I am utterly ashamed of myself.
Sunday morning, when my alarm went off for church, I grumbled. You see, Saturday is my day to get up with M (my daughter), and Sunday is my day to sleep in. But I wasn't sleeping as late as I wanted, thanks to that doggone alarm.
I grumbled while I got ready. I grumbled while I got M ready (all in my head - while I do talk to myself, I'd rather not have everyone hear my entire internal monologue). I took her with me so that Mike could get some things done around the house.
I wanted to go back to bed and fight off the sinus infection that keeps threatening. I wanted to call off on the grounds of recovering from a particularly nasty ovarian cyst that had me in pain for weeks. I even (briefly) thought about how much more sleep I'd have in the long run if I'd just been saved a few years later. Definitely one of my uglier moments.
I got to church and got settled in. I sang half-heartedly along to the first song while bouncing M. Then our pastor's wife asked us to pray for a particular man. This man is in prison a long way from home. Countries away. And why? Because he dared to preach the gospel. Three years he's been imprisoned. Away from his wife and children. Suffering for his faith. For following Christ's command.
I felt about an inch tall.
Here I was, complaining about "having" to go to church, when, in quite a few other countries, they'd give anything to "get" to go to church. I can go to church on Sunday. I can sing at the top of my lungs. I can miss 2 minutes of the sermon because my toddler has walked to the row in front of me and loudly exclaimed "Ka-boo!" (peek-a-boo) around the chair while grinning widely at me. I can openly say that I'm going to a Bible study (which I am - it starts next week). I can walk out into the street and declare at the top of my lungs that I love and follow Jesus, and the worst consequence I'll probably suffer is someone telling me I'm nuts. Or possibly stupid.
It's not always easy to get up when you're tired or not feeling well. It's not always easy to sit for an hour and a half when you forgot to eat breakfast and your stomach is growling. But if these are my biggest "problems" with regards to being a Christian, I need to reevaluate my grumbling. I am privileged to live in a country where I can freely express my beliefs. Where others may think I'm nuts, certainly, and where the laws of the land don't always line up with the laws of God, and where not everyone may respect my beliefs; but where the government can't stop me. They can't silence my singing. They can't confiscate the praise song I wrote. They can't burn my Bible and send me to prison for what I believe. I am currently writing a blog, that anyone can read, and that I will share on social media, that tells everyone that I'm a Christian. That may not seem amazing to us, but it would be cause for joyful celebration to some people.
So I'm going to work on the cliche "attitude of gratitude" and quit my crabbing. And if you find yourself feeling more obligated than excited about God, I encourage you to do the same. I'll be right there with you on the path, stumbling, but always moving forward.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Why Meeeee?!
This is something I found myself asking over and over again when my newborn daughter was diagnosed with Tetralogy of Fallot - a congenital heart defect.
You see, my pregnancy was totally normal. Idyllic, even. Only a few weeks of "morning" sickness, a Buddha-like peace, and a giant burst of energy in my second trimester made things run perfectly smoothly. I worked my company's busy season, planned my high school's 10 year reunion, and even hunted for and moved into a house, all while big-bellied.
Then came my 40 week check-up. My blood pressure was high, which was vaguely worrisome. Then my doctor informed me that they couldn't even find one pocket of amniotic fluid. The fix for this, she said, was to be induced and have my baby. Needless to say, I was a bit freaked out. I called my husband and had him leave work. In the meantime, I went home, showered, shaved my legs, curled my hair, and put on make-up. I figured there'd be pictures at some point, and I'd be far too tired to do any of this after labor.
I was induced on my due date, and had my daughter the next day. She was only 5lbs, 9.5 oz. It turns out my placenta decided to just stop working late into the 3rd trimester, so she hadn't been getting the nutrients she needed to grow. They took her out, and placed her on my chest, and my husband cut the cord. I was in heaven. Then they took her away, and I heard the words "respiratory distress". No one was talking to me. They whisked her to the level 2 nursery, and a nurse filled me in. She had a pneumothorax - a pocket of air outside of the lungs. I was worried, but they said it would likely resolve on its own.
