(started in February 2011, finished Jan. 2013)
As I write this, I am writhing in pure agony, afflicted by the evil plague that is Cedar Fever. Cedar Fever is a foul punishment, a pox unleashed upon mankind to make atonement for our sins; to give us a taste of hellfire and damnation; to push us to repentance for fear of this kind of suffering for all eternity. Lord, take me now!
When I'm sick, I get cranky, and crabby, and downright irritable. I snap at loved ones, I absent mindedly make harsh remarks to those that try to help me, and I'm just mean to little old ladies. So I must wonder, "why?"
I hate being weak. I hate the idea that I may be weak enough to actually get sick. I want to feel invincible, and being sick robs me of this delusion. It's my pride being killed, being dragged through the street and beaten with sacks full of nickels. As much as I may say that the Lord is in control, truthfully I'm only okay with that idea when I feel like I have the ability to relinquish control at any time. "The Illusion of Control." It's laughable, really. The idea that we have any power over the actions of others, or the actions of the universe, or even inanimate objects. I can eat the carrot, but if the carrot didn't want to be eaten, it will let me know soon enough by trying to come back up.
Every so often I watch my friend Matt's daughter Bella. She's about 3. When she's not feeling well she cries, she pouts, she becomes unruly and uncooperative. Sadly, the same can be said for me. I think sickness is the reminder that we are not in control, that we need to be cared for. It's a great equalizer, in that way. It doesn't matter how awesome you may think you are, you will get sick. John Stewart gets sick and needs his wife to care for him. Barack Obama gets sick and needs Secret Service to bring his chicken noodle soup. Chuck Norris doesn't get sick.
(I wish I were Chuck Norris)
A story I've heard often:
A man is hitchhiking and gets a ride from a man in a pickup. The driver tells the hitchhiker to hop in the bed of truck, and starts driving once his passenger is aboard. Looking back, he sees the hitchhiker standing up in the bed, still clutching his backpack. The driver tells him to sit down, put the backpack down, and relax. The passenger responds, "You were kind enough to give me a ride, I couldn't dare to impose on you by having you carry my bag as well."
Of course, this story is preposterous. Any rational human would put their bag down in the truck and relax. But lo, we aren't always rational.
Too often does God help us, give us a ride, give us direction or purpose, and in the face of His Grace and Mercy, we accept but refuse to lay down our burdens. Be it our pasts, our sins, our pride, our weakness, our flaws, we refuse to let Him carry it.
It's akin to that penultimate scene from the Lord of the Rings trilogy, when, dying on the side of Mount Doom, Samwise offers to carry the One Ring for Frodo. Frodo responds that he cannot, for it would destroy him. Samwise then does the only thing available to him: he carries Frodo.
Yes, I'm tearing up as I think about it. Too often must God carry me because I'm stubborn and bullheaded and refuse to share my burden with him, when all along I've been in His hands, burden and all!
He doesn't want us to be weak constantly, but He does want us to acknowledge our weakness, and in doing so, His strength. It's okay to be weak. It means that we're human. And in acknowledging our humanity, we acknowledge His Divinity. He'll gladly carry us, burdens and all, if only we'd stop trying to be divine ourselves and just be human.
Friday, January 4, 2013
On Fear, That Which Keeps Us Here
As I write today, I'm in a good amount of pain. Just yesterday I had surgery to fix a hernia I incurred almost 10 years ago. Why did it take me so long to fix it? Fear.
Fear of having to fully take care of myself. Fear of having to take full responsibility for myself. Fear of having to truly see my self-worth and invest in myself.
I've never fully taken care of myself. I rarely think of my diet, though I do exercise a few times a week. I have no car payment, I live in the cheapest apartment I could find, I own no furniture outside of that which fits in my bedroom. I scorn luxuries and niceties because I see them as immodest, unnecessary. But truth be told, I see them this way because I've forced myself into believing them to be so in an effort to justify my low self-worth. If I don't want them, then I won't have to justify not having them by admitting that I don't believe that I'm worth the investment.
It's the unending conundrum of Grace: That which we could never be worthy of, yet are given of it freely.
And so my surgery was a step in a new direction. I'm fully responsible for the bills. Nobody will give me money to bail me out of this debt. Never before have I been in debt, and I never really want to be, but it was necessary to take this step. I'm fully responsible for taking care of myself. I'm in the middle of a planned 5 day rest, and I don't have a dedicated caretaker for 3 of those days, so I must manage myself, force myself to rest, to believe that my well being is worth the shred of guilt I will incur from not working for 5 days.
