I've come to the conclusion that all the unpleasant and hurtful conversations we have in life are simply lessons.
Lessons on what not to do to others.
When we seek help or encouragement or support, and someone responds in a way that makes us feel more cursed than blessed, more crushed than uplifted, this is a good sign we should never do that same thing to someone else.
When I'm starving for comfort and handed a rotten apple rather than a cup of kindness, I try to feel the pain fully. And then instead of getting bitter, I vow in my heart that I'll never inflict similar pain on someone else.
This weekend I learned another lesson about what not to do.
My husband and I were standing in the foyer of a church after a Father's day service, feeling raw and lost and in desperate need of a hug.
Silly, when you think about it. I mean, here we are grown adults, successful in most of the ways the world deems important. But life's been so weird lately. So stormy and upside down and backwards. And though we know our deepest consolation comes from God alone, we've longed for people older and stronger in faith to come alongside us and say, "It's going to be okay. You're going to make it. God believes in you, and we'll turn our lights on and follow you home, just to be sure you get there all right."
You know, all that mushy, hope-filled stuff that sounds good when times are hard.
So there we were in that foyer, with our silly, longing hearts. Hoping to find some comfort in a sea of faithful faces.
We spotted a man who we'd spoken to briefly before. He was the kind of guy you'd want to hug you. Older, bespectacled, fatherly, a leader in the church, with a passion for missions.
I confess, we cornered him. With big smiles and witty jokes and hopes that he'd like us enough to stay and talk for awhile.
He did stay and talk, but oh, the conversation. It's one I'll never forget.
He spoke about missions and from there about callings, and we said we were feeling a bit lost. We mentioned our brokenness, and our longing to find someone to coach us through the chaos.
Just your basic after-church conversation, really. Except we skipped the "I'm fine, how are you?" and the "Isn't this weather fantastic?" and the "I love that shirt, it's just perfect for your eyes."
He stared at us, a frown drawing lines between his brows. "You're not lost", he said. The words were not a consolation, but a challenge. Like, "What are you thinking? Of course you aren't feeling lost. You're not allowed to feel lost in church."
We should have smiled. And nodded. And thanked him for the reminder. Said the right things and hauled our hapless hearts out those doors.
But we didn't. We were just so hungry for understanding. For that cup of kindness.
So we pressed on. Explaining that it had been a tough year. The toughest in our lives. And that sometimes it was hard to see God through the pain.
It was the word pain that did it. I never saw it coming.
He leaned in, within inches of my face, and said, "Let me tell you something. You may think you know about pain. About suffering. But you don't!"
It was then I realized he was bleeding. Not physically, of course. But bleeding on the inside. Gushing internally. A subterranean river that soaked right through his skin and drenched us because we got too close.
In the following minutes, he told us about losing two stepsons in a boating accident.
I was crying for him before he got halfway through his story. By the time he was finished, my husband and I had our arms around him, and his wife, and we were praying from the depths of our lost little hearts for their comfort.
They walked away the instant we said "Amen".
My husband and I stood there then, feeling dumb and bruised and more upside down than before. And then we hauled our hapless selves out those doors.
It was a weird experience. But we learned a few things out of it. Things that will make us better people.
1.) Don't make assumptions- This man assumed that because we were younger, or dressed well, or I have no idea why, we couldn't possibly have experienced real pain. In a world that's dark and fallen, pain has no age limits. And those younger than us have often experienced horrors we can't imagine and they can't explain.
2.) Don't let pain make you cold- This man had suffered a terrible thing. He told us that no pain is as bad as the loss of a child, and that we knew nothing about suffering. Pain does one of two things to people: Either it makes them more compassionate, or it makes them cold.
3.) Don't invalidate others' suffering- This man believed that pain has a scale. And that his hurt rated far higher than anything we might have experienced. His sorrow was deep. But pain is pain. There shouldn't be a "Biggest Wound" competition. People die from small wounds. And because we're wired differently, it's foolish to compare our pain with others. We suffer differently. We grieve differently. Our experiences are so diverse. There is no scale.
4.) Don't strike a bleeding man- When this man shoved his face towards mine, narrowed his eyes, and said, "You don't know anything about pain." I wanted to get back in his face, lower my own eyelids to slits, and list every horror in my arsenal to tell him why he was wrong. But you don't strike a bleeding man. When you're bleeding, you aren't always rational, aren't always fair, aren't always discerning. I can't attack him for that. So we swallowed our hurt. And we opened our arms. Because that's what we hope someone will do for us someday.
So that was my lesson for the week. And this coming week, my prayer for myself and for the Church, is that God grants us all grace-- to suffer with dignity, love with ferocity, console with humility, and to learn, with each heartbreak, what not to do.
"On the same day, when evening had come, Jesus said to them, "Let us cross over to the other side." Now when they had left the multitude, they took Him along in the boat as He was. And other little boats were also with Him. And a great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that it was already filling. But He was in the stern, asleep on a pillow. And they awoke Him and said to Him, "Teacher, do You not care that we are perishing?" Mark 4:35-38
The year I turned fourteen, God whispered to my heart, "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to cross over to the other side. Go to a people who aren't your people. Whose skin is different than yours. Whose food will freak you out. Whose beliefs are far from Mine, and whose rituals are breaking and blinding them. Go. Serve them. Sit in the dirt beside them. Wrap your arms around their children and their diseased. Learn what they have to teach you. And teach them what they have to learn."