When I finally got to really meet M, she was under an oxygen hood that she was valiantly trying to push off with her teeny-tiny fingers. She was also jaundiced, and ended up under blue lights. Whenever I fed her, her bandaged IV hand would beat against my chest, desperately trying to make contact. Then the doctors told us she had a hole in her heart. They didn't have the proper tools to diagnose it, so they'd be sending us to a pediatric cardiologist when we were released. She also had a white spot on her eye that would require us to see a pediatric ophthalmologist (at this point, she wears glasses for astigmatism, but is doing just fine). When I started to tear up, one of the doctors put her arm around me and assured me the hole would resolve itself, and M wouldn't need surgery. She called later to check on me, after we'd gotten the official diagnosis. I refused to speak to her. I'd taken her word as medical fact, not mere comfort.
We took her straight from the hospital to the cardiologist when we were released 4 days after she was born. He apologized when he was late getting into our room - he had just had to tell a set of parents that their baby needed heart surgery - never an easy thing, he said. M had an echo, and a few other tests. Then Dr. B came back and told us that she needed heart surgery at around 6 months. Never an easy thing, indeed. I held it together for about a full minute before I started to sob. She was so tiny. So helpless. I knew as a parent my child's heart would get broken and I couldn't do anything about it, but I didn't think she'd be born with a broken heart.
The defect, Dr. B said, was Tetralogy of Fallot. It's a cyanotic defect, which means that deoxygenated blood was mixing with the oxygenated blood and circulating throughout her body. Her pulse ox was about 96 at that point, but we could expect it to go lower. We also had to keep her from crying to prevent "tet spells" - spells where her oxygen could drop, turning her fingers, toes, and lips blue. How do you keep a newborn from crying, you ask? I don't actually remember. I held her a lot.
Some days I was sure she would be just fine. Other days I would stay up until 2am, holding her tightly and composing her eulogy in my head. Chastising myself because it sounded too much like the one in "What Dreams May Come". Failing to imagine a coffin tiny enough for my little pixie. Ending all of my prayers with "Please don't take my baby."
They put M on heart medications to prevent tet spells. They made her so cold that her sleep outfit was a onesie, pants, socks, a footed sleeper, a sleep sack, and a hat. Despite this, she was so cold that, upon feeling her hand in the middle of one night, my husband thought she had passed away. Our lives were a rotating blur of medication doses, doctor's appointments, and juggling the usual new parent problems like lack of sleep and a million outfit changes from diaper blowouts.
In the meantime, Dr. B. put me in touch with a mom whose son had gone through surgery for ToF the year before. She and I had a long conversation, and discovered that our reactions (and, oddly, our husbands') were much the same. She shared her experiences, and gave me an idea of what to expect. It was wonderful to talk to her - someone who actually knew what I was going through.
Finally, at 2 months old, her blood oxygen level was hovering around 60%. The surgery, Dr. B. said, would have to be moved up. So on the day she turned 11 weeks, I sat in a waiting room with my husband, mom, sister, and niece, while my 9 pound baby had her chest cut open, a Gortex patch sewn onto her heart, and her pulmonary valve removed. When we were shown to her room, she was the most beautiful, heartbreaking mess of tubes I'd ever seen. She had her first tet-spell then, not from the disease, but from holding her breath in annoyance over the breathing tube.
I couldn't pick up my baby. I held her foot while they suctioned her tubes. I stroked her hair and sang her "Simple Man" by Lynard Skynard (seriously her favorite song at the time) while they drew blood and changed bandages. The day I got to barely lift her while they gave her a sponge bath felt like a miracle. I slept in her room while she went through morphine withdrawal. I read her books when she was weaned enough off the medications to really look at the pictures.
When we took her home, it was still a whirlwind of medications and follow ups. We couldn't lift her under the arms for fear of interfering with the healing of her breastbone. I was alone for most of that week, and it was exhausting, but it was so amazing to have my baby home. To have her healthy. To be able to hold her, and to know she would be ok.
Still, through all of this, I wondered - why me? Such a selfish thought, but there it was. Why my perfect baby?
And then it hit me. God blessed me with the gift of gab. I prefer the company of books, or one or two people, but I love public speaking. I can talk to anyone about anything. And I will. I'm the person who compliments someone's manicure at the bathroom sink and ends up knowing their life story by the time our hands are dry. And I thought about the other mom I'd talked to (who I'd also texted nearly constantly while I was in the hospital with M after my husband had to go back to work and could only be there at night). About how much talking to her had helped me. And there it was - I was going to start a non-profit. I was going to make sure that no parent had to go through this alone - that everyone had someone like I had.
