Embraced by Grace

Today has been intense.

For most of today I debated about sharing this story.  It’s personal, it’s somewhat cheesy, and, in many ways, it’s embarrassing.  It also keeps growing.  However, I believe that a basic power of stories is their ability to give readers something with which to identify.  Sharing my own stories, I can’t pull punches when things get messy.  Because messy is identifiable.  If even one person is slightly encouraged by the words I share, then I guess it’s worth it, and I guess I have a responsibility to try my best.

                A good moment for your intrusion to the story would be this morning, walking with me to my 8:45 class.  I’d just completed the domestic ritual; slapping snooze a few times, eventually struggling out of bed, pulling on clothes and performing the perfunctory hygienic processes.

                Grabbing my backpack and bundling against the cold, I headed out.

                Exiting the dorm, I was half asleep.  But on my way to class, I realized how beautiful the world was.  I hope you don’t think me cliché when I describe the snow as sparkling.  But it was.  God’s honest truth.  The air was sharp and pricking, but warmer than it’d been in days.  The sunlight sloshed messily and brilliantly over everything.

                I felt embraced.

                Maybe this needs changing, but mornings don’t generally allow for much “God-time.”  I only formally sit down with my Bible right before bed.  However, I do try talking with Him throughout my day.  Personal relationship and conversation is what it’s all about.  Often, it’s just a small request or a little thanks, but today, walking between two ribs of sparking snow, reveling in God’s glory, I felt Him.

                It was mostly just a presence, but there was also an idea communicated: Luke, today is going to be a very, very good day.  But not in the way you’d expect.  And it’s going to be a crazy one.

                If you like, you can blame these emotions on euphoria from the sunshine and the fresh weather.  Before doing that, however, you should know: this was on the way to math class.

                Please don’t be annoyed, but to understand my story more fully, you must hop back to the previous night.

                During this term at school, I’m facing my old mathematical nemesis.  I’m grotesquely bad at math.  Maybe you dislike it, or maybe you know someone who dislikes it.  Most math-haters are rocket-scientists in my eyes.  Math and I have a love-hate relationship: I hate it, and it loves to torment me.  From a combination of A.D.D. and learning disabilities, everything related to the subject is excruciating.  Other kids spend twenty minutes on a cluster of problems.  I take hours.

                Understand: every word is truth when I claim special loathing for math.

                The class subject-matter is simple.  Mentally, I know it should be just as quick and easy for me as for everyone else.  People talk about it being a blow-off.  Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t see things that way.

                Struggling for hours with the simplest of concepts is downright disheartening, especially when I don’t have hours because someone else is waiting for the textbook.  Feeling stupid is almost unavoidable.  There’s also a battle with laziness as I face the constant temptation to skip more difficult problems.  Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of thinking on the same level as others, and other times I wonder if I’m blaming the learning disabilities when actually the problem is my laziness.

                I know: struggles with math are a cheesy thing to base self-worth on.  However, listening to doubt is easy when you always feel incompetent.

                Last night, disheartened and without finishing a few questions, I went to bed around one thirty.  I spent time with God before turning out the lights.  He had some very distinctive messages for me.

                I read 1 Corinthians 12, the story relating members of the church to different but equally important body parts.  It’s a nice metaphor, but referenced so frequently that I feel it’s like a sponge, wrung out redundantly for any last drop.  God can always reveal more, however.  According to the NIV, verse 15 reads: “Now if the foot should say, ‘Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,’ it would not for that reason stop being part of the body.  And if the ear should say, ‘Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,’ it would not for that reason stop being part of the body.’”

                Usually, emphasis is placed on equality between the body parts.  I’d like to place it on the foot’s inferiority complex.  Foot feels that his role is insignificant, and thus views himself as substandard.  (For you feminists out there worrying about me characterizing feet as men, let’s face it: men can be heels).  Bad puns aside, God reminded me that even when I feel incapable of handling the same tasks others find easy, He gave me exactly the level of competence He wants me to have.  My math inferiority led to a host of other remembered uncertainties, but the same truth held for them all.

