Back in May, I posted about the importance of struggles in our lives, how they help us grow, if we let them. Now, after having a daughter for five months, I've been rethinking my perspective on it all.
I don't recant anything I wrote then. It's more of a shift in attitude.
Here's what I mean:
My daughter, N, cries in her cradle.
I know that she needs a nap; I can hear the sleep-need in her voice. But she sounds so sad. And then she gives that hiccupy sob that sounds like her heart is breaking - and it threatens to break mine.
I could go in, pick her up, cuddle her, comfort her, rock her to sleep, and hold her in my arms for her entire nap.
I want to.
Or
she fusses over tummy time.
She doesn't want to work on holding up her head anymore! She's tired, and she's tired of laying her face back on the blanket on the floor. The whole rolling-over thing is complicated, and it is a toss-up whether or not she might make it work, and it's a lot of work! "Mom!" she seems to yell, "come fix this!"
And I want to fix it.
Oh, how I want to take it all away and reassure her of my loving presence.
I have done so on occasion.
A lot of the time, I don't.
I have the power to remove that sorrow from her life, yet I opt not to.
Why? Why would a loving parent allow his child - the child he loves more than breath - to be sad, lonely, upset? How can a parent call himself loving when he could fix it, but doesn't? Why would a parent put himself through those tears and heartache when even he would like to swoop in with a rescue?
I know why I do.
I have a bigger picture in mind than little five-month-old N can imagine. I can see the results when I have given in too often. I have a goal of health and happiness in mind for N that allows me to push through discomfort - hers and mine - in order to reach it. (And, I have a stellar husband who is my biggest cheerleader, my fellow disciplinarian, and the foremost member of my support system!)
This all has been affecting my change of mind. I have always seen God as the loving but firm Father, the one who disciplines us à la Hebrews 12:3-11.
"God is treating you as sons," the passage says of times of discipline. "He disciplines us for our good. . . . For the moment all discipline seems painful . . . but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it."
How stoic those words can seem! How stiff and unbending we can make God appear when we toss out these words of "comfort" to someone in the midst of their struggle.
Is this God? Is this our heavenly Father? Is this His heart?
"[Do not] be weary" in times of discipline, the author urges, because "the Lord disciplines the one he loves." This, too, sounded condescending but firm to my childish heart. "Don't be sad about the hurt," I once heard, "It's all for your good in the end, so brush it off and have a good attitude."
But, not being a parent yet, I missed something.
12:3 begins, "Consider him who endured from sinners such hostility against himself." Who is this? Jesus, of course, whom 5:7 describes this way: "In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears . . . " This is the same Jesus that 4:15 assures us "sympathize[s] with our weaknesses."
This is me with N. This is the sadness I experience with her. This is my heart, aching to fix things for her, able to fix things for her, yet knowing, because of my love for her, that I must not.
You know what that tells me?
God hurts with us.
Think of that! The Creator of the universe, the one with all power and all knowledge, the one who knows that the struggle is important, He feels our pain with us! He is not up there somewhere, smiling grimly or grinning gleefully over our misery. He hurts for our pain, so much so that He exchanged His only begotten Son for us adopted sons in order to put things to rights.
Of course, everything is not all put to right yet. We still feel the effects of a broken world and our own broken souls. We're in process still, and that means growing pains as we go, and it means sharp, piercing pains as the filth is dug out of us like infection out of a tooth.
But don't lose heart in the pain. This discipline - literally, disciple-making - has been carefully chosen, painstakingly vetted as the right tool for the task of producing a holiness like our big Brother's.
And, even more so, take comfort:
Those tears you've cried over that struggle in your life or in the life of your loved one - He's cried with you. That ache in your heart from the unresolved issue that constantly nags and threatens and circles back for more - He feels it, too.
He's your Daddy, and He hurts with you.
Friday, December 30, 2016
Friday, December 16, 2016
He Cared Enough to Give Us Christmas!
Having an infant gives me a whole new appreciation for Christmas.
I've believed for as long as I can remember that Jesus, the God-Man, came to earth as a baby about 2000 years ago. Now, though, as my own child nears five months old, I realize that at one time, Jesus, the Word of God through whom the galaxies burst into existence, was Himself nearing five months old. (How can the age of the Eternal be measured in mere months?)
His mother was young, younger than me. His world was chaotic and scary.
Was Mary frightened at times, raising a baby? I am. It is a vulnerable thing to have so much of my soul wrapped in such a helpless bundle. I hope the best for her, pray that she will seek the heart of God and be kept far from evil men and women, but I know she will feel pain in some form someday. No wonder Simeon told Mary that a sword would pierce her own heart; her son had a certain future of pain, far beyond what I might realistically expect for little N. (But who ever claimed a mother's ruminations are realistic?)
Every time I read a book or watch a movie where a child is endangered or suffering, I immediately see my child there, feel an inkling of the desperation I imagine I might feel if that were my baby there, going through that. (A vivid imagination can be both a blessing and a curse.)
Or I wonder if I may inadvertently hurt her; there are certainly enough ways to fear doing so. Sometimes it seems there are so many options for fear surrounding a child that it is hard to know which is the lesser: Do I fear vaccines, or do I fear not vaccinating? Do I fear co-sleeping? letting her sleep on her belly? creating a dependency by holding her while she sleeps? risking the health effects of her not getting adequate sleep? (I don't think the "experts" mean to be cruel or manipulative as they encourage parents to avoid or embrace certain behaviors, but it's hard not to hear, "If you don't do as we say, you are knowingly endangering the very life of that little person you love with every fiber of your being . . .")
