Freedom from Fear

     I don’t know what it was like living in the days of World War II when the demise of the free world was a genuine fear. I look at the Rockwell Painting with parents tucking in their children at night. The dad is holding a folded newspaper where the only clear words are bombings and horror. The times must have been scary to live in.

     People fought and died to give us freedom from fear. I don’t know how long it was supposed to last. The war ended and new ones came and went. More people died. It’s even happening today. And it’s hard to not still be afraid.

     I hope I am not seriously sinning here not trusting God. I do trust Him for my salvation. And like so many Bible heroes I try to trust and obey. But the world is scary. And it’s not just war. Yes, there are megalomaniacs out there with the power to kill thousands or more. But that isn’t all. People are killing each other for no clear reason. Kids are killing themselves because they are hurting so bad. And so much of this is happening in schools or with kids and young people.

Leaders are scrambling and debating about the best way to end this violence. Putting more control over ways to kill (gun laws) seems to make sense. But then someone rampages through a college with a knife and puts people in the hospital. It looks to me like people are going to lose touch with sense and reality and try to hurt or kill one another no matter what laws are in place. Sure, better laws may be good. Keeping weapons out of the hands of dangerous people seems smart to me.

But I don’t think an important factor is being lost on anyone here. I see it and I can’t imagine no-one else does. We can’t ignore this truth: something is making people snap. People out there are misguided, broken. People are hurting.

And I sit in my safe little house and feel overwhelmed. I hear the newscasts that break my heart and sometimes just want to go crawl under my bed, plug my ears and hum. Or sometimes I become so discouraged I just want to say, “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore.” And it’s overwhelming. I wish I could do something, but I don’t even know where to start.

I get overwhelmed at work sometimes. Once in a while, there is a tremendous amount of things to do and I don’t know where to begin. Let me unequivocally state here that I love my job and hope I can keep it forever. But sometimes when a large event is done and I’ve already worked a long day and I need to get everything ready for Sunday morning, I feel a little beleaguered. And here is the thing: the room will have a semblance of how it should look for Sunday. But the floor will be dirty and need vacuuming. I will need to pick up all the table and chairs vacuum, and reset the room. So I have to step backwards to move forward. The restrooms will need a deep cleaning and the corridors will need vacuuming to. It all sounds easy written out. But standing in a big room late in the day and thinking of all that must be done can give me this feeling. And I realized yesterday that the feeling I get thinking about all the hurting and broken people and the sad state of so many things is the same feeling I get late in the day with a plethora of tasks ahead of me.

There is so much to do. Where can I even begin? I don’t have the strength to do all of this. 

But each time I get onto it. I stride into the room and unceremoniously grab one chair, I fold it, then another and another until I have four in my hands. I take them to the side of the room and lean them on the wall. Then I go get four more. There may be 168 chairs.

I stay distracted listening to my iPod. This is usually when I like to have an audiobook on. I keep at it for the hours it takes. In the end I go home and go to bed and sleep well.

Maybe the same thing would work with helping the world. Maybe instead of succumbing to being overwhelmed, I could look for the first little thing to do and just do that. It’s true I don’t have what it takes to do it all. But, maybe it’s so cliché that it’s unapparent, I have what it takes to do the first thing that I’m capable of.

Perhaps it’s simple-minded to liken my little world to the great big broken world. But my point is that the great big broken world can’t be fathomed unless looked at simply.

If my iPod keeps me cool doing the work resetting a room, prayer could guide me and calm me in the world. And one more thing I’ve recently admitted, I could get help. A few nights ago, there were not 168 chairs with tables, there were 244 chairs and accompanying tables. I got two people, not to help me, but to pick up the room and vacuum it for me while I went home and fell asleep. I was able to get up early the following morning and set for the next event starting with a clean room. 

special setup with 244 chairs and 31 tables

It helps to start small with the first task one can do. But sometimes it’s so valuable to have someone step in before me and help clear things up. What I got was a clearer picture of what I needed to do.

It’s not the task that’s daunting. It’s the vision of it. Looking at the world, the idea that people are hurting and killing and cannot be stopped is enough to paralyze me. But when someone steps in and wipes away the clutter, I can see there are people close to me, within arm’s reach that perhaps I can get to. It would never be up to me to “reset” or “clean” them. I don’t really know what I would do. It’s not up to me to ever plan a response for that. God tends to not work that way. I just have to be ready. There may not be freedom from fear and I might always feel fear. But I can still step forward despite it. Fear diminishes with each guided step.