So today, that other mom and I are steadily working through the process (along with Dr. B) of forming a non-profit for just that purpose. To educate. To help. To comfort. To make sure our babies know that their zipper scars are badges of courage. To make sure that other parents know that their baby isn't defective, even if their heart started out that way. To be a resource at 3am when a mom would feel like a crazy person texting her cardiologist (although I texted Dr. B on New Years...).
I don't always know why things happen to me. We can't always know. But this one I'm sure of. My brave, beautiful, healthy, happy baby girl (who will be 2 in November) is my inspiration. Because of her, and because of her special heart, I will be able to reach thousands of people. So now, to me nearly 2 years ago, I respond - why not me?
You see, my pregnancy was totally normal. Idyllic, even. Only a few weeks of "morning" sickness, a Buddha-like peace, and a giant burst of energy in my second trimester made things run perfectly smoothly. I worked my company's busy season, planned my high school's 10 year reunion, and even hunted for and moved into a house, all while big-bellied.
Then came my 40 week check-up. My blood pressure was high, which was vaguely worrisome. Then my doctor informed me that they couldn't even find one pocket of amniotic fluid. The fix for this, she said, was to be induced and have my baby. Needless to say, I was a bit freaked out. I called my husband and had him leave work. In the meantime, I went home, showered, shaved my legs, curled my hair, and put on make-up. I figured there'd be pictures at some point, and I'd be far too tired to do any of this after labor.
I was induced on my due date, and had my daughter the next day. She was only 5lbs, 9.5 oz. It turns out my placenta decided to just stop working late into the 3rd trimester, so she hadn't been getting the nutrients she needed to grow. They took her out, and placed her on my chest, and my husband cut the cord. I was in heaven. Then they took her away, and I heard the words "respiratory distress". No one was talking to me. They whisked her to the level 2 nursery, and a nurse filled me in. She had a pneumothorax - a pocket of air outside of the lungs. I was worried, but they said it would likely resolve on its own.
When I finally got to really meet M, she was under an oxygen hood that she was valiantly trying to push off with her teeny-tiny fingers. She was also jaundiced, and ended up under blue lights. Whenever I fed her, her bandaged IV hand would beat against my chest, desperately trying to make contact. Then the doctors told us she had a hole in her heart. They didn't have the proper tools to diagnose it, so they'd be sending us to a pediatric cardiologist when we were released. She also had a white spot on her eye that would require us to see a pediatric ophthalmologist (at this point, she wears glasses for astigmatism, but is doing just fine). When I started to tear up, one of the doctors put her arm around me and assured me the hole would resolve itself, and M wouldn't need surgery. She called later to check on me, after we'd gotten the official diagnosis. I refused to speak to her. I'd taken her word as medical fact, not mere comfort.
We took her straight from the hospital to the cardiologist when we were released 4 days after she was born. He apologized when he was late getting into our room - he had just had to tell a set of parents that their baby needed heart surgery - never an easy thing, he said. M had an echo, and a few other tests. Then Dr. B came back and told us that she needed heart surgery at around 6 months. Never an easy thing, indeed. I held it together for about a full minute before I started to sob. She was so tiny. So helpless. I knew as a parent my child's heart would get broken and I couldn't do anything about it, but I didn't think she'd be born with a broken heart.
The defect, Dr. B said, was Tetralogy of Fallot. It's a cyanotic defect, which means that deoxygenated blood was mixing with the oxygenated blood and circulating throughout her body. Her pulse ox was about 96 at that point, but we could expect it to go lower. We also had to keep her from crying to prevent "tet spells" - spells where her oxygen could drop, turning her fingers, toes, and lips blue. How do you keep a newborn from crying, you ask? I don't actually remember. I held her a lot.
Some days I was sure she would be just fine. Other days I would stay up until 2am, holding her tightly and composing her eulogy in my head. Chastising myself because it sounded too much like the one in "What Dreams May Come". Failing to imagine a coffin tiny enough for my little pixie. Ending all of my prayers with "Please don't take my baby."
