because during half a second of awkwardness of me not knowing what to do with my feet or hands, I wanted to bail.

Of course I let Father Dearest know that I slow-danced with a boy, not letting him know it was the groom/my mentor/someone of no threat or interest. But I gotta make him think that there is a chance of me being married off one day. Mother Dearest chimed in with "Slow dancing is how we got your baby sisters."

Face palm.

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My diet of sugary cereal and Ramen is going well. I don't know when the last time I saw a vegetable, fruit, or hunk of meat is, but I am still alive. (I'm looking at you, scurvy and anemia).

However, my limited menu hasn't exactly saved me time in the kitchen. In two days I had dropped my food three times - one of those times included spilling an entire cup of boiling water on my poor little hand in an effort to quickly pour the water so it would not run down the side of the cup and burn my other poor little hand.

Fail.

Suddenly I found myself running cool water down my swollen, chubby, red fingers and choking down as many pain relief pills as my liver would allow while simultaneously blinking back tears and trying to keep myself from vomiting from the pain. (My pain tolerance is rapidly decreasing as I age).

After a quick Google search (using one hand to type), and many disgusting images that I will never unsee, it was determined that I probably had a second degree burn in the making and that I could possibly need medical attention. I really didn't want to go to urgent care because they take forever and I still owe them money from the rose bush incident of 2012. I made a phone call to a friend asking her to be on stand-by for an urgent care run and made another call to our delightful 24 nurse hotline (I'm a frequent user of them). Unfortunately I got a nurse who, although sweet, took her job a bit too seriously and decided to give me a lecture on the importance of having a solid general physician even while I am in college and a run-down on the difference between ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and naproxen. She then proceeded to give me step by step instructions for caring for my burn as I paced around the kitchen writhing in pain, watching the clock creep closer to closing time for the medical center.

Twenty minutes later she finally told me that unless my blisters busted, I would not be needing an urgent care trip. I finally wrangled her off the phone after swearing on my unborn child's life that I would find a general physician (lies). The excitement for the night was over. My dear friend on stand-by took me out of ice cream, promising that it would make my hand feel better.

It did.

I texted Mother Dear about the incident, certain that her maternal and nursing instincts would kick in. They did - only to tell me I was being ridiculous. She's that person in my life.

After much insisting that I was in fact dying, she gave up on telling me to put some aloe on it and hush. I woke up the next morning to a hand that was still fully attached to my arm with no evidence that such a traumatic accident had ever occurred. No blisters. No chubby swollen fingers. No red streaks that would surely scar. Nothing.

I'm all whine and no wound.

The problem of comfort

I finished all six seasons of The Hills in one month.

I'll wait while you judge.

Done? Great - because during those 102 (not to be confused with the current temperature) episodes carefully spread out over the course of three or four weeks and a gallon of ice cream, I've learned a couple of things.

They don't worry about paying the bills, because LC makes $1.5 million a season. They don't spend hours pouring over search engines and (heaven forbid) newspapers to find a job outside of television because MTV has internships and snazzy positions already lined up for the purpose of the plot. There are no lonely Friday nights because there's parties to crash and bars to trash. They don't worry about cowlicks and gum stuck under their shoes and dirty bathrooms and all the other mundane nonsense that some days will send us over the edge.

It's perfect. (Besides Speidi).

Then Kristen runs off to Europe to "make [herself] uncomfortable" so that she can "find [herself]".

Her words, not mine. She moved to the other side of the world because there was something missing in her perfect little life.

A purpose.
A drive.
Something that even on her darkest days will pull her out of bed and tell her "You have much to find today."

Did she find it? I don't know.

Do they not know that they were made for so much more?
Do they not know that there is another world beyond what is outside their front door?

Jesus tells us about the danger of comfort, the power in suffering. He talks so much about having everything and yet nothing at all.  Camels, rich young rulers, eyes of needles, selling souls, birthrights, beatitudes...

And Kristen understood this. She found the truth without even knowing she was searching for it.

It is in comfort that we do not find peace, but boredom. It is here that we are left with a constant lust for that which is more beautiful, and in the process find nothing at all that has beauty. It is the same as the addict seeking a harder and harder hit, or the man viewing more and more provocative pictures. The search for comfort ties us into a cycle which knows no end for it recognizes no beginning.

There's a reason ancient monks wore outfits of rough hair, whipped their own backs, and took freezing cold baths. There is something powerful in suffering. It is in our hardest moments that we find our truest self. It is in our truest self that we find the Truth. It is here that we bend our knees and plead to the Almighty for relief, and if we are lucky, it is here that we also thank Him for His breath - the breath that set life into motion and will bring all suffering to an end. On the other side we may come out scarred, but with a gauge to measure good from evil, light from dark, peace from terror.

And we endure only a glimpse of the agony of Christ.

"God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world." -- C.S. Lewis

Provides and guides

Whether or not we accept it and want to hear it, we are attracted towards truth.

We may hate it. We may reject it. We may turn our backs to it. But by golly, there is something powerful in it that, when push comes to shove, the deepest parts of our heart cannot deny. Even demons know the truth. They shudder - for it is powerful, too powerful to contain or understand.

The truth has been engraved on our hearts and yet we forget.
Or maybe we ignore.