The Miracle Rising

The Miracle Rising

     It hurt when the storm came. I had not felt that kind of pain in a year. It had always used to hurt before the rains came. But when this storm struck so unexpectedly that it did not have had time to hurt before. When the sky darkened and the wind and rains came, I felt that old ache again. It frightened me.

Then I heard what people were saying. I refused to believe it. When they said that The Teacher was dead I almost laughed. I told them what The Teacher had done for me. How could he die on a cross? When I saw his followers, they were crying. That huge man, one of the fishermen, he was almost as big as me and weeping like a child. I felt their anguish. I wept too. The Teacher was dead. I was so sad I almost couldn’t walk.

     Time before, I had gone for years without walking. And then The Teacher came to me. When he healed me, he gave me so much more. More than just by body was changed. I don’t want to ever forget that day.   

I am on the ground, leaning against the wall by the gate. This day my leg and back are hurting more than usual. It must be about to rain. The ruined bones of my back always ache more before a rain. Today, I decide I don’t want alms. I’m too furious. I shout curses at passersby. I curse the donkey that had kicked me and made me like this. People mostly ignore me. They give alms to the women or the elderly. A big man like me ought to be working. I would be working had it not been for that donkey.

Nothing is fair. Nothing is right. I should be walking around earning money. I had been a strong man. I used to lift heavy bails. Now I am starving and in pain against a city wall, relying on the whims of others to be able to live. My anger seethes and boils like burning stew in a cookpot.

Then I see him. The Teacher walking with a group of men. My anger grows even more. These men are laughing and talking. The Teacher must have said something funny because they all stop walking to laugh. Even The Teacher is leaning on his knees and wiping his eyes. When I see this group of men with their friendship and happiness I want to hurl my pain and misery at them. This is what I think: Even if it were to double my pain and suffering, I would share it with others so that they would stop being so cheerful. I want them to be miserable just like me.

Now on this dark day made my back hurt again. They said that the teacher was dead. They told me how he had been beaten and whipped and then nailed to a cross. The pain he must have felt. It would have been so much worse that what I ever endured.

I spoke the words aloud: “How could he have died? He healed me. The bones in my back were crooked and broken. I was in pain. He touched me and healed me. How then, how could he allow himself to be so hurt that he would die, bleeding and in pain on a cross?”

No-one knew how to answer me.

The rain began. This was no refreshing spring rain. This was a cold, bitter rain like the kind that comes and blots out the world, washes away the dirt and dust and then leaves everything bare, cold, wet and lonely. I let the rain fall on me. My bones hurt, but not the way they used to. Perhaps I only imagined the pain from years of it happening. Inside me, the sorrow hurt more.

Other people stood in the streets and let the rain fall. Still others ran for cover. I knew many of the ones who stood and let themselves be rained on. Friends of the teacher, those who had heard his words or felt his touch, including me, we stood in the streets and let the rain hit us. It hid our tears and we all seemed to want to wash away the anguish. His close followers were no-where to be found. Those followers had been with him that day.

I start shouting at The Teacher and his friends. The men look abashed. The Teacher, however, I can’t believe what he does. The man looks at me and smiles, almost laughs again. Youngsters will sometimes point and laugh at me. But a grown man usually doesn’t even look at me, even if he gives me alms. Now this man is looking right into my eyes. And he smiles. He smiles as if I’ve been with his group of friends and I ought to be walking and laughing with them. The insults and curses in me are stopped dead. I try to speak, but I can’t. What can I say to this man? I can’t ask alms of him now after all I had shouted at him. But he looks at me as if I had never said anything to him.

It’s like this: He seems to understand, even feel my pain and bitterness. The rage I show is on the outside. Inside I am hurting and miserable. And he sees through that rage. My insults and curses mean nothing to him. And he smiles at me as if he knows me and I’m his friend.

But this friendliness does not make me feel better. There is still so much darkness in me that I do not take well to his cheerful looks. So I began to try to shout again. The words are stuck in me and I can’t think of what to say. I repeat words and groan. I finally burst out an insult at his mother. One of the men with him lurches forward. And the teacher puts out his arm and stops him.

