Finding New Bearings

"You'll get through this. It won't be painless. It won't be quick. But God will use this mess for good. Don't be foolish or naive. But don't despair either. With God's help, you'll get through this"

 So Max Lucado makes thesis of his recent book "You'll Get Through This," a hopeful evaluation of the Biblical story of Joseph in Genesis. My mom handed the book to me after my little family of four, unexpectedly to me, landed as refugees of financial disaster born of long term unemployment, in the home I grew up in - just long and short eight weeks ago. My family has cared for us with generosity I'm only beginning to comprehend, literally clothing and feeding us, sacrificing personal space and time and certainly finances to lift us up above the flood.

In many ways, the weight of five years of nearly continual crisis feels lifted off my weary shoulders, shoulders that have bent both spirit and in truth. Yet the relief is not without a price, and my heart feels it most keenly. I often think of the city we just evacuated as the home of my heart - it is there and among that community that God helped me find and heal an oft neglected heart, there that my heart came alive, a heart that is now grasping for lost bearings and friends that have been my anchors.

The thesis above stated feels like a road map to a way I would not have chosen and I am in between surfing with or crushed by the weight of the promise of long suffering that is clearly indicated. I don't sense God coming in with the calvary this time- we're going to be here for a while, just as Joseph served long in Potipher's house and in the prison that came following. Yet even feeling exiled, God still speaks.

In my early twenties, I felt that the Lord met me in a break room during my lunch break from my nursing job and asked me something like this: "If you could have one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?" Spiritual wonder that I am, I blew off the question. The response, "If you knew how much you would suffer, you'd take me seriously." I've spent the past ten plus years trying to decide if the promise of suffering was from the Lord or not as my theology has encountered various expressions of spiritual understanding. In any case, my answer, which would be likely a different one if faced with the same encounter today, was that I would hear His voice. And whether or not that promise of suffering comes from On High or not, I'm still asking to hear. And from the unexpected places these past few tumultuous months, He speaks.

Lately, it's been from the old story of Cinderella. The childhood story I don't even like. The genre of tales I try to keep away from my three year old, but God speaks. Cinderella didn't start out as a pauper, but the beloved daughter of a loving father, the favored apple of his eye. She knew her value and identity long before circumstances tried to choke it out of her. Cinderella was shining in the story because it is darkness that reveals the light. In the appointed moment, ALL the maidens were invited to the ball, a chance to meet the prince. Cinderella had more obstacles to overcome than most, was resisted by her family and her resources were slim - but she was invited. I wonder if the fairy godmother would have come if she had rejected herself from the invitation. What if Cinderella believed what her stepfamily believed about her, believed what her circumstances said she was? Would her heart have responded to the invitation? Would she have been found in the garden amidst her mess or would she have counted herself lucky to have the night off and gone to bed?

Like Cinderella and Joseph may have wondered, I am tempted to lose sight of whose I am. My invitation to meet the prince is daily but I'm often too engaged in trying to survive my reality to believe that he wants me. It's been a long time since I was the petted little girl delighting in His then easily accessed presence and while I've been looking and pleading, it's been rare that I've found the one my heart loves. It's been easier to shut down than face the pain of feeling lost and abandoned or find faith to believe that I'm not, amidst all the darkness that says I am. I'm quite willing to take the blame for a weakly burning flame, maybe too willing, but my long enduring hope is that whatever the cause may be, that he will not put out my smoldering wick.

I'm certain that no amount of holding my breath until it's over will eradicate this trail. As I embrace the reality of whose I am here, exiled like Josepsh, facing despair and disappointment in the garden like Cinderella, I will be escorted into the presence of the King. Until then I hope, I wrestle and I wait.