We doubt but do not deny, for doubt is a question and disbelief is a statement.
I spend a lot of time questioning.

The last time I talked to my biological grandmother was Christmas. The time before that was graduation. The time before that was sophomore year of high school. Yet I talked to her again a few days ago on my biological mother's cell phone (that's another story for another day). Our conversation went a little something like this:

"Hello, how are you doing?"

"I'm fine. How are you?"

"I'm doing alright. How's school?"

"It's alright. Classes haven't started yet."

"You know, why don't you become a doctor so you can help us?"

"Because I'm becoming a social worker so I can help you."

"You think we need a social worker? You think we are those kinds of people?"

"Everybody needs a good social worker."

"Well. Do you want to talk to your mother again?"

That's been the only conversation we've had since I started school. The shame of me fighting for the dignity of the tax collectors of our time (my grandmother "could not deal with such lowly people" and does not want me to bear their burdens, either). The selfishness of me following my calling instead of obtaining a career that would pull my family out of poverty. The wastefulness of getting a degree that may help hundreds, but would leave me perpetually bourgeois. 

My mother came on the line. Our usual conversation occurred again:

"How's California?"

"It's nice. Kind of hot right now."

"Why don't you come back to Florida?"

"Because I like it here."

"We miss you. Come back to your family."

"I need to be here."

"You could go to Embry Riddle."

"I'm not interested in aeronautics."

"You could go to school here for free."

"I need to be at APU."

It's been hard, to say the least.

These are the days when I cry out, "Lord! Did I make the right choice? Did I listen to Your Voice?"

I talked to my biological father (I've been on a roll with contacting the family this summer). He sang a new song, a song that was so fresh and needed and beautiful and longed for:

"I want you to be able to have a nice life. Where you can go out to eat three times a week and have a big flat screen television."

"Those aren't the things I want in life."

"I know. But I want you to have the option."

"I cannot, in good standing, have all of those nice things and know that there are people without food. I want to live simply so that I may live generously."

"I know. And I have accepted that. I want you to be happy in whatever you do."

"I love social work. I love what I am doing."

"And I support you. I'm working on getting your mother on board, too."

It was only when I stopped seeking after the daughter my father wanted and started running after the daughter my Father created that my two fathers met. I don't think my dad knows that when his lips uttered those words he was kissing my Creator, acknowledging that the one who Made me knows more than the one conceived me.

But he was.
He heard truth. He saw it, he spoke it, and now he tries to share it with others and yet has no idea where the truth is coming from.

Sometimes I doubt that I made the right decision to move to California. The school I attend is not one anybody had expected for me. It's not prestigious. It's not academically intense. It's not cheap. It's not conveniently located or affordable or brag-worthy or making headlines or something Gramma can be proud of.

But it's mine.
It's the Lord's.
And I love it.

These are the moments when the Lord calls back in reply, "Hold on to the things which you knew to be true, my child. Remember the moment when I first told you to go. Cherish that moment and never forget it."

When my heart is heavy and my spirit is doubting, I run back to the truth - the burning, sure, beautiful truth that I felt and knew with my whole soul.

I run back to the journal entries that are so raw, crying out for the Lord's guidance and provision. I flip a couple of pages over and find the Lord's answer, His assurance and faithfulness. An Ebeneezer of paper and ink, bound by a spiral wire.

I run back to the prayers I prayed and the hope that I laid before my God who answered without a doubt. I recall the desperate pleas of "Lord, make it obvious, for I am slow to understand and too stubborn to obey." I see the mirage of events that followed, carrying me with sweaty palms and a racing heart out to where I am now.

It's the truth that sets us free from this doubt, this fear, and this worry.

I ran my budget last spring. I crunched the numbers until I wasn't sure my calculator could handle it. Then I did it again, making sure all of the decimals were in the right place and enough zeros were to be found. I had done the impossible, and cried out to God in thankfulness that I would not need any loans for the coming year. I would have extra. And for a fleeting moment I grieved that I wouldn't have to trust the Lord every month to provide in crazy ways for my every need.

Then I bought a car and lost my job. In that order.

Pride and planning always come before the fall.

My stomach churned as I crunched numbers again and again and again, hoping that I would find a stray decimal or too many zeros in the outgoing column and not enough in the incoming. It was to no avail. I kept calm, carried on, and cried out again to the Lord. And it was at the stoplight of Citrus and Alosta that God said so simply "Would you trust me if I had you take out a loan? I will provide in four years' time. Do you trust me until then?" My heart stopped for a moment because I knew the answer and  yet couldn't admit it to the One who knows all of my thoughts.

Needing approval and assurance, I called on a sweet mentor.

"I really just need you to tell me that I'm not ruining my life by taking out this loan."

"Well, loans will ruin your life. It is true."

"That is not the reaction I wanted."

"You have two options. Take out the loan or go to a different school."

"I am supposed to be here."

"Then the Lord will provide for the loan."

And it was that which I needed to hear.
It wasn't affirmation that a loan was a good idea - it was the belief and faith in a God who keeps His promises. That simple reminder of a single statement of truth, a statement which I knew so well and knew so dearly and had clung to so tightly was all I needed to be told.

The Lord provides and the Lord guides.

Teach me your way, LORD, that I may rely on your faithfulness; give me an undivided heart, that I may fear your name.

Psalm 86:11