They put M on heart medications to prevent tet spells. They made her so cold that her sleep outfit was a onesie, pants, socks, a footed sleeper, a sleep sack, and a hat. Despite this, she was so cold that, upon feeling her hand in the middle of one night, my husband thought she had passed away. Our lives were a rotating blur of medication doses, doctor's appointments, and juggling the usual new parent problems like lack of sleep and a million outfit changes from diaper blowouts.
In the meantime, Dr. B. put me in touch with a mom whose son had gone through surgery for ToF the year before. She and I had a long conversation, and discovered that our reactions (and, oddly, our husbands') were much the same. She shared her experiences, and gave me an idea of what to expect. It was wonderful to talk to her - someone who actually knew what I was going through.
Finally, at 2 months old, her blood oxygen level was hovering around 60%. The surgery, Dr. B. said, would have to be moved up. So on the day she turned 11 weeks, I sat in a waiting room with my husband, mom, sister, and niece, while my 9 pound baby had her chest cut open, a Gortex patch sewn onto her heart, and her pulmonary valve removed. When we were shown to her room, she was the most beautiful, heartbreaking mess of tubes I'd ever seen. She had her first tet-spell then, not from the disease, but from holding her breath in annoyance over the breathing tube.
I couldn't pick up my baby. I held her foot while they suctioned her tubes. I stroked her hair and sang her "Simple Man" by Lynard Skynard (seriously her favorite song at the time) while they drew blood and changed bandages. The day I got to barely lift her while they gave her a sponge bath felt like a miracle. I slept in her room while she went through morphine withdrawal. I read her books when she was weaned enough off the medications to really look at the pictures.
When we took her home, it was still a whirlwind of medications and follow ups. We couldn't lift her under the arms for fear of interfering with the healing of her breastbone. I was alone for most of that week, and it was exhausting, but it was so amazing to have my baby home. To have her healthy. To be able to hold her, and to know she would be ok.
Still, through all of this, I wondered - why me? Such a selfish thought, but there it was. Why my perfect baby?
And then it hit me. God blessed me with the gift of gab. I prefer the company of books, or one or two people, but I love public speaking. I can talk to anyone about anything. And I will. I'm the person who compliments someone's manicure at the bathroom sink and ends up knowing their life story by the time our hands are dry. And I thought about the other mom I'd talked to (who I'd also texted nearly constantly while I was in the hospital with M after my husband had to go back to work and could only be there at night). About how much talking to her had helped me. And there it was - I was going to start a non-profit. I was going to make sure that no parent had to go through this alone - that everyone had someone like I had.
So today, that other mom and I are steadily working through the process (along with Dr. B) of forming a non-profit for just that purpose. To educate. To help. To comfort. To make sure our babies know that their zipper scars are badges of courage. To make sure that other parents know that their baby isn't defective, even if their heart started out that way. To be a resource at 3am when a mom would feel like a crazy person texting her cardiologist (although I texted Dr. B on New Years...).
I don't always know why things happen to me. We can't always know. But this one I'm sure of. My brave, beautiful, healthy, happy baby girl (who will be 2 in November) is my inspiration. Because of her, and because of her special heart, I will be able to reach thousands of people. So now, to me nearly 2 years ago, I respond - why not me?
Friday, September 11, 2015
When Bad Things Happen to Good People
"Sometimes bad things happen to very good people and sometimes good things happen to bad people. But at least if you try to do good things, then you're spending your time doing something worthwhile."
~Helen Mirren
I don't know about anyone else, but one of my greatest struggles as a Christian is accepting that sometimes really bad things happen to really good people. I know that God has a plan. I know that there's a lot of sin, and a lot of terrible things happening. And I do believe that things happen for a reason. But sometimes, not knowing that reason is more than I feel I can handle.
Twelve years ago, an amazing family came into my life. I met the oldest son first - we became friends freshman year of college. Just a few months after we became friends, his parents came to his dorm to take him to dinner for his birthday. I met them, and talked with them for a few minutes - mostly because his father was an attorney - my chosen career path. As they went to leave, his dad said "Are you coming?" When he responded that he was, his father said "No, Stephane - are you coming?"