I was young when I heard that whisper. But it doesn't matter what age you are. When you have an experience like this, when God lifts your eyes and shows you the far off shores of your calling, you are never the same.
From that moment forward, everything you do, every sound you hear, is filtered through the audio tape in your head: "Your mission, should you choose to accept it..."
And so, like the disciples, you do choose to accept it.
It's a beautiful thing, that moment of decision. The launch is beautiful, too. Filled with excitement and promise, idealism and zeal.
You get in your boat with God--as He is, in all His mystery--and you start rowing toward that distant shore. Funny that God doesn't talk much once you're in the boat. But never mind. You know what He told you to do. So you just keep rowing toward that shore. The shore that represents all He has promised. The shore that holds fulfillment for all you were created to be.
Then all hell breaks loose.
A storm of such fury explodes around you that you cannot see your own hands, much less the shore in the distance. You lose first one oar, then another, to the frenzied grip of the waves.
What's that you say? Where's your outboard motor? Oh no, honey. You don't get one of those. This is a first century parable, after all.
So there you are, surrounded by a storm that should have a first, middle, and last name, instead of just a first like most of these hurricanes do.
And you're just about a million miles from your calling. A million miles from the destiny that made you risk this journey in the first place.
Worse, your little ship is taking on water faster than the whale when he swallowed Jonah.
Now there are some, those amazing superChristian folk, who at this point have no other thought than to walk to the prow, raise their fists to the sky, and shout, "You cannot harm us, for Christ, the mighty Savior, is on board!"
Ah, to be a superChristian.
For the rest of us, the response is not so bold.
Why? Because in the midst of a screaming storm that makes Spielburg's special effects look like play dough, you can no longer hear that comforting echo, "Your mission, if you choose to accept it..." In fact, you realize that you haven't heard His voice for most of the trip.
Have you offended Him? Is He punishing you for your bad form? I mean, you're not a rowing expert, after all. Perhaps your oar-dipping has displeased Him.
And by the way, did God indeed say, "Go to the other side"? Maybe His words were just an expression. Cool poetic imagery that simply meant, "Try a new grocery store." Or "Take a vacation."
Or maybe He was being literal, but He changed His mind and decided you'd be better suited as fertilizer for His shark squad.
But there's no more time to hyperanalyze. Your ship is cracking. Pieces of the hull float past you. You can't catch them. You can't even breathe.
You are foundering, flailing, drowning. You couldn't care less about reaching some promised land. You'd just like to survive.
You shake the seawater and tears of terror from your eyes, and you look to the other end of the boat, where Jesus, your anchor and guide reclines. Surely He'll save you.
And then you see it.
He's sleeping.
Something rises in you then. A rage, a sense of betrayal, a deep, deep hurt, that shreds the sails of your idealism worse than any storm ever could. And you scream the same words voiced by the disciples so many years ago:
"Wake up! Wake UP!! Don't you even care that I'm drowning?"
Now we all know how the tale ends. Jesus wakes up, rebukes His disciples for having wimpy faith, and tells that storm to be still.
But what happens when that happy ending doesn't materialize? When the storm doesn't stop?
What happens when you shout yourself hoarse, and can't get God--who, to all appearances, is out colder than Sleeping Beauty on triple Unisom--to save you?
Actually, forget getting Him to save you, you can't even get him to crack an eye open and say, "Eh? You say something?"
These are dark, dark times. And they do happen.
I know, because I'm living them right now.
So what's my encouragement? Where's the hope in all this?
Right now, my hope is in the fact that the Editor of our Bible, chose to include the disciples' response.
He could have cast the story with a superChristian hero standing at the prow, cape flowing, and faith conquering. But he didn't. He cast it with superFrightened disciples, screaming in terror, shaking their drenched fists in anguish, crying, "Don't you care that we're drowning?"
I appreciate the casting. Because that's my reality. These are guys I can understand.
And I can understand the words of David in Psalm 55:
"Fearfulness and trembling have come upon me, and horror has overwhelmed me. So I said, "Oh, that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest.Indeed, I would wander far off, and remain in the wilderness.I would hasten my escape from the windy storm and tempest."
Yep, Dave. I hear you.
So, in the midst of this storm, I find hope in the fact that there are places in the Bible where you can still go and feel understood. Places where you can read your own heart cries.
I do not know what to do with silent skies or sleeping Saviors. But this same God also includes disillusioned, drowning men in a story He could have written differently. This choice is intriguing, mysterious, and a strange act of thoughtfulness towards unsuperChristians like me.
And that is why I'm still here, clinging to the last rib of a broken boat. Waiting for my sleeping Savior to awake, and watching for a new glimpse of that far off shore.
Welcome to the deep thoughts of Kelli Standish- frequent adventurer, occasional poet, constant pilgrim.
About Me:
Name: Kelli Standish Home: Corpus Christi, Texas, United States About Me: Insatiable: reader,
Hopeless: visionary,
Idealist: still,
Irresistible: the color green, script fonts, French soap, tea, travel, languages, Rich Mullins music.
Joy: sand between toes, cats, Moroccan decor, Greek, African, East Indian, Hawaiian, and Mexican food. See my complete profile
"Where is God? Go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double-bolting on the inside. After that, silence." ~CS Lewis~