                This message was reinforced when I shut the Bible and opened a devotional book.  There was a story about a kid who didn’t live up to his full potential because he partied instead of working hard.  I don’t have that particular temptation, but sometimes I’m tempted to pursue my desires (or the world’s desires) for who I want to be rather than God’s desires for who He wants me to be.  That can be sin, even if the desires are fine and even good.  It can especially be sin when I know there’s no way to change specific aspects, but I dwell on them anyway.

                Let’s return to math class.

                It was the usual routine:  I did my best to follow along, but got quickly lost.  Getting lost made me discouraged.  Getting discouraged made me wish my mind worked more effectively, but I recalled the foot’s message and focused on what I could do.  Still, when my group worked on questions, I was so unconfident that I mumbled incoherently and avoided attracting attention.

                Next came chapel.  I never could’ve predicted what went with it.

                As it does three days a week, the clanging of the bell-tower summoned students to voluntary chapel.  I was just one of the stream as it flowed through buildings and across parking lots, swelling larger as it went.  Finally, the river broke against the glass face of the chapel.  Students trickled through the doors, called by the music.  From longstanding habit, I headed up to the balconies.

                The speakers were introduced, a student played a hymn on the piano, and then it was contemporary worship time.  We all stood, dutifully singing the lyrics a projector produced.

                Earlier, I'd been embraced by grace.  He embraced me again, but this time not gently.  Grace rolled over me.  He crushed me.

I don't know if others felt God in that moment.  What I know is that the music was average.  It was nice, but not enough.

Earlier, I mentioned the power of identifying with something.  That might be a partial explanation: God used the lyrics to grab me.

I wish I knew the name of that worship song, but names really don't matter.  I doubt I'd be touched the same way a second time.  However, as the lyrics resounded through the chapel, I felt God's voice.  There were words brushing every struggle of my life.  My lack of confidence.  My feelings of inferiority.  My inability to serve God with anything worthwhile.  The inferiorities melted, and I felt His unbarred acceptance of me.

Some of you know part or all of my story.  I've lost someone close to me, and there are people it’s easy to view as responsible.  I hate them, sometimes.  I've imagined confronting them, the hero frightening them into exposing their true motivations.  The problem is, deep down, I think the motivations are probably good, though I obviously disagree with the reasoning.  There will be no swooping in to save the day.  No taking them to court, no beating up thugs they send after me when I start pressing too hard.

Nonetheless.  I hate them, sometimes.

As the song lyrics washed over me, I was ashamed of that hate.  God has forgiven me so much.  So much grace.  He didn't just forgive me; He sacrificed His life for my soul.  What was I doing, thinking hate at His precious creation?

I was softly crying.  In some ways, this is embarrassing.  In others, I'm unashamed.  First my eyes watered.  Then the lyrics spoke of God's steadfast presence, His promise never to abandon me. Others leave, but He remains.  The tears overflowed the brims of my eyes, dribbling messily down my face.  I smeared them away.  Finally, I could no longer sing.  Or stand.

Overcome, I sank to my knees, facing away from others.  My tears were silent, but they shook me, and there's no way it went unnoticed. 

As an imitation writer, I love exulting the importance of words.  Words have power, but they're also fragile.  There were none I knew strong enough to place before the God of crushing grace.  So I struggled to wordlessly communicate my thankfulness and my insufficiency.

My nose was dripping, my eyes were flowing, and I didn't have a tissue.  I cleaned up as best I could.

The day wasn't over.  I hadn't met Paul.

I felt sort of worn after that, but I survived a math quiz in which I got lost, a group meeting in which I felt useless, and a four-square game that was slightly more enjoyable than most.

After my group meeting, I went for a meeting with the professor, hoping he could shed clarity on some questions I had.  I waited outside the classroom as his students finished their quiz.  While waiting, I began working on this story, which I felt nudged to chronicle.  I didn't know if I'd have the guts to finish or share it.

Students trickled from the classroom.  Some good friends greeted me.

I witnessed two students consoling each other.  One of them had tears of frustration in her eyes, telling the other that she'd never felt so stupid in her life, especially since the content was supposedly so simple.

Sound familiar?