And just like that, I had another mom. Another dad. Not to mention my friend's three brothers, who are all phenomenal people. Kind, loving, funny, and willing to do anything for the people they loved - and even people they didn't even know. That description is especially true of the family matriarch. She is the heart of the family. She takes care of her own, and even takes in strays like me. She runs charity events, is active in the community, and would give you the shirt off of her back (and probably offer you her shoes for good measure). I love these people more than I can say.
And now my friend's mother, this whirlwind of love and generosity, has an inoperable brain tumor.
It can still be treated. And let me tell you - this woman is the only person I know who is more stubborn than I am. Those of you who know me understand what a bold statement that is. I have every faith that she will kick this tumor's butt. And she has so much love and support to help her do it.
But I still feel like she shouldn't have to. I know that struggles can bring us closer to God. Closer to each other. Enrich our lives. What we went through with my daughter's heart surgery has led to some pretty amazing things. But there's still the part where I don't know why this happened to her. Why someone so wonderful is dealing with this. Why her family is dealing with this.
In my darker moments, I think about people who abuse their families. People who rape. Who kill. Who treat everyone as though they're garbage. And some part of me wonders "Why not them?" This, I'm aware, is an insanely un-Christ-like thought. And it's not one I entertain for long. But it's still there. I think it's doing a disservice to those who struggle with their faith to not admit that even the saved have these moments sometimes.
By our nature, we want to understand things. We want reasons. We despise uncertainty. And yet, that's so much of what life is - uncertain. I know that just rewards are given (to both the good and the wicked) when mortal life ends. But when that's not what you actually see, it can be hard to hold on to.
And this, I think, is one of the most defining things for those both with and without faith. Those without faith can point to these situations as a reason why they can't believe in God. They can't accept a God who would allow these things to happen. And those with faith can point to these situations as a reason why we have to believe in God. We have to believe there's a reason and that this isn't just random.
So I pray. And I research the type of tumor she has. I bookmark pages with alternate treatments to supplement chemo and radiation. And I struggle to find any words, any deeds, any small tokens that might ease this even a little for her and her family. For my family - because that's what they've been to me. And I ask that you add them to your prayers as well. Because right now, I don't know what else to do.
~Helen Mirren
I don't know about anyone else, but one of my greatest struggles as a Christian is accepting that sometimes really bad things happen to really good people. I know that God has a plan. I know that there's a lot of sin, and a lot of terrible things happening. And I do believe that things happen for a reason. But sometimes, not knowing that reason is more than I feel I can handle.
Twelve years ago, an amazing family came into my life. I met the oldest son first - we became friends freshman year of college. Just a few months after we became friends, his parents came to his dorm to take him to dinner for his birthday. I met them, and talked with them for a few minutes - mostly because his father was an attorney - my chosen career path. As they went to leave, his dad said "Are you coming?" When he responded that he was, his father said "No, Stephane - are you coming?"
And just like that, I had another mom. Another dad. Not to mention my friend's three brothers, who are all phenomenal people. Kind, loving, funny, and willing to do anything for the people they loved - and even people they didn't even know. That description is especially true of the family matriarch. She is the heart of the family. She takes care of her own, and even takes in strays like me. She runs charity events, is active in the community, and would give you the shirt off of her back (and probably offer you her shoes for good measure). I love these people more than I can say.
And now my friend's mother, this whirlwind of love and generosity, has an inoperable brain tumor.
It can still be treated. And let me tell you - this woman is the only person I know who is more stubborn than I am. Those of you who know me understand what a bold statement that is. I have every faith that she will kick this tumor's butt. And she has so much love and support to help her do it.
But I still feel like she shouldn't have to. I know that struggles can bring us closer to God. Closer to each other. Enrich our lives. What we went through with my daughter's heart surgery has led to some pretty amazing things. But there's still the part where I don't know why this happened to her. Why someone so wonderful is dealing with this. Why her family is dealing with this.
In my darker moments, I think about people who abuse their families. People who rape. Who kill. Who treat everyone as though they're garbage. And some part of me wonders "Why not them?" This, I'm aware, is an insanely un-Christ-like thought. And it's not one I entertain for long. But it's still there. I think it's doing a disservice to those who struggle with their faith to not admit that even the saved have these moments sometimes.
