Finding Hope

I just finished reading The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb.  It is a book that had long been on my "To Read" shelf on Goodreads, and I was excited to walk past it on the shelf at the library while I was stocking up on vacation reading . . . for my daughter.  (I'm not sure how looking for books in the Young Adult section led to me being in the adult fiction section, but those sorts of things happen to me.  Any time I'm around books.)

It's a long, long book.  Possibly the longest work of fiction I've ever read.  Some of the reviews on Goodreads point to the fact that Lamb touches on five or six plot lines in this book, and he certainly covers everything from the Civil War to Columbine to PTSD to women's prisons to the current war in Afghanistan and Iraq to infidelity to . . . nearly everything else.  At first glance it really is a disjointed conglomeration that makes the reader wonder why we have held on for so long.  And then he says it.  On page 685, Lamb has a character say, "Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

And that's it.

That's what all these things have in common.

And that's what they have in common with me reading it right now, finishing it yesterday, the day a group of people accidentally shot down a plane full of innocent passengers.  Passengers who included three infants and a hundred men and women who had dedicated their lives to saving the lives of others through HIV/AIDS research.  And the day Israel sent ground troops into Gaza.  Shortly after a local Christian radio host was arrested and charged with the sexual trafficking of a young boy.

"Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

I have two friends whose families endured terrible and violent shooting tragedies over the past several years.  The devastation has been horrible, and it has changed everything about their worlds.  But they have hope.

I also have a friend who died following his battle against PTSD.  He fought willingly in a war against bullies and tyrants, because that's who Zack was.  But he was baptized, and he loved God, and we have hope that he is finally at peace.

For some reason Columbine has always stayed with me.  It has been tucked in my mind since it happened, and I continue to be impacted by it.  Perhaps it was the timing--I was a senior in college, so I was aware and had the time to watch the coverage and read about it.  Perhaps it was the fact that I joined my friends in taking a group of high schoolers to Columbine just one year after the shootings.  Or maybe it was standing in a church there, worshiping with my friends and those high schoolers, just miles from Columbine High School.  We sang "Better Is One Day," there in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains alongside Columbine students who knew and loved the children who died.  And we sang, with all our hearts and voices, "Better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere."  Because even in that mess, that violence, that confusion . . . there was hope.

As I wrote following our break in, I have friends and family members who have lost jobs, been betrayed by friends, been abandoned by spouses who vowed to always stand by them, and have their families continually ravaged by addiction.  And all I have to offer them is this.

Life is messy.

Life is violent.

Life is confusing.

But, at the end of all this, life is hopeful.

Oh, my God.  He will not delay.
My refuge and strength, always.
I will not fear, His promise is true.
My God will come through, always.  Always.

{"Always," Kristian Stanfill}

Theology from Veggie Tales

The other night our two youngest girls asked if they could watch a "show" instead of read a story for bedtime.  It was sort of a hectic night (our oldest, my husband, and I were just sitting down to eat supper at 7:00 p.m.), so I said yes.  I fired up the Wii, searched Netflix and Amazon Prime for the requested "Charlie Brown."  Nothing for less than $1.99.

I draw the line at paying for bedtime stories, when I'm already paying for the subscriptions to online movie channels, so I searched for something else.  Aah, Veggie Tales.  Most of the episodes were over an hour long or had been watched ad nauseam, so I settled on something about Snoodles.  Whatever.  Like a good mom I wasn't going to watch it with them.

Now, in my defense, it should be noted that I know how long it takes to read a novel when working nearly full time outside the home; being an at-home mom to a preschooler; staying involved as a volunteer in my Kindergartener's and 3rd grader's classes; trying to write a novel; and keeping up with my responsibilities as a wife, daughter, sister, friend, and church member.  (I was told recently via a blog post I didn't have the time to read that we should stop highlighting how busy we are, because it's neither healthy nor helpful.  So pretend none of that just happened.)  Anyway, here's how long it takes: more than nine weeks.  I know that because I'm one week from my library book being due--after my allotted two renewals--and I'm still only half way through the sucker.  You don't get to read through it very quickly when you only read a chapter at a time . . . on a good day.

So, like any good mom  normal mom sane person I took the Snoodles time to eat my dinner and read my book.  One sandwich and five pages in I felt that all-too-familiar feeling.  Cue the guilt.  Cue the "here's your chance to be an involved parent while expending almost no energy, and you're sitting here reading."  Cue the self-imposed judgement.

I put in my bookmark and crawled onto the sofa with three of my family members (four, since the youngest always insists on including the cat), took a deep breath, and started watching the Snoodles.