I felt selfish for assuming I was alone in my struggles.  I was also pretty certain God wanted me to finish writing and posting this, because if I could identify with that girl's emotions, maybe others could identify with mine.  I don't know how many people will read these words, but maybe it'll help someone in a way I'll never realize.  Or maybe expressing my feelings will just help me.

The enjoyable four-square game came after the meeting with my professor.  Events progressed normally. 

That evening, I was introduced to someone named Paul.  He evidently wasn't a student, so I assumed he was visiting someone on the floor.  Needle marks were clustered on his shoulder.  Paul wore a tight tank-top and athletic shorts, and mentioned that he would soon be an engineer in the Marine Corps.  He'd fought in the MMA for a while, but had quit because he always looked like the bad guy.  He told me that girls didn't dig that.  As he sat on our couch and chatted with my roommate and I, some of his story spilled out.  Home was a hard place for him.  He didn't know anyone at our school, but someone had invited him in.  He wanted to stay a few days.  I had my doubts.

The hall director was consulted about Paul.  School policy was discussed, and Paul was told that he couldn't remain overnight.  It was a messy situation, but he didn't get mad, and he mentioned to me how surprised he was at everyone's friendliness.  I hope being kicked out didn't leave a bad taste in his mouth about Christians.  But I don't think it did.

We were sitting in someone else's room, throwing around alternatives.  That's when I felt God nudge me.

Ask if you can pray for him.

So I asked, and Paul said yes.  It didn't feel awkward, and Paul actually seemed grateful.

Later, he decided that the best option was to be taken home rather than spending a few days at a rescue mission.  He admitted there probably wouldn't be any physical violence, and he could always call the cops if events escalated.  Some guys from the floor drove him back.  Before leaving, he stopped by our room to thank us and request more prayer.  We told him we'd keep praying.

If you think about it, please pray for Paul.

I wasn’t sure how Paul’s story related to my day.  It reminded me how easy I have it.  It reminded me that even through “small” acts like praying, I can impact others.  However, there didn’t appear to be much direct correlation.

Later, I talked with one of the guys who drove Paul home, and got a little deeper into his story.  The story became much more personal.

While taking Paul back, the guys got a call from campus police.  Paul was a missing person.  They brought Paul back to campus, and the police drove him home.  Afterwards, guys pieced together that Paul had been staying at a friend’s house for over twenty-four hours prior to appearing on campus.  He’d gotten kicked out, and had been invited in by a student.

There’s nothing I can do to bring my missing family member home.  In a small way, however, I feel I had a sliver of a role in Paul being restored to his family.  Obviously, his home situation is still rough, but the fact that a missing-persons report was filed means that somebody probably cares.  In an indirect way, I identified with his story, and I’m going to keep praying for him.

My prayers center on a desire for Paul to be embraced by grace.

There were a few other events in that day; friends I spent time with, acquaintances who shared things with me.  Later, nestled beneath a mound of blankets, I reviewed them all as I lay awake.  “Today” goes on and on as God lets me witness more messes.  Many people have messy lives, but the messes come in varied forms.

If you’re looking for take-away value after all that reading, you can probably find some.  I know I learned lessons.  However, when I started clicking these words together, I didn’t have any specific principle in mind.  I view the giving of questions as more important than the speaking of answers, and I think everyone must draw his or her own conclusions from the ebbs and flows of life.  My prayer, reader, is that you’ll identify with something from the story I’ve just shared.  Maybe you can then share a story of your own with someone else.

You never know who might identify with it.

Unwarranted Love

“Fresh Perspectives”                                                                                            Unwarranted Love

            Hello, friends! Gene Habecker here, President of Taylor University.  Welcome to “Fresh Perspectives.”

            Many of us lead busy lives.  We sign up for committees, we join prayer meetings, and we volunteer at Church.  Our intentions are often good: we want to serve God.  Indeed, we have a responsibility to serve Him.  Sometimes, however, we get to the point where we feel like He needs us to get things done for Him, and we forget that He is the God who created our Universe.  As you know, a foundational, beautiful truth of Christianity is that we can’t do anything to earn God’s love.  He loves us despite our problems, and He loves us selflessly, even though He doesn’t need our good works.  It’s important for us to remember that because He loves us, He allows us to serve Him, since He wants to bless us and help us grow through being part of His plans.  As we remember that He loves without needing us, His love becomes even more meaningful.

