Tag Archives: suffering

The Absolute Nothingness of Ashes

ImageAshes represent death. They tell of the end of something that has been destroyed with unquenched fire, changing its very nature into tiny particles of unrecognizable dust. What once was, is permanently no longer. The end. A pile of death. Ash. Dust. Nothing.

I admit, there are parts of my life that have been reduced to ashes. I keep these losses in little jars on the shelves of my heart. Relationships that ended. Friends who died. Opportunities I wasted. Unanswered prayers. Failures. Sufferings of others. Actually, there’s currently a whole shelf just devoted to that one — ashes that represent people I love suffering from cancer, chronic illness, tragic accidents, abuse, divorce, rebellion, pain.

Ashes remind me that this world is broken. And that I cannot fix it. And that makes me mad. I’ve also been storing up boxes of questions in my heart, right next to the jars of suffering. Doubts I dared not entertain, burdens I shouldered alone, punches I was afraid to throw.

During this extended sabbatical I’ve been tackling some of the my compartmentalized questions. A book called “Glorious Ruin” by Tullian Tchividjan has changed how I process suffering:

“God, according to the Bible, is a God who suffers with us and who, in the person of Jesus, suffered for us.  He’s the man of sorrows.  If we needed any proof whatsoever that God is most present in defeat, that God is most present in weakness, all we have to do is look at the cross.  When embraced, the cross actually frees us to be real, to be honest, to be Christian Realists instead of Christian Idealists.  It frees us to call a spade a spade — to say, this suffering is terrible, and this isn’t the way things were intended to be.  It frees us to look forward to the day when every tear will be wiped away, and death and disease will be no more.”

Ashes are literally a pile of loss. The physical representation of the nothingness of dead dreams and hopes and loves. Maybe that’s why Jesus said He was coming to redeem and restore not just “mostly dead” but “completely dead.” Ashes. The absolute nothing. If he can do the impossible in resurrecting ashes, is there anything He cannot do? Jesus speaks hope across time through the prophet Isaiah when He says:

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
    and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
    and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, 
    the oil of joy instead of mourning,
    and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

God likes the nothingness of ashes because it gives Him exclusive rights to the glory for redeeming them. I so badly want to help fix things and reconstruct dust particles; the helplessness of ashes frustrates me.  But Jesus came to free me from the burden of having to be the world’s redeemer. Simply put, I can’t do it. And, as frustrating as that is, it’s actually really good news. I am only responsible to point the world to Jesus, our only hope.

ImageWhile in Oklahoma this summer I visited the national memorial for the Oklahoma City Bombing. A field of chairs overlooks a reflecting pool with each seat representing one of the 168 people killed that day — 19 of them children. You’ll also find the remnant of a broken wall, a fence with notes from the public and many somber spaces for remembering those who died, those who survived and those who rushed in as rescuers. Walking around the memorial I sensed deep grief and fear and anger, all begging the world to never forget the unthinkable, senseless intrusion of evil. My heart was broken.

Just as I thought I couldn’t process anything else, I saw The Survivor Tree. This American Elm witnessed the horrific events of April 19, 1995 and all the unimaginable tears since then. And yet it stands. It survived. Not only is it alive, but it is flourishing. Tall, full and strong it provides shade to grieving pilgrims and hope for weary mourners. It says, “it’s going to be okay. You’re going to make it.” Without ceremony or arrogance it reminds us that life can go on.

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I spent several minutes under The Survivor Tree. I rested my hand on it’s trunk and thought of all the people I know who are currently struggling to survive various tragedies in their lives. Over and over in my head I heard the words, “beauty from ashes.” The Spirit of God was giving me a vivid image of how He came to redeem death, restore hope and create life. Just like The Survivor Tree, we will live as a testimony to all who see us.

This past year I’ve come to accept suffering. My next goal is to be grateful for it. And maybe one day I will even get to the point of embracing it. And while I am not there yet, I am learning why I need to pray towards that end. Author Ann Voskamp says this:

“We may all want anything other than suffering and ashes. But this is a dust-crushed world and Christ didn’t avoid it but chose to come to it. Why embrace dust and ashes? Because it’s out of dust and ashes, God grows the impossible. Because God exchanges dust and ashes for beauty and miracles and He cares so much that He doesn’t care that it’s not fair. Because God raises whole people out of ashes and He writes mysterious grace in dust, and with Him, dust and spit and muddied things can still help us see.”

And so, surrounded by jars of ashes and my boxes of questions I am learning to look for Jesus amid my sufferings and sorrows. He came to bring comfort and purpose; I must learn to let Him into these heart-closets so that He can do His redemptive work. It’s a step of trust. Of faith. Of vulnerability.

But what do I have to lose? I can’t get anything less than ashes. I believe that these jars of nothingness will be redeemed in God’s perfect time. He is writing mysterious grace in the dust of my life.

“All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us”

–“Beautiful Things” by Gungor

Wake Up From This Winter

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So wake up from this winter
Into the world of all things new
I feel you drawing nearer
Because I know your love is on the move

Three months into my sabbatical, I am happy to report that slowing down is one of the best things I have ever done. This whole summer — and now into fall — I have simplified, eliminated and evaluated much in my life and heart. Lots of reading, writing, talking, thinking, crying and learning.

