I awakened to the incessant beeping of my alarm. Was the night's rest already over? Could it be that those seven hours had evaporated so quickly? The clock face did not lie. I lay there in my darkened room not filled with happy expectancy for the day. Instead, my mind began to enumerate all I had to accomplish at work; the "what ifs" and worrisome thoughts soaring like deadly arrows straight for my heart. "What ifs" in my life usually come in the form of fear of the future: "What if I really don't have what it takes to retire and move abroad with my husband?" "What if I never get good at the language?" "What if I run out of money?" "What if I can't handle missing my children and grandchildren who remain in the States?" "What if I get some horrible medical problem and I can't explain what's wrong with me in my second language?" The "what ifs" began to spin into a cacophonous blur. I had to face the day.
Gratefully, I'm learning to better manage episodes of the "what ifs." My most helpful coping skill is allowing God to speak to me by words that He has provided over the years and months. I keep them tucked away in journals, on scraps of paper, underlined in my Bible. It's almost as if I just need to get to the staircase that I know leads to the light. I can almost hear the light at the top of the stairs. I simply need to begin climbing up toward that sound--that sound of His voice that I recognize...
Be brave. Be strong. Don't give up.
Blessed are you who run to Him.
The spacious, free life is from God, it's also protected and safe.
When my soul is in the dumps, I rehearse everything I know of you.
Your instructions are glow in the dark.
God's mercy carries the day.
Heart-shattered lives ready for love don't for a moment escape God's notice.
When I get really afraid I come to you in trust.
You've kept track of my every toss and turn through the sleepless nights, each tear entered in your ledger, each ache written in your book.
The deeper your love, the higher it goes; every cloud is a flag to your faithfulness.
And me? I'm singing your prowess, shouting at cockcrow your largesse, for you've been a safe place for me, a good place to hide. Strong God, I'm watching you do it, I can always count on you--God, my dependable love.
As my room begins to fill up with light from the rising sun, it's almost as if I have reached the top of the staircase, wooed by the sounds of light, my heart now recovered, inoculated for the day with His collage of words. Outrageous hope.
He looked dispirited--hanks of greasy blond hair plastered to his forehead, dark circles under his eyes--like he hadn't slept in about a hundred years. "Arthur (not his real name), you look sad," I said.
"I am, Priscilla. You'll never guess what happened. Victoria (not her real name) broke up with me. I haven't been able to sleep. I've been obsessing about how she could do this. I mean we were thinking about marriage." He stopped talking and looked down at his hands. He sighed. The ticking clock in my office seemed unusually loud as we sat together. I gave him time to say more.
"Priscilla, it was just so quick. We woke up one morning, and I went to the kitchen like I usually do and began making the coffee and toast. I even remember I was whistling. I felt happy, Priscilla, that I had a woman in my life that I loved." At that point, Arthur raised his head, made eye contact and swiped at the hair now covering one of his eyes. "She came right into the kitchen, Priscilla, and just said, 'I can't do this anymore, Arthur. We've moved too fast. I need to get out of the relationship.' And she's gone, Priscilla. Gone."
"It's almost like she coaxed you into the deep end of the pool and you were enjoying the swim," I said. "You didn't even notice that you couldn't touch bottom. Now you're clinging to the side, unsure if you can venture out into the deep end of loneliness."
"That's it, Priscilla. I do feel extremely lonely. In fact, it's a double whammy lonely, because Mom passed away only a few months ago. I knew Victoria and I were moving too fast. I knew it wouldn't work out." Arthur was now wringing his hands, his head down again, breaking eye contact, his legs nervously bobbing up and down.
"Arthur," I said, "What if it was different?"
"What do you mean?" He raised his head and looked at me.
"What if you were really at the shallow end of lonely? In reality you could touch bottom. You could let go of the side of the pool. You could relax your grip."
"Well, yes, that would help."
"Arthur, if you think of that feeling of loneliness as shallow water that you can walk in, that you can even dive in, then perhaps that could allow for better emotional pain management. As you're walking around and diving in that safe water where you can touch bottom any time you need to, you'll feel more confident, and you might even meet other swimmers. You've got lots of skills that help ward off loneliness that you use all the time: Asking for help, taking care of yourself, structuring your time, going to NA meetings."
Now I stopped talking. We again sat in the stillness of my office, the clock actually a kind of comforting third party as it ticked away. Arthur broke the silence. "You know, Priscilla," I've gotten through a lot of things. Remember when I was unemployed for so long?" Arthur placed those work-roughened hands on his knees and leaned forward. His legs were not bobbing up and and down anymore.
"Yes," I said. "You got through that period with a lot of success."
"I'll do this too. I'll do this too. I can dive into it. I remember when I was a little kid, I used to dive for pennies in the pool at the Y with my buddies. I'll just think about that when I feel bad, Priscilla. It'll be better to be swimming again. And like you said, I can touch bottom."
We all have those places at times where we grip the side of the pool, trembling, afraid to get wet, afraid of whatever feels too deep. Maybe if we transition in our minds to the shallow end, we'll cope more effectively. We can touch bottom. We can let go.
