Recently, I have begun the task of sorting through all the “stuff” that we’ve accumulated over the years in a futile attempt to de-clutter; to pare down all the junk that we’ve moved from one side of the country to the other, and back again.  I sorted old photos into plastic bins; held an unsuccessful yard sale to try and eliminate excess collections; took a car-load of household items to donate to a local church. I even tried posting things on E bay which resulted in having to pursue a claim with the post office after the items I sold and shipped arrived in California completely shattered.  And resulted in a whopping profit of $17.00.   And of course, it never looks like anything has changed.  There never seems to be a dent made in the ever-increasing piles of mementos and miscellaneous artifacts to the point where I can notice a difference.

My mind, most days, is as cluttered as my closets are.  My time is spent running scenarios through my head on how to best handle all the current situations in my life- health, finances, children, work- all while giving lip service to the “day at a time” philosophy I have spent over 30 years incorporating into my armory.  I’m not worrying, I claim, just processing things.  Which really translates to overthinking and becoming overwhelmed.

The spiritual parallels are obvious to even a novice in the area of self-examination.  I read books like Lysa TerKeust’s “The Best Yes” and even reflect back to the teachings of Elizabeth George in “A Woman After God’s Own Heart” (Is this “good, better or best?”) when I try to “prayerfully consider” whether to undertake another ministry position or service opportunity. I put on my wisdom hat and claim that I am trying to focus on what’s really important; to not spread myself too thin so I can best serve others.  If I’m truly honest, I’m just looking for reasons not to commit to anything; trying to avoid volunteering for what seems like an endless list of thankless tasks which I can then cynically claim have resulted in absolutely no real good for the “kingdom”.

The end result is that I find myself in a brain-fog, unable to focus on any one thought in order to make a decision; unable to spend time in that coveted place of meditation; unable to pray.  It’s like looking into an overflowing cabinet and hoping to find that one photograph that I vaguely recall in order to create a clever post on Instagram (which I actually did recently- about an hour of my life that I will never get back.  But I found the picture).

I heard a song recently while I was driving early on a Saturday morning, trying to beat the crowd at Walmart (another vain attempt to avoid busyness).  It was entitled “Open Space” by a group called Housefires.  As I listened, I started crying inexplicably.  The words aren’t particularly sad or emotional, at least not words that would bring you to tears.  But they brought me to a place of grieving- grieving the loss of my old self; of the person who was young in her faith and open to anything God had planned.  Until the plan unfolded and things became cluttered.  Crowded with life, with things like bills and illness and responsibilities.  The naïve dream that I could really make a difference if I just loved well and let God lead.  That ever-elusive “Spirit led life”.  I longed for that comparatively care-free younger woman who could stand with her hands and heart opened, “caught up in the wonder and mystery”, as the song says.

I spent this morning pulling weeds, clearing out the overgrown clover and unsightly grasses that are cluttering the yard.  And there was a visible result which was somewhat rewarding.  And I spent some time trying to recapture that feeling of newness and naivete – to allow myself time to just get “caught up in the wonder and mystery”.  It’s a practice I think I need to incorporate back into my arsenal of tools, which will hopefully help to de-clutter my mind and my spirit.  Hopefully the results will profit me more than my E bay experience.

Thanks for spending a few minutes with me in my foggy, overgrown mind-

 

“But God!”  There are times when I’ve yelled this, much like a toddler stomping her feet at the parent who tells her no; or like a teenager who screams in exasperation “that’s so not fair!”

But God! I’m pregnant again after that miscarriage, and now my husband is going to die without ever seeing this child!

But God! We were just going to move back to live near my parents, and now you took my mother!

But God!  We were getting ready to sell our house and I got cancer!

But God!  Enough!

This idea that suffering builds character, draws us closer to God, brought some comfort at first.  Slowly, each new situation whittled away at the self-sufficiency I had been so proud of accomplishing.  I saw how pride was truly my downfall; that with each bit of control I surrendered, I experienced a little bit more of that “peace that passes understanding”.  But after a few years and a few more “challenges”, I thought perhaps I had enough character for one person. I felt like one of those “wine-pressed” Christians that a former pastor had described: ordinary people who, for some inexplicable reason, endured more than their fair share of “suffering”.   And then it just became ridiculous.