And God has met me at every turn. Whether it’s been through financial provision that lets me continue my journey or flashes of revelation on a piece of holy ground, I have experienced nothing but the kindness of God. He isn’t the harsh schoolmaster I was expecting. He is a gentle Father, carefully and patiently allowing me to grow at a safe pace.

Instead of running away from pain, I have been learning to see Jesus walking with me in the midst of my suffering. He is the “suffering servant.” He doesn’t wait for me to be whole, He comes to me in my brokenness. That’s the gospel.

Instead of ignoring my questions, I have been learning to wrestle with God and ask Him my why’s and how’s. He is mighty and strong and unshakeable. He can handle my toughest questions and my hardest punches.

Instead of trying to understand God’s plan for my life, I have been learning to surrender my relentless desire for details to a God who knows and cares and loves. If I replace “need to know plans” with “need to know Jesus” then I get what my heart is actually craving. Seek first Jesus, the rest will follow.

Instead of filling my days with “stuff,” I have been learning to sit still and only choose what is best. Which is sometimes sitting on the back porch with a cup of tea and my Bible. Or playing the guitar with a 3 year old. Or sleeping in past 9am. If God has given me this time, I should use it to it’s fullest and not feel guilty about it. Rest. Enjoy. See Jesus.

It’s amazing. And refreshing. And freeing. But I had to slow down to experience it. God knew I needed this time even more than I did. 

Like a eager flower daring to bloom after a long winter, Lydia 2.0 is slowly emerging.

 

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“On The Move” Lyrics and Music by Thomas McGuire. Check out noisetrade.com/thomasmcguire to get this song for free!

 

Rinse, Massage, Repeat

A friend texted me yesterday and asked how I was feeling spiritually. I took a breath, thought for a moment and then replied with:

“I’m feeling…like God is rinsing away my moralism and massaging out my tense response to suffering. The gospel is the answer to both and I’ve been a bit overwhelmed with my need for a fresh, clear understanding. So it’s good — really good.”

And there it was. The summary of my heart in 241 characters.

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I expected God to powerwash my heart on this trip. To blast away grime and filth and deep issues. And while He reserves the right to do so, my experience has been very different. He has gently rinsed. Steady, continual, loving, gentle. He sees that my heart is caked with bad habits, worldly lies and a stubborn works mentality towards God. But instead of the power of a fire hydrant, God is using the kind gurgle of a garden hose.

Rinse. Be washed in the water of His word. Sit. Soak. Absorb. Abide.
Rinse. Let the dirt run off. Let the gospel free me from my efforts to earn favor.
Rinse. Receive the love and care of the Shepherd.
Rinse. Let the dry cracks of my soul be healed.
Rinse. Allow my weary spirit to sit under the flow of Life and Truth and Peace.
Rinse. Release my strivings and efforts and let Jesus be my everything.

And then comes the massage. A direct hit on the topic of suffering. Oh, those tight muscles in my heart and knots in my soul that I didn’t even realize was there. The questions, the pain, the brokenness, the things I just don’t understand. The things I cannot fix. I realized that I’ve been clenching my teeth and holding my breath, trying to just survive in the crashing waves of grief all around me. I’ve been reading about the gospel and learning to apply it’s truth to suffering.

Massage. Feel the pressure in sensitive spots and believe it’s good pain.
Massage. Work out the knots of unbelief and tension of self-atonement.
Massage. Let the truth of the gospel help me see the suffering Savior.
Massage. Release my controlled emotions and be honest about my pain.
Massage. Abandon the familiar pain in order to receive reprieve and comfort.
Massage. Close my eyes and trust the One who sees the fibers of my being.
Massage. Be free. See God’s heart. See God’s love. Trust His hand.

God, who is rich in mercy, has been pursuing my heart. He has been showing me how I can trust myself less and trust Jesus more. Showing me how I’ve let moralism and suffering fill the crevices of my heart, taking root and choking out the fresh water of grace. Oh, how I need fresh water. My heart has grown stagnant as I’ve tried to swim in my brokenness and then pull myself out by my own understanding.

“He sent from on high, he took me;
He drew me out of many waters.
He brought me out into a broad place;
He rescued me because He delighted in me.” (Psalm 18: 16,19) 

Oh, how the gospel changes everything! When I see my NEED for a Savior I can then SEE the Savior and how gloriously He has met all my needs.

The gospel is fresh water, rinsing off my legalistic moralism. It frees me from having to understand, earn, achieve, create or fulfill my own set of tasks. Moralism is a cheater, a thief, a liar. It adds weight to my load and guilt to my conscience. It tells me I must prove myself and help God with my sanctification. It steals my joy because I walk in fear of failure. But the gospel says that Jesus did it all and that I am safe and secure in HIS achievement.

Let living water satisfy
The thirsty without price
We’ll take a cup of kindness yet
All glory be to Christ

The gospel is a strong massage, reaching into the deep tissue of my soul and giving me perspective amidst suffering. It tells me that pain is real and that Jesus understands. It tells me that God is bigger. It tells me that God cares. It tells me that there will be redemption. It tells me that God sent His own Son to intercept my deepest suffering and bring me hope.

“We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. For while we were still weak… God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:3-8)

GOSPEL HOPE does not disappoint. Jesus died to give us hope. His work is finished. His work is secure. The hope He gives is secure. I have hope amidst “many waters” because He rescued me. And He rescued me because He delighted in me.

Rinse.
Massage.
Repeat.