Everything happens for a reason. People always say that, but usually, they mean it in the future, as if at some point eventually, things will make sense and without this particular event, other important events might not transpire in its wake. But when I say it, I mean it now. It's like how we're taught in high school English classes how authors of books write deliberately, choosing names that are symbolic in some way, times of day that are pertinent to the mood of the story and so on.
I have no idea what will happen later and to chalk something current up as a lesson for later irks me. It's like that other saying people have, "It'll be ok." Man, I hate that expression. That's all it is, really- an expression. Because you have no idea what will happen and have absolutely no assurances that it actually will be ok.
I remember failing a test one time, and I knew I'd failed it just because I didn't even answer enough questions to pass had I gotten them all perfectly right. And I came out and told a friend of mine that I'd failed it and she answered, "Don't worry. It'll be ok. I'm sure you'll pass." And I looked at her and said, "No, I'm telling you I failed." And she just kept reassuring me. I didn't get it. Facts are facts. I failed. There was no reassurance in the form of a potential for passing to be had. The only reassurance was that maybe the prof would alter the grading scheme overall and give this test less weight or something like that.
But I digress.
Everything happens for a reason.
And I used to sit in traffic every day for anywhere between forty-five minutes and three hours and the whole time, I'd listen to sermons. Well, sometimes, I'd listen to music, but I tend to listen to the same songs repeatedly and after a while, it just gets irritating (don't ask me why I don't just change songs...), so I'd end up back on the sermons. They're always different. And I quickly became overloaded with thoughts and newly learned things which stirs up the passion in me.
But lately, I've been working from home and trying not to drive anywhere and when I do drive, it's been so long since I listened to music that hearing the same song over and over doesn't irk me. And so I've fallen ridiculously behind in the sermons, which kind of sucks because I do miss the passion that was stirred up every time an awesome pastor would tell it like it is and I'd have the heart to listen.
Today, I found myself shattered. But not the usual shatterings that I ramble on and on about on my other blog. This one was different. Over the course of a regular conversation with a boy I'd been talking to a bit more lately, he said one word, in context obviously, and that one word shot my guard up so fast that I felt it. It spooked me so quickly and abruptly and completely shut me down. One word.
And the word?
Picnic.
I won't get into the context or anything, but it had absolutely nothing to do with me anyway. It wasn't like I was going to a picnic or I was invited to one in any way or anything of that nature. It was independent of me, but the important thing was my reaction to it. That one word took away every ounce of trust I had had in an instant. Every ounce of idealistic hopefulness too.
But everything happens for a reason. I got into my car because that's what I do when I need a breather, and I threw on a sermon. It was a relatively old one, but I'm so behind that it's new to me. And so my favorite theology pastor started talking in the sixteen or however many speakers my car ridiculously has and the first thing he talked about was how he was asked to preach but he's terrified of public speaking. He wouldn't give in to the shackles of fear, he said. And so there he was, standing up there in front of a crowd and speaking out of my pajillion speakers a month and a half later too. About fear.
Timing is everything.
I have to paraphrase because the more I start and stop my ipod, the shorter the sermon gets and I'm far too lazy to turn on my desktop and wait a half hour for it to finish doing what it does to warm up. I hope I don't get it too wrong...
At one point, he said something like, "Life is a river but it doesn't flow toward God. It flows away from God. [...] And if you lift your paddles, you drift downstream." Apathy creates drifting. Complacency. And he said he doubted that there were many people who actively decided to harden their hearts to God, but that's this sort of process that happens when you just stop paddling and bit by bit, let go.
But I think I am one of those "not many". If I am drifting away, because I know I've stopped paddling, it's not passive for the most part. It's angry and deliberate.
He went on to ask why we'd go back to these inferior things when Jesus is better? What Jesus gives us trumps all. Why would we choose to pursue other things, even minor distractions, instead of Him?
And I think of my anger and that's what it's about. I know what God wants or I know the basic idea anyway, but I just don't believe it. And that's what I figured out today, after being shattered by fear. My fear and my shattering were the result of me drowning in mistrust.
God's word that shuts me down is heaven. I don't believe it. No, that's not entirely true. I don't believe in it for me. And I don't know what it is exactly, whether it's an actual place or just being with God or getting to see the full picture to finally understand why we had to endure all this, but somehow, whatever heaven is, I don't mind not finding out. I don't expect to get to heaven, and more accurately, I expect not to.
So why would I paddle so hard?
I love that God loves me now. I love that He loves me right now, in my not-so-perfect state, without me having to tidy up my person and my life to impress Him first. And I do hope that God will love me forever, but I guess I don't trust that He will. Maybe I'm one of those vessels He'll use to draw other people to Him without me actually knowing Him in the end. Or maybe it's something else that I'm unaware of, but what it comes down to is even if I believe that God picked me and beat me with a sledge hammer so that I'd finally see Him, I still don't believe that we're in this for the long haul.
And so I stop paddling. And I still love God, and I still see Him everywhere and in everything. But I'm not worth the effort.
What the boy's word meant to me was that I was an insignificant one of many. So I stopped paddling towards him too, but the parallels between the two situations made me more aware of how much I still project my feelings of being unlovable on God too.
It's so hard to pray for me still, both prayers from others and me praying for myself. It makes me so uncomfortable. I am ok with being a sort of tool for some sort of purpose without actually knowing God in the end, not because I don't want to know God, but because I expect Him not to want to know me, but if He could at least use me so I could serve some sort of benefit somehow, then that's ok.
And suddenly, God is every person and in particular, every man, who has ever crossed my path. Especially the men.
My God is the great God of the universe, and I don't give Him more credit than that.
But everything happens for a reason in this story. I've often wondered how books, especially ones on controversial subjects can have multiple authors. I co-authored a blog for a while and when they'd change some minor formatting things in my posts, it pissed me right off. And here I am, struggling to equally co-author this life with God, trying to piss Him off enough so He'll leave so I can run this show alone. I mean I'm the Princess of this story, right? Nevermind that I wasn't there when they handed out the names.
But at the same time, as the pastor said, "If you want cement to harden, just stop stirring," I know that even before I let God happen in my life, I did stop stirring many times and God stirred for me. When I gave up, somehow I kept going. When I was completely trapped, somehow I got set free. And now I know it was God. It was God stirring my cement when I was determined to let it harden.
But I still don't trust Him. I don't trust anybody. I love people with all my person, but they can't love me back, not even God.
And so I hold up my paddles, look up to God, shrug and say, "I just can't do it," and let go, drifting downstream until I become invisible...
... secretly hoping He'd keep stirring my cement anyway.
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