By our nature, we want to understand things. We want reasons. We despise uncertainty. And yet, that's so much of what life is - uncertain. I know that just rewards are given (to both the good and the wicked) when mortal life ends. But when that's not what you actually see, it can be hard to hold on to.
And this, I think, is one of the most defining things for those both with and without faith. Those without faith can point to these situations as a reason why they can't believe in God. They can't accept a God who would allow these things to happen. And those with faith can point to these situations as a reason why we have to believe in God. We have to believe there's a reason and that this isn't just random.
So I pray. And I research the type of tumor she has. I bookmark pages with alternate treatments to supplement chemo and radiation. And I struggle to find any words, any deeds, any small tokens that might ease this even a little for her and her family. For my family - because that's what they've been to me. And I ask that you add them to your prayers as well. Because right now, I don't know what else to do.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Sometimes God looks like a person - or a boat.
"God helps those who help themselves." Who among us hasn't heard that expression? And yet so many people seem to fall into one of two camps: those who believe that everything they do, they do themselves, and those who believe that God's intervention has to look like a bolt out of the blue or a burning bush. There are two jokes I've heard more than once that I think illustrate these archetypes perfectly:
1) A man is circling the mall parking lot, having left his Christmas shopping until the last minute. It's so crowded, there are lines of people just waiting for a space. He bows his head and says "God, if you could please just open up a parking space for me, I promise to devote my life to you." As he circles around another time, he finds a spot just a few yards from the entrance. He looks up and says "Nevermind, God, I found one."
2) After a great deal of rain in a small town, the floodwaters have risen to dangerous levels. One man stands outside of his house in water up to his hips. A neighbor passing by offers him a life jacket, saying "we're headed to higher ground if you'd like to come with us - this will keep you safe." The man declines, saying simply "I have faith in the Lord, and He will rescue me." Later that day, the water has risen much higher, and the man is perched on his second story balcony. Another neighbor passes in a small boat and says "They say it's only going to get worse, and we have room for one more. Will you join us?" The man again declines, saying "I have faith in the Lord, and He will rescue me." That night, the water is so high the man has to move to the roof of his house. A rescue helicopter passes and lowers a ladder. The man shakes his head, shouting up at the pilot, "I have faith in the Lord, and He will rescue me." Finally, the water is so deep, the man's head can barely stay above it, even on the roof. He shouts to God "I have faith - why have you not saved me?" And God replies "I sent you a life jacket, a boat, and a helicopter - what more did you need?"
Today I find myself compelled to talk about the second train of thought. Now, I firmly believe that miracles happen every day. That God heals. That He saves. But I also know that He uses people and situations to do those things. The most visible example in my life is my daughter. Those of you who know me are aware that she was born with a congenital heart defect, called Tetralogy of Fallot. Because of this, she had open heart surgery at 11 weeks of age. Prior to that, we weren't allowed to let her cry, for fear she'd have a cyanotic spell, and she was on medication to keep her alive until the surgery could be performed.
I believed (most of the time - I'd be lying if I said I never despaired) that God would save my baby. I ended my prayers with it every night: "Please don't take my baby." And I believe in the power of prayer. But I didn't wait for an angel to appear and lay their holy hand on her chest. I didn't imagine for a second that a bolt of lightning would strike her and seal up the hole in her heart.
You see, God sent us to the most amazing doctors at Akron Children's Hospital. He had gifted those surgeons with steady hands and incredible talent that led to them having one of the lowest fatality rates for this surgery. God also created scientists and substances that worked together to produce the medications she needed.
This isn't only the case for life or death situations. When I was unemployed, I prayed to find a job. But I also joined job sites, sent out applications, and made phone calls. When I took the bar exam, I prayed about passing it. But I also studied my head off (some days it felt like literally) and took the prep classes.
God isn't a magic vending machine you put prayers into and everything you've ever wanted falls out. (I'm paraphrasing a very witty person who used a similar analogy to explain the "friend zone", and I apologize that I can't find the citation.) Sometimes He does step in and fix things in a way that can't be explained. But much of the time, you have to work toward your goals, too. He'll carry most of the weight, but we still need to do our part.
Sometimes a situation is beyond your control. But when it isn't, do whatever you can. And be sure not to miss the boat (or the helicopter) when it comes.