Sorry if you're tired of my going on about fear lately . . . it's just what is on my mind lately.
I heard a pastor on the radio recently (I wish I could remember which one so I could give proper credit) who said that Satan wants us to live either in the past through our regrets or in the future via our worries, because we can only worship God in the present, and that is the last thing he wants us to do. (Obviously, I've been having more trouble with the one, lately.)
But look at young Mary: she sure had plenty of things she could have feared. She was young, unwed, and pregnant. Her intended was planning to divorce her, which was the better of the two most likely options for her, the other being death. Her world didn't value life, especially the lives of the most vulnerable. Her options as a single mother weren't good, poverty and disgrace at best.
And yet, this remarkable teen chose praise.
"May soul magnifies the Lord," she said, "and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior."
She rejoiced? In her trouble? In her uncertainty? I would have expected her to feel forgotten or even picked on. But instead, "he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. . . . from now on all generations will call me blessed."
Now there's perspective for you. But she wasn't done yet.
"He who is mighty has done great things for me."
Is He mighty? Do I really believe that? Or is He really strong, but just not strong enough for this problem this time? Do I live like I think my problems - or potential problems - might just be the ones that surpass the limits of His abilities?
Yes, He has done great things for me. Why do I keep assuming His works are in my past but not for my future?
Maybe it's because I am forgetting to worship.
After all, this isn't just the God of the universe sitting upon His heavenly throne. He also isn't just the man who touched the untouchables. He is the One who inhabited the womb, the arms, the heart of a young mother.
He knows. He understands. He came with all the frailties and vulnerabilities of the baby sleeping across the room from me now.
Why? Who forced Him into this Christmas thing? What Being with that sort of power would simply hang it all up for the chance to go through diapers, learning language, puberty?
Someone who cares.
Someone who cares a lot.
Someone who cares a lot about me.
Someone who cares a lot about my life and my worries.
Someone who cares a lot about this precious little girl of mine.
Thank God that He cared enough to give us a Christmas.
I've believed for as long as I can remember that Jesus, the God-Man, came to earth as a baby about 2000 years ago. Now, though, as my own child nears five months old, I realize that at one time, Jesus, the Word of God through whom the galaxies burst into existence, was Himself nearing five months old. (How can the age of the Eternal be measured in mere months?)
His mother was young, younger than me. His world was chaotic and scary.
Was Mary frightened at times, raising a baby? I am. It is a vulnerable thing to have so much of my soul wrapped in such a helpless bundle. I hope the best for her, pray that she will seek the heart of God and be kept far from evil men and women, but I know she will feel pain in some form someday. No wonder Simeon told Mary that a sword would pierce her own heart; her son had a certain future of pain, far beyond what I might realistically expect for little N. (But who ever claimed a mother's ruminations are realistic?)
Every time I read a book or watch a movie where a child is endangered or suffering, I immediately see my child there, feel an inkling of the desperation I imagine I might feel if that were my baby there, going through that. (A vivid imagination can be both a blessing and a curse.)
Or I wonder if I may inadvertently hurt her; there are certainly enough ways to fear doing so. Sometimes it seems there are so many options for fear surrounding a child that it is hard to know which is the lesser: Do I fear vaccines, or do I fear not vaccinating? Do I fear co-sleeping? letting her sleep on her belly? creating a dependency by holding her while she sleeps? risking the health effects of her not getting adequate sleep? (I don't think the "experts" mean to be cruel or manipulative as they encourage parents to avoid or embrace certain behaviors, but it's hard not to hear, "If you don't do as we say, you are knowingly endangering the very life of that little person you love with every fiber of your being . . .")
Sorry if you're tired of my going on about fear lately . . . it's just what is on my mind lately.
I heard a pastor on the radio recently (I wish I could remember which one so I could give proper credit) who said that Satan wants us to live either in the past through our regrets or in the future via our worries, because we can only worship God in the present, and that is the last thing he wants us to do. (Obviously, I've been having more trouble with the one, lately.)
But look at young Mary: she sure had plenty of things she could have feared. She was young, unwed, and pregnant. Her intended was planning to divorce her, which was the better of the two most likely options for her, the other being death. Her world didn't value life, especially the lives of the most vulnerable. Her options as a single mother weren't good, poverty and disgrace at best.
And yet, this remarkable teen chose praise.
"May soul magnifies the Lord," she said, "and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior."
She rejoiced? In her trouble? In her uncertainty? I would have expected her to feel forgotten or even picked on. But instead, "he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. . . . from now on all generations will call me blessed."
Now there's perspective for you. But she wasn't done yet.
"He who is mighty has done great things for me."
Is He mighty? Do I really believe that? Or is He really strong, but just not strong enough for this problem this time? Do I live like I think my problems - or potential problems - might just be the ones that surpass the limits of His abilities?
Yes, He has done great things for me. Why do I keep assuming His works are in my past but not for my future?
Maybe it's because I am forgetting to worship.
After all, this isn't just the God of the universe sitting upon His heavenly throne. He also isn't just the man who touched the untouchables. He is the One who inhabited the womb, the arms, the heart of a young mother.
He knows. He understands. He came with all the frailties and vulnerabilities of the baby sleeping across the room from me now.
Why? Who forced Him into this Christmas thing? What Being with that sort of power would simply hang it all up for the chance to go through diapers, learning language, puberty?
Someone who cares.
Someone who cares a lot.
Someone who cares a lot about me.
Someone who cares a lot about my life and my worries.
Someone who cares a lot about this precious little girl of mine.
Thank God that He cared enough to give us a Christmas.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)