I'll be honest, my mind was on my book, so I wasn't paying the closest attention through most of it.  All I noted was that the story sounded a lot like a Dr. Seuss book (so did Larry, apparently, because at the end he told Bob he was thinking he wanted to eat some green eggs).  And then the littlest Snoodle who'd been carrying around all these drawings people had given him of what they saw when they looked at him showed up at a little shack.  Inside, he found a stranger.  The little Snoodle told him how upset he was and how weighed down he was by the artwork he carried.  So the stranger said, "Let me paint what I see."

"Oh, great," thought Little Snoodle.  One more person to point out how I don't measure up.  How my dreams are silly.  How my clothes don't fit and they don't match and no one likes me anyway.  How nothing about me is right or will ever be right.

The stranger painted.  And he painted.  And then he unveiled his painting with a flourishing withdrawal of the cloth and an, "It's time that you learned what you really look like!"

Little Snoodle saw a boy who was older and strong.  He had wings that would help him fly.  His eyes showed courage and freedom.

And Little Snoodle said, "I'd like to believe it, but I'm afraid to."

What was the stranger's response?  "I know who you are, for I made you."

I.  Made.  You.

Friend, there is Someone who made you too.  So He knows who you are.  Those people handing you pictures of who you are, what you're good at, what they see when they look at you . . . they don't know.  They.  Don't.  Know.

He knows.  He made you.

As the stranger, no, the Creator, says to Little Snoodle, "I gave you those wings so you can soar."  Little Snoodle replied that the picture from the Creator was too big, and it would weigh him down like the others had done.  Instead he was told that if he carried that picture, if he remembered what it showed about who he really was, he would find it actually made him lighter.

And, lo and behold, he looked down and saw that he was flying.

God gave each of us wings, too.  And He wants us to soar.

It takes more than nine weeks for me to read a book.  I often park my kids in front of the television because I'm exhausted.  We have eaten out more times this week than anyone should.  We haven't had guests in our home in too long, and I haven't spoken to my best friends--more than a quick wave and a stolen chat from a car idling in the middle of the road--in weeks.  I so often feel like I am failing at everything I'm trying to do.  But none of those things are the picture of what the Creator made me to be.  He made me brave.  And free.  And He wants me to soar.

For When Your Hope is Gone

A while back, I read a series of books called The Chaos Walking. 

It wasn't a series that I loved, but I did find some good "nuggets" in it.  One of those I have wanted to share in its a blog post all by itself.  Then life happened.  While I've spent the past couple of months trying to catch up with my life (how is it November already?!), I have also spent the past couple of months being too busy to be a friend to some of the important people in my life.  This post is for them, with my apology for neglecting to share this sooner or enough.  But it's also a reminder that while I may not have asked or hugged or listened as much as I wish I had, I never stopped believing.

There is a key to friendship and to being a true friend.  It is, quite often, the only key that I can offer to my friends.  For those of you who are Bible readers--or who have spent much time with me when we're sharing our stories--please think back to the story of the quadriplegic man who was carried on a mat by his four friends.  Remember that they climbed up a ladder to the roof of a house that was crowded with people following Jesus.  The friends carried their paralyzed buddy to the roof, broke through the roof, and lowered their friend to Jesus' feet.  They loved their friend, so they bore the burden of taking him to the feet of the only One who could remove his burden.  Nothing could stop them, because they loved their friend.  All the friend had to do was lie there.

Now that can be difficult, and much can be said about that important role, but for today I need to focus on the friends.  That's the role I'm privileged to be in for now, especially with two dear friends.  So, for them, I am sorry that I haven't carried fast enough or far enough.  But I want you to know that when your hope is gone, I will carry you.  When your hope is gone, I will bear your burden and carry you to the feet of the One who can ease your burden.  Who can hold you close.  Who longs to embrace you.  And I will count it a blessing.

Two messages for you, for when your hope is gone:

But there's one other thing I remember,
and remembering, I keep a grip on hope:
God's loyal love couldn't have run out,
his merciful love couldn't have dried up.
They're created new every morning.
How great your faithfulness!
I'm sticking with God (I say it over and over).
He's all I've got left.

...The "worst" is never the worst.
Why? Because the Master won't ever
walk out and fail to return.
If he works severely, he also works tenderly.
His stockpiles of loyal love are immense.
(Lamentations 3:22-24 and 31-33, The Message)

AND

“Hope,” he says, squeezing my arm on the word.  “It’s hope.  I am looking into yer eyes right now and I am telling you that there’s hope for you, hope for you both.”  He looks up at Viola and back at me.  “There’s hope waiting for you at the end of the road.”

“You don’t know that,” Viola says and my Noise, as much as I don’t want it to, agrees with her.

“No,” Ben says, “But I believe it.  I believe it for you.  And that’s why it’s hope.”

“Ben—“

“Even if you don’t believe it,” he says, “believe that I do.”