“That’s enough,” The Teacher says. Even though he’s not close to me, the voice feels like it is spoken next to me. Now he looks at me without the laughter. His look has expectation. He begins to walk toward me. The rage and pain in me seems to cower.  

The hours over the next day were full of sorrow. I met a woman who quietly told how The Teacher had changed her life. The way the story went, He had saved her from stoning. Another man talked of the blind seeing. There were even talks that The Teacher had raised a man from the dead. When I heard that, I was torn. I had been crippled. Then I was not. The Teacher could do these things. But then why was he dead?

The morning of the first day of the week I was bleary-eyed. I had not slept well, despite having a whole body, my bones felt like they wanted to ache. But I don’t think it was that. I think it was my heart that was in pain. I remembered the day He took my hand. I had felt such joy. I thanked him, of course. But as I stepped out into the cold morning air, I wished I had thanked him more.

Something woke me. I thought perhaps the earth had moved. I stepped outside. The sun was about to rise and I looked in its direction. The light blazed out and I shut my eyes and felt the air turn warm. What a simple pleasure. I used to curse the sun for spite. After that I used to enjoy the solitude and warmth of the sunrise. Now the loneliness…

“You’re hurt,” he says. Two words. Those two words spoken to me seem to say everything about me. Not just my ruined back and leg, but all the pain and sorrow that was with it. And he speaks it, not like an observation, but like he is, yes, teaching me something. He tells me I’m hurt as if I didn’t know. And the words startle me. Why, yes. I am hurt.

He is close to me. I don’t want to look in his eyes. I look at his friends milling about the gate. They are not disturbed by their friend stopping to talk to someone. A few friends are closely watching us. He’s standing over me now. I steal a quick glance upward. Had he asked me a question? No, what does he want?

Why can’t he just go away and let me shout in anger at everyone? There are days when the anger and shouting out are all I have. The rage sustains me better than bread. This is one of those days. I want to go back to raging. I need to. I’m beginning to feel out of breath without shouting. I want the man to move on. Instead he stands by and waits for me to say something.

I try to prepare myself to shout at him. I take a deep breath in order to yell at him to leave me alone. I choke out a sob. Inside I scrabble for the strength that comes from the anger. It’s gone. The rage has left me. Suddenly I feel so ashamed and exposed.

“No…” is all I can say. And then I begin to sob. It’s the same pain anguish I had always felt. But now it’s without strength. It’s hobbled, just like me.

He reaches down to my hand. As he takes it I try to pull it away. But I also let my fingers clamp down. His hand is rough like a workman’s. I look from his hand to his face. I have tears in my eyes. What has this man done to me?

Then I’m able to make out his face through my tears. It looks sad too. The man asks me what I want him to do.

What do I want? All I know was that I want my strength back. I used to be a strong man. But now the only strength I’ve known for the past years, all that sustained me through the pain was that rage. I want to hate again so I can ignore the pain.

How can he ask me what I want? And how can I tell him? I want him to leave me alone.

I choke out the word, “Go.”

At that he gently lets go of my hand. And when he does, a cold wave flows over me. The pain in my body sinks down beneath this feeling of loneliness that I’ve never felt before.

But that morning I didn’t feel lonely. Remembering that day was uplifting. For the first time in days, I felt as if I was not alone anymore. It was like the warm morning sun was my friend and had just given me an embrace. That warmth that came from the light was like something I remembered so well. Yes, it was like the touch of The Teacher. I smiled at the sun and thought words of thanks for its reminder to me of the touch of the teacher.

I didn’t retreat into my room. I took to the streets. My bones weren’t aching at all. The cool air and the warm light were invigorating. I almost felt like running. There was someone running in fact. I saw it was a woman. I thought she must be in danger. She was saying something as she ran, something to no-one in particular.

The woman turned a corner toward where The Teacher’s friends were staying. I walked quickly toward the street corner. When I turned it, she was already gone. I found myself running too. Suddenly a group of men, the followers spilled out of a door and came at me. Some looked angry, others confused. The woman was there, and her face looked like the rising sun.

Two men in the front of the group were at a full run and blew past me. The woman followed closely. I stopped one of the remaining men and asked him what had happened.

“He’s gone,” the man said. “They’ve taken him.”

I let the man go. He was gone? The Teacher was gone? He was dead. Did someone take the body? Why?