            The next time I feel overwhelmed by the responsibilities on my plate, I’m going to ask myself: have I adopted the mindset that God needs me in order to accomplish something?  I encourage you to do the same.  We have an obligation to serve Him, but remembering that He is ultimately in charge takes a huge burden off and allows us to focus on growing in Him through our service.

LAW

The Salesman

The Man in the Black Suit

The Salesman

A hit-man without a contract must play the role of a salesman, and a cardinal rule of that trade is not giving the costumer time to think.

      “Follow me,” the man named Jameson commanded.  “Now.”

      He clasped Benedict’s wrist and lead him towards the stairs.  Benedict’s daughter trailed, protesting.

      “This is ridiculous!  Why would an assassin offer to help us?”

      “I am not an assassin, I am a professional hit-man.  And termination has a relatively small role in the services I perform.  I arrange leverage.”

      Benedict was grasping for the stair rail to steady himself, but Aprill seized Jameson’s shoulder.  “Stop.  My father and I are also professionals – in our business – and this is ridiculous!  You can explain, because right now it sounds like a B-movie spy script, and I think I should call security over here.”

      He admired her composure, but it was getting in his way.  Jameson had to move quickly: not to get Benedict out of the room, as he pretended, but to draw as much attention to Benedict’s exit as possible.  He needed to force his opponent’s hand, because after the other professional made a rash move and revealed himself, Benedict would ineludibly take Jameson more seriously.  Like every good salesman, the man named Jameson knew that being taken seriously was the key to the sell.

      He brushed Aprill aside and turned to the stairs again. 

      Now, however, the big man in the gladiator mask was blocking them.

The Daughter

The Man in the Black Suit

The Daughter

Different manners of expression can derive vastly different responses.  Benedict was obviously intoxicated.  Not many words were going to filter through his soggy head, so the words chosen had to be strong ones that would shock him into focusing.  The man named Jameson could’ve said, “An attempt is about to be made on your life.”  Or, perhaps, “A man is going to try to kill you.”  He could’ve said any number of things.  But those alternatives implied an attempt.  They did not communicate the reasonable possibility of success.  And the man named Jameson needed Benedict to consider that possibility.

      Anthony Benedict blinked several times.  “You’re . . . holding a smiling white mask.  And wearing a black suit.  All black.  You were dancing with my Aprill . . . my daughter . . . down there.”  He gestured drunkenly at the ballroom.

      Jameson quelled his impatience.  Impatience was unprofessional.  “The woman in the purple dress.  Yes.  I acquaint myself with an individual’s associates before I approach him for business.”

      Benedict squinted at him.  “You’re speaking to me as if I’m . . . like I’m a child.”

      “In your current state, you have the faculties of a child.  I don’t say that insultingly.  It is fact.”

      “I’m . . . who’s going to kill me?”

      “Four days ago, I was approached with the offer of a job on you.  I am a professional hit-man.  I turned my employers down.”  Jameson removed the glass from Benedict’s unsteady hand.  “I need you to pay attention, Mr. Benedict.  My employers will use someone else.  You may hire my services and live.  Or you may refuse my services and be terminated.”

      Without the support of the balustrade, Benedict swayed uncertainly.  “You, how could you know . . . shush, here’s my daughter!”

      The woman in the rumpled purple dress approached.  Her veil was swept back to reveal delicate but unhappy features.  “Father, this is embarrassing!  You just forget yourself whenever there are drinks around . . .  oh, hello again!”

      She smiled a greeting for the man named Jameson.

      Jameson ignored her.  “Mr. Benedict, for you to survive, we will need to move now.”

      Benedict ceased his futile attempts at nudging Jameson into silence.

      “Wait . . . what is this?”  The daughter’s face was struck with alarm.

      Benedict turned to her, irked at the disruption.  “Your father is in danger.  I was hired to kill him, but when I refused the job, someone was hired to replace me.”