(The Knife of Never Letting Go, p376, Patrick Ness)

God's stockpiles of loyal love are immense.  Believe it, dear friends.  And even if you don't believe it, believe that I do.

The Most Important Lesson We Can Learn

I have three beautiful and amazing girls.  They like to giggle together.  They like to snuggle with each other.  They like to play Little People together.  And they love to fight.  Around my house, there is a lot of playing noise that quickly turns into yelling and screaming noise.  And then crying.  And then (usually when they've been reminded), there is a quiet and sad noise:

"I'm sorry."

Immediately following, and always unprompted, there is an equally quiet and sad noise:

"I forgive you."

The volume and the emotion behind it generally suggests that while not all is forgotten, and the pain still exists, the offense is forgiven.  It won't come between them anymore.  And, within minutes, they are giggling together.

I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately.

I work at a children's advocacy center.  We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.  National statistics tell us that 90% of the children who are sexually abused are victimized by people they know, love, and trust.  In the county where I live, it is closer to 99%.  We're talking fathers, stepfathers, mothers, cousins, Dad's best friend, step siblings, babysitters.  The other day, the mom of one of our clients was speaking with a group of people.  She said, "My daughter is an inspiration to me.  She teaches us all so much.  And I know the biggest reason for her freedom and joy is something that she is teaching me: she forgave the man who did this to her." 

She forgave the man who did this to her.  She forgave the dear family friend who sexually abused her when he thought she was sleeping.

At the same time, there is a couple I know who are in the process of getting divorced.  The reason?  She had an affair.

I understand that having someone cheat on you is a horrible thing.  The betrayal, the disappointment, the fear, the rejection.  It is, according to many people I know, unforgivable.

And, in the case of this couple, it destroyed their marriage.  Or did it?  You see, she had her affair--and ended it--at least fifteen years ago.  She came clean to her husband, they recommitted themselves each to their marriage and each other, and they moved past it.  Or so she thought.

What really ended their marriage?  Not forgiving.  When he asked her to leave, he told her it was because he had never forgiven her for what she did fifteen years ago.  Talk about betrayal, disappointment, fear, and rejection.  Can you imagine believing that the man you love has extended grace and forgiveness--which you, self admittedly, did not deserve--only to find out that he has held on for fifteen years?  That slowly, his deception has been eating away at the vows you took before God and your family and friends?

That's what not forgiving does.  In Traveling Mercies Anne Lamott wrote, "Not forgiving is like eating rat poison and waiting for the rat to die."  Amen.  And then amen again.

Not forgiving destroys marriages.  It robs joy.  It erases freedom.  It brings a slow and painful death.

Forgiving brings life.  It causes joy and delivers freedom.  It's hard.  And it may be quiet and sad, because it's not easy, and the pain is still there.  But, it says that nothing will come between us. 

Spend a few hours at our house, and you will learn many lessons.  You will learn how a small person with mere inches of water in the bathtub can make every square inch of the bathroom wet.  You will learn that ketchup, cheese, mayo, pickles, and two slices of bread make a terrific lunch.  You will learn how to giggle, transform plastic tubs into cars, and use Mom's cell phone to watch Curious George.  You will also learn how to apologize.  And, most importantly, you will learn how to forgive.

A Lesson from my Dad

Because The Eighteenth Sabbath reminded me of my dad and one of the most important lessons a girl could ever learn, here is that lesson for all of you, too. 

In July 1989, my dad took a call at 36th Street CRC in Wyoming, MI.  It meant a family move to Grand Rapids from South Dakota.  It also meant I would start 7th grade in a new town, at a new school, with no one that I had ever met before.  My sister was in high school, so she had to go to school to register on a Monday.  I wouldn't start until Tuesday, so my dad took me to Meijer on Clyde Park to pick up a few things for school. 

Riding in the car with my dad has always meant listening to music, and it's usually meant listening to it loudly.  That's what we were doing that day.  It must have been 99.3 (WJQK), because WCSG (91.3) usually played sleepy music in the late '80s and early '90s, and WAYFM didn't exist yet.  We had just pulled into the parking lot, when a song by DeGarmo & Key came on.  My dad had me sit and listen to it, and then he said, "This will get you through tomorrow and every other day, kiddo.  If God is for you, then no one else matters."

It's a hard lesson to learn and an even harder lesson to remember.  When the pressures of the world stack up, and I feel like I don't measure up, the last thing I'm thinking about is that it doesn't matter what others think, because God is for me.  It's easier to think that if I was just something more, something different, then the world would be nicer to me.  But, the truth remains: if God is for us, who could be against us?  No power on earth can take His love away.

When you rest in that, you can truly rest.  Thanks, Daddy.  It really does get me through every day.