I was literally shuffling through the files on my computer (can one shuffle on a computer?). I found a picture of a tree that I didn't remember saving. And it just wasn't any tree, as you can see for yourself. Its mighty, dark trunk appears to soar into the sky, its leaves surreal in their brilliance. I felt connected to this picture and placed it on my desktop screensaver.
Sometimes I find that if I'm especially drawn to an image, I sense God may be making a point in my life. And sure enough the theme of the tree continued. The evening after I found the picture, I attended a night of worship at a creative arts workshop. One of the artists painting during the worship created an image of a tree, its branches receiving fountain springs of water from below the earth as well as embracing rains pouring from the sky. Then the speaker provided a word taken from Psalm 1: They are like trees planted along the riverbank, bearing fruit each season without fail. Their leaves never wither, and in all they do, they prosper.
What was the concept God wanted me to get?
A few days before I found the picture, I'd been on a walk. A dented piece of aluminum glinted from the dust on the road. I stopped to look and picked up the silvery object. I noted that the piece of metal had the word "volleyball" etched into it. That word sent me back in my mind to the agonizing gym classes I survived as a twelve-year-old. In those days junior high girls were required to wear gymsuits during PE. I was overweight, and when I sat down on the gym floors, rolls of fat folded over the elastic in my gymsuit. I wore glasses. I was the girl chosen last to be on teams--especially volleyball. No matter how hard I tried, I could never hit the ball with enough force to send it over the net. All the other girls groaned when I got up to serve. I dreaded PE for two years throughout seventh and eighth grades. I resigned myself to an identity of shame and humiliation. I expected the other girls to laugh at me. I thought nothing of their crude jokes about my body when we had to shower together. It was part of my existence, and I learned to tolerate it. Thank God I had a physical transformation between junior high and high school. I got contacts and grew four inches. People didn't recognize me. I joined the band. If you were in the marching band, you didn't have to take PE. I would memorize music and wear the scratchy band uniforms in the scorching Texas sun before donning another gymsuit and showering in front of girls who looked like Barbi.
And so these memories surfaced as I looked at that tree. Even though I no longer primarily connect to an identity of shame and humiliation, I often do not connect to my truest identity. If I stay with the tree imagery, I often more connect with an image of a sapling--you know that tree that is just starting out, putting down its roots, its limbs fragile. No leaves. The wind mercilessly bending it to the ground. I sensed the Lord say to me, "No you're not that sapling--not anymore. You were that at twelve. I even used those awful two years to increase your compassion for the underdog, the misfit. You know how shame feels. You know crestfallen. No, you're that tree--the one in the picture. You're the tree planted by the riverbank. You're that tree in the painting soaking up my life-giving fountains and rains from below and above. Your leaves don't wither. Your leaves are vibrant and beautiful. Your life is shade for others for all I've done in your life and what I'll continue to do. Identify with that picture. Keep it before you. Burn that image into your mind."
Then for good measure, just so I'd get it, I read this in Isaiah 41:15-16 (The Message): I, God, want to reassure you. The God who buys you back, The Holy of Israel...you'll be confident and exuberant, expansive in the Holy of Israel."
What about you? How do you believe God sees you? What images are you connecting with? What words? Ask God to give you an image of how He sees you this week. Place that picture on one of your devices--or all of them. Know he is delighted with who you are.
Once upon a time I was a missionary--of a sort. I worked as a writer for Campus Crusade For Christ's publication department. I wrote feature stories for their magazine, Worldwide Challenge, acted as a ghost writer for the superstars in the organization, and created copy for brochures and other newsletters. I basically wrote whatever my editor told me to. I got pretty good at it, honestly. I'd drive my little 1979 brown Camaro to the office and furiously type away on my electric typewriter (really, it was typewriters in those days). I actually missed my manual that I used all through college--wish I'd kept it now. But I wax nostalgic...
At one point, my assignment was to create a different, more pleasing name for what Campus Crusade described as aggressive evangelism. Bill Bright had a vision that everyone in the world hear the gospel of Jesus, so each staff member committed to a practice of regularly going out on the street or the beach and talking to people about Jesus. The higher ups didn't really like the word "aggressive," although our required evangelistic practices were certainly that, in my opinion. I never really came up with another better descriptor. About the best I could come up with was assertive. But that was lame. The assignment got dropped, and I think the powers that be stuck with aggressive.
