The Meaning of Suffering

As I sat next to my daughter in church last Sunday, listening to Pastor talk about the impossibility of salvation apart from the working of God, I looked down at her to find her steadily drawing this picture. She had discovered that she inadvertently drew a cross in her scribbling, and had proceeded to add the head, the arms, the feet, the face, the eyes, and the blood of Christ.

"Mommy," she whispered in her softest voice. "I made Jesus on the cross."

She has no idea, but her drawing, and the simple faith of an almost-four-year-old, has been what has gotten me through the past few days. This picture, drawn on the smallest scrap of paper, has been as priceless to my soul as Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel.

I've been thinking a great deal about the family of Jesus, viewing the cross through their eyes. I've been trying to get inside their head and understand why their faith was so weak. I guess that's why God thought it timely to allow certain testings of my own faith. I've been fighting and persevering and trusting, all the while sure that my faith was strong enough to withstand the trials. My loving heavenly Father, my holy, beautiful Savior, has been gently trying to change my thinking. Anything I attempt on my own will fail. If I'm frustrated, if I'm failing, if I'm fatigued, then I am trying to do it without God's help. (Thank you, Dr. David Jeremiah, even though I was angry with you for saying it.)

Guess what? I'm fatigued, I'm frustrated, and I'm failing. I'm not sure how I'm going to keep on going, enduring infertility and migraines indefinitely. I'm not sure why I should keep writing, when my best efforts are rejected by sources that used to accept virtually everything I sent. I got a rejection for an article today in which an editor had torn apart my work, saying that I ignored basic rules of avoiding cliche terms repeatedly, that I was holding back, and that it was unfit for the magazine. At first I was angry. I even threw it away, discounting her without even reading what she had taken the time to write out. Later I felt guilty and retrieved it. She had good points. She was right. It was bad writing.

So I'm doing it in my own strength. I must stop. I must! I can feel my will slipping and my concern for sin lessening. But I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong. I know I need to pray more, but I just feel so tired of it. It shocks me to write that, but it's true. I'm tired of praying with no answer. I don't know what else to say. I wish God would reveal Himself. I don't mind going through trials, but I want them to have some sort of sense to them. I want them to unravel as cleanly as the novels I love to write. The problem should be resolved. The tension should culminate and then release.

Life isn't a novel. At least, not in the immediate sense that I want to experience. Good will eventually triumph evil, but it may or may not happen in my lifetime. While God tarries for His own excellent reasons, I am bound to suffer. Just as everyone else suffers.

It's what we do with the suffering that makes all the difference. Will we let our suffering accomplish what Jesus did? Will I?

And how do I do that? Or rather, how do I get out of His way so He can do that in me?

Beautiful (a family video)

New Beginnings

My baby began preschool today.

She was a natural. It's as if the girl was born to be a student. She sat proudly at her desk and pulled out out her pencils and crayons at the appropriate times and listened with rapt attention as I read from "Farmer Boy" and "The Baptist Catechism." (Meanwhile, 2 year old Noah did everything in his power to disrupt this new thing called school and make it a resounding failure. Ten minutes into it he filled his diaper, then he proceeded to throw toys around the room, demand his own pair of scissors and scream with displeasure all through music.)

I don't know if I'm a natural at teaching. But I really enjoyed it. (Well, aside from the toddler challenge.) I loved seeing that look in her eye that begged me to teach her more. I delighted in hearing her answers to my questions about the story of creation from Genesis, and I laughed as we made up a silly story about a day at the beach complete with towering waves and shark-killing daddies.

To sum it up, I'm glad I decided to homeschool. I haven't been sure about whether or not I was doing the right thing until today. And though I am overwhelmed at the thought of doing this five days a week, September to May, for an unspecified amount of years to come, I know that if God can get me through this day, then He'll do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. And even as I am overwhelmed, I'm just as excited. I can't wait to delve into the art of learning and relate every aspect of it to an incredible and awesome God! And since the idea of homeschool is an entirely biblical approach to educating children, I am convinced and assured that it is not my job to make this endeavor successful. The responsibility and the credit only belongs to the Lord.

I don't know what your views on education might be. I am not here to say that if you aren't homeschooling, you are wrong. My only point in writing these words is to encourage those who've considered the idea and feel that it might be the plan God has for their family. Trust. Follow. See what happens.

I'll keep you updated.

Keep Looking Up

Something resonated with me when I laid eyes on this mama monkey, holding her baby so tightly.

We were visiting the Toledo Zoo while on vacation, and that's where I met her. I imagined her feelings as she held that little one. She was afraid for the safety of her offspring, so she held on tightly. She reveled in the joy of being needed, and offered comfort without reservation.

Maybe not. Maybe she wasn't thinking about anything except what was for lunch. But that's how I feel, so that's how I interpreted her emotions.

It's almost as if you are trapped with motherhood. That as you place all of your love and devotion and time and effort and prayers and tears on the little ones that look like you and act like you, your identity reforms itself to revolve around their well being and safety. I've never known fear like the dread of something bad happening to my children. I've never known love as fierce and enduring as the love I have for my children, save my love for Christ.

And you'd think that after almost four years, more than that if you count pregnancy, I'd be tired of the worry and the trouble. I'm not. In fact, I've come full circle to the place where I can barely look at a newborn without having my heart twist in a knot of longing.

It's hard to see other mothers that seem to have it so easily. They can decide to have a baby, and nine months later they are holding that little one in their arms. I decided almost a year ago that I was ready to bear another child. Why does God disagree?

Even though my heart is starting to break with disappointment and fear of never holding another child of my own, I find the process strangely interesting. No longer is my response to demand my own way and get huffy with God for not answering my prayers the way I wanted Him to. That might have been my response at first, but He's faithful. He's showing me the way. I can tell He's in this.

It occurred to me today, as I fought the despair of realizing that my body is not even responding to the medicine intended to help me conceive. I am privileged to join in His suffering. You see, I am 328 pages into writing a novel about a city called Jerusalem, a couple thousand years ago. The stage is set for a Savior to die a gruesome death on a cross. No one understands why. Everyone is despairing the very act that God will use to give them eternal hope. No one can see the future, as we can look into the past. They had no idea the resurrection would follow.

I do know, however. I have no excuse to view suffering as the final word from God's hand of allotment. I know that He loves me beyond reason, enough to give His Son's life for my many failures. I know that the darkest day of history was followed closely by the brightest. In the same way, my finest hour is my weakest.

He is using it, too. He's using my own disappointment and suffering to bleed life into the characters that viewed His sacrifice. My wounds give me substance to tell a story, the only story there really is to tell. Praise God that He can take our most excruciating hurts and fashion them into something that helps us know who He is!

So I remain, my eyes ever looking up, my heart crying out for Him no matter the personal sacrifice to understand.

After all, who better than He knows exactly how I feel?