The men who didn’t run off stood in the street and looked bewildered. I must have looked the same. I looked in the direction the others had gone, toward the tomb. They couldn’t be lying. Was the woman mistaken or mad?

I walked away and wandered the streets, thinking. Somehow, I ended up at the city gate where I had sat on the ground just over a year ago. I found the precise spot against the wall where I had sat with my pain, rage and hate.

“Wait,” I cry softly. And I look, he’s still there. Through great pain, I reach up my hand to his. At that moment, all I want was his touch again. He takes my hand, oh when he takes my hand again, that coldness vanishes. Warmth returns. I don’t want him to leave me alone. I want to feel this closeness forever.

“I want to stop hurting,” I say. That hate and rage that I’ve held onto, it seems so small and insignificant now. I tell him, “I don’t want to hate anymore.”

And then he starts to pull on my hand. What is he doing? Pulling me to my feet? The bones of my back will rub together and I will pass out from the pain. But the strength, the warmth that I feel at his touch, I don’t want it to stop. And I hold tight to his hand.

And then there I am, still holding his hand, crying out, but not in pain. I’m crying out in surprise. I am standing. I can’t speak. The man’s friends are smiling. People around are staring. And the man, the man is laughing again. And then I start to laugh. I throw my arms around him and I lift him from the ground! The man’s friends cheer. The teacher lifts his hands and shouts words of praise to His Father. I have my strength back. It is as if it never left me. I set The Teacher down, throw both hands in the air and shout, joining the man’s friends in celebrating.

He had taken my hand here. I was pulled up out of it all. Not only was my body made whole, but I started a new life that day. He had made me new, saved me. The rage and hate retreated. As I listened to his teachings in the following months, the rage and hate went the way of the pain.

I had puzzled for days over why this man could save me and not himself.

Now his body was gone from the tomb.

Could that mean what I hoped it could mean?

And when the woman’s next news came out, I was one of the first to believe.

See what's clear

     I knew long before I was told. I had known for a long time. I was finally compelled to face it, literally.  I got my driver license renewal in the mail and made an appointment to go to the DMV and renew. Deep down I wondered if I would manage to pass the test. Not a road test, thank God I don’t have to do that again. And I wasn’t so concerned about the written test either. I figured I could study up on what the speed limit is approaching an unregulated railroad crossing. I know that a pedestrian is second nothing as far as right of way and even though you want to sound your horn and teach them a lesson, that isn’t the correct answer. I figured I would be able to pass the written test. I was concerned about the eye test.

     For the past year or so, Prajna has said to me: “You can’t read that?” Well, no I couldn’t. And the thing is I don’t remember when the road signs became a little blurry. But my weakening vision never seemed to be a hindrance. Even driving, Prajna could read the street signs. If I was alone, no-one would be annoyed if I had to pass the sign before reading it and then turn around. And what was a little blurry vision anyway? It wasn’t like I was blind. I could still tell that something was there and wouldn’t hit anything.

     My appointment came. At the DMV I was not able to read the top line. I leaned against the viewfinder and looked in like a scientist searching for infinitesimal signs of anything. The letters all looked like fuzzy dots. I raised my eyebrows, frowned, squinted, and finally admitted I couldn’t read it. The lady asked me to read the next one down. I couldn’t read that one either. My right eye was finally able to read a line, but my left eye reached the 5^th line before I read, or guessed correctly.

     The lady gave me a conditional pass. There wasn’t any actual condition on it. But we both knew what had to happen. I had my picture taken with the same lopsided expression I’ve had for the last three license pictures and did not have to take any written test.

     There was no denying anymore that I needed something to correct my vision, eyeglasses. And the thing that’s funny, and a little scary is this: Once I stopped denying that I indeed needed glasses, things got a lot worse. A few days later in a store I realized how much trouble I had with the signs labeling the aisles. If I was looking down at a book and then looked up and tried to see, it was almost disorienting.

So I went to Walmart’s optometrist thinking they took walk-ins. When I was told no and had to make an appointment a week later, I left the store in a haze. Everything looked like something depicted in a cheap sci-fi movie where light speed is achieved, all distant and smeared. The thought that I had to wait another week seemed impossible. My appointment is today. I don’t know how long it will take to get the lenses made. But Prajna helped me pick out some frames.