If I had another opportunity to create an enhanced descriptor, I think I'd use the phrase "narrative evangelism." I was never very good at "aggressive evangelism." I dreaded going on those trips to the mall or the beach and approaching people in a wet bathing suit--those people relaxing on their towels. I'd timidly approach and ask, "Have you ever heard of the Four Spiritual Laws?" the tract limp and moist in my hand. I don't think anyone ever wanted to talk with me. I'm sure they could sense my introverted ways and discomfort as I stood before them dripping with saltwater and my own anxiety. And yet I would sometimes find myself in situations with people who lived in my apartment complex or talking to people at a party. Employment almost always came up amongst us twenty-somethings. When I told people what I did, they'd often ask how I ever ended up working for Campus Crusade. And that's when my narrative came up. How Jesus took a bedraggled mess of a person to higher ground. I'd tell them at age nineteen, my heart splintered into innumerable fragments--decimated with grief. It was then I lost contact with Giovanni. I became depressed, lost and didn't know what I'd do with my life. I felt so lonely that I began partying with my sorority crowd to try and find connection, but alcohol and sex couldn't bring me peace or intimacy or any of the things I so desperately wanted. A woman named Hope came to my sorority house and told her narrative that had similar characteristics of my story. She said knowing Jesus transformed her life and gave her a purpose. I wanted what she had. Her authenticity and bright countenance spoke to my frayed life. And she said that she got this restoration from a Savior that could be so incredibly dumbed down and ridiculed in our culture--a paradox that I bought into. I opened my life to Him and my heart healed, my narrative with Him initiated. I would say to those people in the apartment laundry room or eating chips at the party that working for Campus Crusade was a way for me tell of God's goodness. Writing for Campus Crusade became a vehicle for me to tell of His kindness. I told them that Jesus brought me rescue and hope and purpose. "That's why I work for them," I'd say. And I'd think to myself, "And why am willing to humilate myself on those mandatory outings to Laguna Beach." Often people listened to my story, no need for a tract, my life narrative the script.
We all who've embraced Jesus have a story--a narrative of what He's done for us. And He continues to be enthusiastically engaged with our stories, because the longer we live, our chapters unfurl in glorious detail. The other day I listened to Steely Dan on my headphones while walking. Donald Fagan wrote in his song New Frontier--"she has all the right dynamics for the new frontier." I thought about my life--how God gives me all this territory to own and explore as my story continues. It's like I stand on holy ground. He's given it to me, promised me His leading and protection, provision and favor--all the right dynamics. My job is to seize the promise, slip on shoes and explore my land, because I have everything I need for this new frontier, my narrative continuing to resound to others that He is good. He is good. There is no room for doubt that He is good.
He was never without a story when He spoke. When he was alone with his disciples, He went over everything, sorting out the tangles, untying the knots.~Mark 4:34 (The Message)
The day was mild, spring elbowing its way in. I caught the startling wisps of green beginning to appear on dark tree branches, and sunlight dappled the pathway my husband and I walked to buy our tickets for a boat ride down the Seine, enjoying one more day in the "City of Light."
The boat wasn't crowded, so we sat alone near the back, holding hands and lost in our own reverie as we cruised down the peaceful, gray-green river. At one point I happened to notice a balcony of an apartment building. The balcony was constructed of wrought iron swirls, simultaneously delicate and sturdy. Almost all the apartments in Paris have balconies, but this one was different in that the windows were open. I could see sheer drapes billowing in the breeze. I imagined the owners desired for that spring air to bring refreshment and fragrance to an apartment shut tight all winter. Lookng at the open window gave me a desire to simply sit on that balcony, sip a cup of hot, flavorful coffee and look out at the tranquil river.
I suppose what that balcony represented to me was a longing to have breathing room. I have trouble seizing breathing room for myself. My world calls out to pay more attention to its whims and words and worries. I know its language well. I speak fluently and get caught up in its drive to produce, its lists and tyrannies of the urgent, people pleasing and duties to keep up "religious norms." But there is a different language--a Kingdom language. It is foreign. My lips don't quite fit around the contours of its new sounds--sounds so beautiful that they emit a fragrance--the scent of the most exquisite perfume--like jasmine blooming. This language is the sound of rushing, cleansing waters and the sight of cerulean skies and pure white clouds. I want to abide in the geography of this language and let it become my mother tongue. But how? Oh my God, how?
I sensed the Lord answered my question with the consolation that only the Holy Spirit can provide. "Ive been waiting for you. I've been whispering this language to you all along. It is your mother tongue. You've just been speaking the foreign language so long now that you've become thoroughly immersed in it. It's familiar. But you're hearing the new language now. Sure it will take practice to keep listening and speaking it. But you'll get it. You'll get it back. You spoke it as a child, so it's not that hard. You're built to speak it. I'll give you plenty of margin to learn and speak this language of heaven, It's okay to take the space you need. Take it, please. Take it. This is the latitude I've given you. There's plenty of it. My supply is unending. I am relentless in my desire to provide all the breathing room you want."
And so, metaphorically I sit on my balcony overlooking the Seine, the breeze warm on my cheek, the Eiffel Tower just there to my right, a symbol of God's unending strength and mercy. There I sit studying the Kingdom language, increasing my fluency. And this relentless margin that God provides is all that I want--what I crave--what I long for.
What is it that you crave most, dear reader? Our kind and generous God whispers that you can ask Him for it. Please do.
He's solid rock under my feet, breathing room for my soul,
An Impregnable castle: I'm set for life.~Psalm 62:2 (The Message)