1) A man is circling the mall parking lot, having left his Christmas shopping until the last minute. It's so crowded, there are lines of people just waiting for a space. He bows his head and says "God, if you could please just open up a parking space for me, I promise to devote my life to you." As he circles around another time, he finds a spot just a few yards from the entrance. He looks up and says "Nevermind, God, I found one."
2) After a great deal of rain in a small town, the floodwaters have risen to dangerous levels. One man stands outside of his house in water up to his hips. A neighbor passing by offers him a life jacket, saying "we're headed to higher ground if you'd like to come with us - this will keep you safe." The man declines, saying simply "I have faith in the Lord, and He will rescue me." Later that day, the water has risen much higher, and the man is perched on his second story balcony. Another neighbor passes in a small boat and says "They say it's only going to get worse, and we have room for one more. Will you join us?" The man again declines, saying "I have faith in the Lord, and He will rescue me." That night, the water is so high the man has to move to the roof of his house. A rescue helicopter passes and lowers a ladder. The man shakes his head, shouting up at the pilot, "I have faith in the Lord, and He will rescue me." Finally, the water is so deep, the man's head can barely stay above it, even on the roof. He shouts to God "I have faith - why have you not saved me?" And God replies "I sent you a life jacket, a boat, and a helicopter - what more did you need?"
Today I find myself compelled to talk about the second train of thought. Now, I firmly believe that miracles happen every day. That God heals. That He saves. But I also know that He uses people and situations to do those things. The most visible example in my life is my daughter. Those of you who know me are aware that she was born with a congenital heart defect, called Tetralogy of Fallot. Because of this, she had open heart surgery at 11 weeks of age. Prior to that, we weren't allowed to let her cry, for fear she'd have a cyanotic spell, and she was on medication to keep her alive until the surgery could be performed.
I believed (most of the time - I'd be lying if I said I never despaired) that God would save my baby. I ended my prayers with it every night: "Please don't take my baby." And I believe in the power of prayer. But I didn't wait for an angel to appear and lay their holy hand on her chest. I didn't imagine for a second that a bolt of lightning would strike her and seal up the hole in her heart.
You see, God sent us to the most amazing doctors at Akron Children's Hospital. He had gifted those surgeons with steady hands and incredible talent that led to them having one of the lowest fatality rates for this surgery. God also created scientists and substances that worked together to produce the medications she needed.
This isn't only the case for life or death situations. When I was unemployed, I prayed to find a job. But I also joined job sites, sent out applications, and made phone calls. When I took the bar exam, I prayed about passing it. But I also studied my head off (some days it felt like literally) and took the prep classes.
God isn't a magic vending machine you put prayers into and everything you've ever wanted falls out. (I'm paraphrasing a very witty person who used a similar analogy to explain the "friend zone", and I apologize that I can't find the citation.) Sometimes He does step in and fix things in a way that can't be explained. But much of the time, you have to work toward your goals, too. He'll carry most of the weight, but we still need to do our part.
Sometimes a situation is beyond your control. But when it isn't, do whatever you can. And be sure not to miss the boat (or the helicopter) when it comes.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
"You keep using that word - I do not think it means what you think it means"
Like most Christian bloggers, I feel that it's finally time that I comment on the Kim Davis situation. There are two words that are brought up fairly consistently around this issue: "freedom" and "persecution". I don't believe either is used correctly.
Before I address either, I would like to say this: you will never hear me personally attack Davis, nor those who oppose her stance. Ideological debates should remain focused on ideas. If you can't make your point without devolving into personal attacks, you don't really have a point.
Because it strikes me more deeply, I'll start with "freedom". Religious freedom was one of the great foundations of this country. Freedom to practice one's religion without government interference. Free to worship in the way one believed to be right. Supporters of Davis argue that her freedom to practice what she believes is compromised by the government forcing her to issue marriage licenses she deems immoral.
This requires addressing on two levels. The first is that she has been told she must issue these permits if she wishes to continue performing her job working for the government. Government jobs, as the name implies, follow the laws of the land. I do believe that God's law is higher than the laws of the land. However, I also believe that you cannot reap the benefits of a government position, yet expect to not have to follow the government's laws. The saved may belong to God, but we are still required to live in the world, and to accept consequences if we do not follow the laws. I understand that it can be difficult to find a new job. But if your job requires something you don't want to do, you may either do that thing, or leave that job. At my prior job, I hated taking phone calls from people who blamed their failed background check on me, rather than on their prior crimes. But that was part of the job. I couldn't simply tell my boss that these people weren't behaving very Christian-like and that I was not going to answer the phone anymore.