      “Wha– is this a joke?”

The Masquerade

The Man in the Black Suit

The Masquerade

Blake passed through the metal detectors, smiling as he approached the man checking names against a list of invitees.  Although Blake disliked using the entrance pass supplied by his “employers,” it was relatively low risk.  The chances of them having a plant within the staff at the masquerade were minimal.  If they’d had a plant, they would’ve used that person to carry out their objective.

      Blake handed his pass to the staff-member.  The man read the name on it and ran his finger down his clipboard.

      “Ah, here we are.”  He flashed Blake a smile.  “Enjoy the dancing, Dr. Henning.”

      The man named Dr. Henning grinned back.  “Thanks, buddy.  I intend to.”  He moved further into the room.

      From his jacket, Dr. Henning drew his mask and donned it.  It was a white, smiling thespian mask, the mask of comedy.

      Couples glided across the floor.  The women and men were clad to dazzle, stunning dresses and sharp suits.  Diverse masks concealed diverse expressions, fake smiles for some or blank faces for those who realized that wearing their customary masks were no longer necessary in favor of more synthetic ones.

      The man named Dr. Henning observed for a while from the side.  Then he drifted among the dancers.  The masks increased the difficulty of identifying those he’d flagged on his mental list, but working methodically around the room, he began spotting them.

      Eventually he took a partner.  She wore a ruffled purple dress and black veil.  Dr. Henning, who frequented high-society gatherings, was the perfect companion, cracking jokes in an easygoing drawl as he led her through the dances.  She never had a notion that she was being strategically maneuvered.

      Eventually, Henning’s partner requested a rest and he led her to the side, where they chatted with an imitation fairytale queen and a man in a gladiator mask.  Dr. Henning, ever the perfect gentleman, procured drinks and hors d’oeuvres for the four of them.  He left his own untouched.

      Taking his leave, the man named Henning moved upstairs to the series of balconies overlooking the ballroom.  There was no longer a bulge in his breast pocket.

      At the top of the stairway was an ebony chest for donations, into which Henning slipped a blank, untraceable check.  Appearances are three fourths of approach. 

      A man was leaning against the balustrade, slurping from his drink as he watched the dancers.  Dr. Henning joined him at his side.

      “Benedict?  Anthony Benedict?”

      The fellow turned to him with sleepy, inebriated eyes.  “Yes?”

      Dr. Henning grinned widely and extended a hand.  Then, when Benedict enquiringly took it, Henning’s expression and persona dropped drastically.  He became colorless and professional.

      “My name is Jameson.  A man is about to kill you.”

The City

The Man in the Black Suit

The City

The man named Blake donned a jacket over his black suit.  Hand on the doorknob, he paused to ensure that his mask and entrance pass were tucked in its inner pockets.  There was another, smaller bulge in his breast pocket.  It was the tool currently most accessible to him.

      He left the hotel and pulled his rented 2012 Fortwo Passion Cabriolet into traffic.  He hated Smart cars, but driving the most “expensive” one he could find – and expensive for a Smart car meant only €12,900 – was a good way of selling his façade as a wealthy environmentalist.

      Dresden is a city both new and old.  New habitations built on the ruins of one of World War II’s most destructive bombings.  Before the firestorm it had been a Jewel Box, a center of culture and beauty.  After, it had been nothing.  A landscape of rubble.

      The man named Blake drove through the inner city, past restored towers and churches.  Mentally, he was reviewing a list of names.  He’d spent the trip to Germany researching the other guests slated to attend this masquerade.  If the people who’d attempted to hire him were professional, then they wouldn’t touch the entrance pass they’d sent, which meant they would need to provide another identity for whoever they substituted in his place.  So he’d been researching the names on the guest list, looking for a person with either too little information available about their history, or too much, too readily.  The result of his research was a handful of attendees, but no one who especially red-flagged.

      

The venue of the masquerade was an elegantly modern hotel, a sharp contrast with the imposing, East-German architecture further down the street. 

      The man named Blake parked and surrendered his keys to a valet.  Then he made his way to the hotel entrance.