You see, if I'm working, I can at least tell myself that I'm a productive member of society, that I'm contributing something to the world around me. Instead, I'm off for 5 days, and I feel like a lazy bum with nothing to contribute, leeching off friends and family. Yes, after only 5 days I dip to the bottom of the barrel, wallowing in despair that I've wasted my life, yet knowing full well that I'll be back at work on tuesday. Oh how glorious and irrational the human mind.
The other hard truth I'm coming to face is my own self-worth. I work because that's how I justify my existence. It's not enough to be me, to be the only me that will ever be, and to strive to be the best me I can be. I must give something of myself. Since I see very little of myself being of any worth, I work. Endlessly. I never take sick leave, I never pass up an opportunity to work, and I never shirk my responsibilities at work.
Yet here I sit, faced with the idea welling up from my heart and echoed by close friends for years that I do have something to give, something to say. That I've accumulated wisdom and guidance to share with the world. That my word may someday do somebody else some good. And I've seen it, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I feign humility, knowing that to accept a compliment would hurt my pride by forcing me to understand the role my presence can and does play in the world around me. How hypocritical, how ironic.
I know that the few readers of this blog are supportive of my endeavors, and they (you) believe in me. This I know. But I am a coward, afraid to acknowledge this, afraid to offer up larger portions of myself, of my wisdom (what little I have, at least), of my experience. I'm selfish in that way, thinking I have nothing to offer yet refusing to share anything that may be of worth. Again, I'm faced with the possibility that God has a plan for me, a plan that, despite my best intentions to muck it up, is still on track.
That, friends, is Grace in action.
As for fear, I'm still afraid. But the opposite of fear is faith. Not love, but faith. Trusting that God is good and good for us, trusting that friends and family will watch out for us, helping us as best they can, and trusting that we'll make the best decisions possible, in this life, for His Kingdom.
Fear of having to fully take care of myself. Fear of having to take full responsibility for myself. Fear of having to truly see my self-worth and invest in myself.
I've never fully taken care of myself. I rarely think of my diet, though I do exercise a few times a week. I have no car payment, I live in the cheapest apartment I could find, I own no furniture outside of that which fits in my bedroom. I scorn luxuries and niceties because I see them as immodest, unnecessary. But truth be told, I see them this way because I've forced myself into believing them to be so in an effort to justify my low self-worth. If I don't want them, then I won't have to justify not having them by admitting that I don't believe that I'm worth the investment.
It's the unending conundrum of Grace: That which we could never be worthy of, yet are given of it freely.
And so my surgery was a step in a new direction. I'm fully responsible for the bills. Nobody will give me money to bail me out of this debt. Never before have I been in debt, and I never really want to be, but it was necessary to take this step. I'm fully responsible for taking care of myself. I'm in the middle of a planned 5 day rest, and I don't have a dedicated caretaker for 3 of those days, so I must manage myself, force myself to rest, to believe that my well being is worth the shred of guilt I will incur from not working for 5 days.
You see, if I'm working, I can at least tell myself that I'm a productive member of society, that I'm contributing something to the world around me. Instead, I'm off for 5 days, and I feel like a lazy bum with nothing to contribute, leeching off friends and family. Yes, after only 5 days I dip to the bottom of the barrel, wallowing in despair that I've wasted my life, yet knowing full well that I'll be back at work on tuesday. Oh how glorious and irrational the human mind.
The other hard truth I'm coming to face is my own self-worth. I work because that's how I justify my existence. It's not enough to be me, to be the only me that will ever be, and to strive to be the best me I can be. I must give something of myself. Since I see very little of myself being of any worth, I work. Endlessly. I never take sick leave, I never pass up an opportunity to work, and I never shirk my responsibilities at work.
Yet here I sit, faced with the idea welling up from my heart and echoed by close friends for years that I do have something to give, something to say. That I've accumulated wisdom and guidance to share with the world. That my word may someday do somebody else some good. And I've seen it, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I feign humility, knowing that to accept a compliment would hurt my pride by forcing me to understand the role my presence can and does play in the world around me. How hypocritical, how ironic.
I know that the few readers of this blog are supportive of my endeavors, and they (you) believe in me. This I know. But I am a coward, afraid to acknowledge this, afraid to offer up larger portions of myself, of my wisdom (what little I have, at least), of my experience. I'm selfish in that way, thinking I have nothing to offer yet refusing to share anything that may be of worth. Again, I'm faced with the possibility that God has a plan for me, a plan that, despite my best intentions to muck it up, is still on track.
That, friends, is Grace in action.
As for fear, I'm still afraid. But the opposite of fear is faith. Not love, but faith. Trusting that God is good and good for us, trusting that friends and family will watch out for us, helping us as best they can, and trusting that we'll make the best decisions possible, in this life, for His Kingdom.
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