     It is interesting that once I stepped out of denial, the situation did not get better, but more urgent. Denial is like a wonderfully warm comforter that I can wear when it’s freezing outside. But to extend the metaphor, I am wrapped in the comforter and it’s outside, nailed to the frozen ground. The temperature is slowly dropping and the comforter stays warm, but I’m still outside and will surely freeze to death eventually. So I stand up and shake off the comforter. Suddenly the cold hits like an icy ocean wave. Now there is a sense of urgency that I have to do something. And I think I can stretch this metaphor just a little further without compromising it.

     I’m standing in the freezing cold next to a blanket that I shook off and I have to get warm. But there is no indoor shelter. The only place there is to go is a group of people who have also shed their blankets and are standing in a huddle close enough to each other that they are keeping one other warm and alive. I have to admit that I have to ask for help and join them if I want to be warm and live.

     I don’t know how much of my denial of my failing eyesight was actually life or death. But my denial in the past has kept me from seeking help when I needed it. Denial, no matter how trivial is not healthy for me. So I’m getting eyeglasses.

     Longer than Prajna has been asking “You can’t read that?” I have been asking her: “What did they say?” Yes, I have failing hearing too. One issue at a time. It’s scary to come out and admit that on my blog that corrective hearing may be next. I want to deny that too. It’s such a comfortable state of mind that I want to go back and delete this last paragraph. If you’re reading it, I managed not to. For now, if you’re speaking to me, please be clear and aim to my right ear.

Where there is Hope

     I remember watching an old ‘B’ movie when I was a young child where the heroine of the movie had a nightmare. In describing it to the leading man, the actress was swooning and melodramatic. That frightened me. The way she talked about a nightmare, it was the worst possible thing that could happen. I don’t really remember having bad dreams as a child. I know that the ones I had did indeed disturb me terribly. I learned that if I went to bed and imagined not having a nightmare, then it wouldn’t happen. All I had to do was imagine a worst case scenario to prevent it from happening. If only that really worked for us.

     When I was in kindergarten, I had a worst case scenario in my head. I didn’t think imagining it would prevent it, either. I thought about it in order to be prepared for it and have a plan. The worst thing I thought could ever happen at my elementary school was for my clothes to suddenly vanish, leaving me in the costume of Adam in front of the kindergarten. I had things planned out for that with variables. If I was sitting at my desk I could just stay there. If it happened to everyone at once and we were all in the starks, then maybe no-one would notice me and I could run. But if I was out in the open or in front of the class and suddenly my clothing vanished, just mine, and I had nothing to cover with, and then my legs didn’t work and I was compelled to just stand there… well, I didn’t have a plan thought out for that. It worried me. That was the worst possible thing that could happen to me at school.

     I wish every child could still have that be their worst fear. And I wish that the worst fear that parents could have would be that their child isn’t dressed warmly enough. I am just as shocked, horrified and grieved as everyone else in the country in the wake of last week’s shootings. I didn’t for a moment think I could blog anything that helped this make sense. I wish I knew why this happened and who to blame so that it would never happen again. But placing blame will not bring back any murdered people. In my anguish and confusion I read one thing that I want to share. My wife, Prajna wrote it and I not only agreed with it, I asked her if I could post it this morning. Here it is:

After today's tragedy in CT, many of you may be asking, "How can you believe in a God who allows these things to happen?" I've asked that question myself. When Naomi was diagnosed with cancer at age three I had a crisis of faith. Why would God allow an innocent little girl to suffer like this? I came to the conclusion that horrible things happen to everyone. Maybe not THIS horrible, but that's just the way our world is. After a lot of tears and sleepless nights I decided that I would rather go through life, and the eventual death of my daughter three years later, with God by my side rather than alone. Losing your baby is the worst thing imaginable, but through it all I knew I had someone to lean on. We can have a hope and future free of pain and sorrow. But not here. So if you know someone affected by this tragedy, don't try to make them feel better. Just give them a hug, say you're sorry and pray for them. Recovery is possible, but only with the hope and peace that comes from God. It has been 10 years since Naomi died and this is the first year I haven't fallen to pieces in December. I couldn't have done it alone.

           

I don’t want to believe that everything happens for a reason. I do, however believe that God creates everyone for a reason. We all have hearts that can reach out to broken people. This isn’t a commission to my readers to go and reach out. People will do what they are moved to do. I want to say that there is hope.

“only with the hope and peace that comes from God”