A few months ago we were preparing for a trip to Wyoming to see my youngest graduate college.  To say I had mixed emotions is an understatement; more like a smorgasbord. Excited, certainly, to see my son graduate, and to have all my children and some friends and family attend; proud, because my son had overcome some personal challenges in the last few years in order to graduate, cum laude, with a double major, in just 3 years; anxious about what was next for him as he prepared to go out into the world “without a net” for the first time.

Just before we left to make the 1700 mile drive my daughter, on her 32^nd birthday, had a biopsy.  And as we were about half-way across the country we received the call that no parent expects, with the words no one wants to hear- “it’s breast cancer”.  Really God?? Are you kidding?  I have to be honest, my first response was not “holy”; the first words out of my mouth were not prayerful or humble, but angry and resentful.  Seriously?  After everything else that’s happened?

I was angry.  Really angry.  I guess I thought I had “paid my dues”; that I was entitled to a break.  I mean, I had spent years doing all the right things, being grateful for the second chance I had as a result of surrendering my will and my life to God.  I studied the scriptures, spent time in prayer and meditation every day.  I practiced acts of service; tried to seek God’s will instead of mine as often as I could. I had gotten through miscarriages, the death of a husband, the loss of my parents, and much, much more, all with the assurance that God’s ways were not my ways; that his plan was better.  I had even heard those fateful words directed at me-“it’s breast cancer”- and managed to trust Him through that.  But this was different.  This was my child.  My first-born.  This was the last straw.  I began to really doubt the goodness of God.

I didn’t want to talk to anyone because I didn’t want to hear the platitudes; I didn’t want to hear people say “we’ll pray for her” or “God has a plan”.  A few months before, I had read Lysa TerKeurst’s book It’s Not Supposed to Be This Way and my heart resonated with her description of living a life “between two gardens”, of learning to “wrestle well”.  But now, I felt the words were trite, the promises empty.  I felt more like TerKeurst’s description of “dust”, being shattered beyond repair; of having the “hope of God…snuffed out by the consuming darkness all around us” (p. 17).  Around this time I wrote in my journal that I had gone from quoting psalms, expressing gratitude about being pulled from the pit, to being despondent (I even included the definition: “in low spirits due to loss of hope or courage”).

I stayed in that darkness for a while.  I didn’t want to tarnish the image I had spent so long building by admitting to anyone how low I had gotten, so I kept up the strong front that I had spent years honing.  I tried to “act as if”, a tool I had learned early on in my recovery journey when I was struggling with the idea of the “God of my understanding”.  I had signed up for a 21-day on-line study of “Following Jesus in a world that feels chaotic” with Suzanne Eller.  I didn’t “feel” like doing it, but I did it anyway.  And a few days in, I read this: “Doubt isn’t the demise of your faith.  It’s an invitation to go deeper”.  Suzie wrote “Your faith will not be shipwrecked in a storm” (p. 159, Come With Me). I soon had a community of women I didn’t even know praying for me; and I found I could pray for them as well.

I started to turn those angry, resentful cries of “But God!” to thoughts of encouragement-

“But God, who is rich in mercy, because of his great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ….” (Eph.2:4)

“But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever” (Ps. 73:26)

“But as for you, you meant evil against me, But God meant it for good, to bring it about as it is this day, to save many people alive.” (Gen. 50:20)

“But God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will also make a way of escape, that you may be able to bear it.” (1Cor. 10:13)

“But God has surely listened and has heard my prayer.” (Ps. 66:19)

“But God will never forget the needy; the hope of the afflicted will never perish.” (Ps. 9:18)

“But God made the earth by his power; he founded the world by his wisdom and stretched out the heavens by his understanding.” (Jer. 10:12)

Slowly my perspective is starting to change.  I’m not quite to the point of embracing this latest round of difficulties as a welcomed path to a deeper faith.  But as I sat last weekend in the emergency room with my youngest son (seriously- a week before he was to move to Boston, he ended up with a bizarre viral infection that left him unable to eat, struggling to get out of bed, with a high fever and terrible eye pain and sensitivity to light.  Really??) my first thought was not “But God!”  Instead, I sat at the hospital, sending emails and making phone calls to ask for prayer.  I didn’t make the self-centered assumption that I was being punished for some failure as a parent, or that this was a “sign” about my son’s future.

I’m once again learning that it’s not all about me; that life is sometimes difficult and unfair; that God may not always follow the script I have so cleverly written for my life or the lives of those I love.  For tonight, I am choosing to “hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful.” (Hebrews 10:23).  That may change tomorrow, but for tonight I am choosing to say “It is well with my soul”.