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.