The second level is that of the distinction between "religious freedom" and "Christian freedom". If one accepts that a government employee who is Christian can choose to not issues marriage licenses that go against their beliefs, one must also accept that a government employee who is a Quaker can refuse to issue a gun license because it violates their belief in peace and non-violence. I have never heard anyone argue that the government should incorporate any religious beliefs other than Christian. In fact, President Obama so much as reading an Islamic text has been known to spark outrage. Why, then, should Christians be afforded a privilege that no other religion has?
And this brings me to the other word - "persecution". When my pastor and his wife returned from a visit to the Ukraine to share the teachings of the Lord, they came bearing stories of those who have been kidnapped, harmed, tortured, or killed for expressing their beliefs. And this isn't terribly rare in the world. There are governments that refuse to allow Christian prayer. Terrorist cells that will threaten one's life, home, and family to sway their beliefs.
In the shadow of these atrocities, to say that a person is persecuted because they are jailed for breaking a law (albeit one they disagreed with), or because people disagree with their stance, is insulting. If you can get up on Sunday and go to your church and practice your faith without fear, you are blessed - not persecuted.
I will always support someone in following God's law. But I will never support the idea that one should be able to avoid all earthly consequences while living in the world. If you need to change jobs to feel you are following God, change jobs. If you feel you need to stand against a law to follow God - do it. But humbly accept the consequences.
Before I address either, I would like to say this: you will never hear me personally attack Davis, nor those who oppose her stance. Ideological debates should remain focused on ideas. If you can't make your point without devolving into personal attacks, you don't really have a point.
Because it strikes me more deeply, I'll start with "freedom". Religious freedom was one of the great foundations of this country. Freedom to practice one's religion without government interference. Free to worship in the way one believed to be right. Supporters of Davis argue that her freedom to practice what she believes is compromised by the government forcing her to issue marriage licenses she deems immoral.
This requires addressing on two levels. The first is that she has been told she must issue these permits if she wishes to continue performing her job working for the government. Government jobs, as the name implies, follow the laws of the land. I do believe that God's law is higher than the laws of the land. However, I also believe that you cannot reap the benefits of a government position, yet expect to not have to follow the government's laws. The saved may belong to God, but we are still required to live in the world, and to accept consequences if we do not follow the laws. I understand that it can be difficult to find a new job. But if your job requires something you don't want to do, you may either do that thing, or leave that job. At my prior job, I hated taking phone calls from people who blamed their failed background check on me, rather than on their prior crimes. But that was part of the job. I couldn't simply tell my boss that these people weren't behaving very Christian-like and that I was not going to answer the phone anymore.
The second level is that of the distinction between "religious freedom" and "Christian freedom". If one accepts that a government employee who is Christian can choose to not issues marriage licenses that go against their beliefs, one must also accept that a government employee who is a Quaker can refuse to issue a gun license because it violates their belief in peace and non-violence. I have never heard anyone argue that the government should incorporate any religious beliefs other than Christian. In fact, President Obama so much as reading an Islamic text has been known to spark outrage. Why, then, should Christians be afforded a privilege that no other religion has?
And this brings me to the other word - "persecution". When my pastor and his wife returned from a visit to the Ukraine to share the teachings of the Lord, they came bearing stories of those who have been kidnapped, harmed, tortured, or killed for expressing their beliefs. And this isn't terribly rare in the world. There are governments that refuse to allow Christian prayer. Terrorist cells that will threaten one's life, home, and family to sway their beliefs.
In the shadow of these atrocities, to say that a person is persecuted because they are jailed for breaking a law (albeit one they disagreed with), or because people disagree with their stance, is insulting. If you can get up on Sunday and go to your church and practice your faith without fear, you are blessed - not persecuted.
I will always support someone in following God's law. But I will never support the idea that one should be able to avoid all earthly consequences while living in the world. If you need to change jobs to feel you are following God, change jobs. If you feel you need to stand against a law to follow God - do it. But humbly accept the consequences.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)