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.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
On failing the "stuff"...
I'm angry at God lately and I couldn't figure out why. I don't understand why He couldn't have laid out this faith thing in such a way that it fit every day life a little more easily. Instead, though random conversations with random people, I get to hear constant reminders about how absurd Christianity is and how ridiculously thoughtless its followers are.
Can you have God without the religion?
In theory, yes. But then if you believe in Jesus too, you get into the part where you ask yourself how it is that you know who Jesus is? You know Him through the Bible and the Bible preaches the structures and doctrines of religion.
I can't help but wonder if we're in a third era of the Bible. First, you had the sort of angry God full of rules part, then you had the redeemed by Christ part which negated most of the rules so people had to live differently than they were before under the rule of the angry God, and now we have this part. It's the post-Jesus, post-Bible era. It's the part where we've learned not only how not to live a life focused on appeasing the angry God, but also to take the new relationship with God through the sacrificing of Jesus for granted.
And I'm not sure that the way to fix that, the steps to improve this situation, are to revert to the practices of faith written in the Bible. We're not those people. We're not the ones who prioritize rules and decorum over God. Instead, we're the ones who seek constant freedom without realizing that it's from God. We're the ones who run away from God by excessively loving the gifts He's given us. We're the ones who actually love God already, but refuse to call it that.
As time progresses, I feel like I am losing my faith simply because I can't follow the rules. (And yes, "won't" substitutes nicely there, but I'm implying a stronger and more beligerant "won't" based on the fact that if I try, I doom myself to failure every time. Same goes for the rest of this paragraph.) I can't go to church. I can't read my Bible extensively every day. I don't look forward to the textbook slash ritual aspects of what to me is simply religion and not God.
Yes, we have to learn and yes, we need community. But what if our community is in a different form than the ones depicted in the Bible?
If nobody in my circles would set foot into a church by their own will, how is Jesus using the church to draw people to Him?
On the other hand, if we live in such a way that we can find way to integrate God into every thought and every action throughout the day, such that He becomes like breathing or any other unconscious function of the body, then we will end up presenting a picture to the world of a life with God that is actually doable and reasonable.
But maybe that's lazy. Right? Not going to church, not being bound by the rituals of religion, not forcing yourself to read chunks of the Bible every day, sitting at home listening to sermons in your pyjamas... It's laziness, right? It shows a lack of appreciation for God. But on the other hand, forcing yourself to do all those things shows a lack of appreciation for God's grace also. And really, if you believe in an almighty God of the universe who knows your thoughts before you think them and who chooses who has faith and when, then wouldn't said God be able to guide you to a rich knowledge without the religion? Couldn't He pepper our lives with situations that reveal to us our heart and the nature of God? Couldn't He move us in some way to get us to see His character?
If God chooses somebody in some sort of religious desert to have faith, then wouldn't said person have all the tools necessary to have faith and to know God? If the great God of the universe didn't account for the absence of resources when He chose this person, then He's not really a great God of the universe afterall.
So yeah, I am lazy. And I asked God to help me with that. But in the meantime, why shouldn't I be able to love God wholly and feel God with me? Why does it depend so heavily on the "stuff" and not the heart?
But then, if I read the Bible, Jesus basically says that- it is about the heart.
Then why do I feel like I'm constantly doing it wrong?
So I am angry at God. He created a situation wherein He'll love me unconditionally provided I do the "stuff". He explained what real love was in Luke ch 6 in the sermon on the mount, a pure and selfless love, and then made it all meaningless if I don't wedge myself into a pew every week for an hour of false love and false community torture.
Don't get me wrong- maybe your church is your community and you love the people there. That's great for you. But I don't feel at home in church, even in my favorite ones. It feels forced and contrived and entirely unnatural for me. And the fact that I've been made aware that the love often stops when you stop attending the church, that it doesn't transfer into real life, doesn't help. Sometimes, it does though. Sometimes, Christians do actually love people, regardless of circumstance. And in those situations, it reinforces in me that the church is apart from the building, that the community is my own and the knowledge of God can be shared rather than learned from a textbook all the time.
All I know is that if God knows who I am, then He'll know how I express my faith and when I need help with it. And He knows where my heart is. And He feels me struggling. And all I need is exactly that- to know that He's with me and to know that He knows me. If I can keep that, then I think I just may be alright.
Can you have God without the religion?
In theory, yes. But then if you believe in Jesus too, you get into the part where you ask yourself how it is that you know who Jesus is? You know Him through the Bible and the Bible preaches the structures and doctrines of religion.
I can't help but wonder if we're in a third era of the Bible. First, you had the sort of angry God full of rules part, then you had the redeemed by Christ part which negated most of the rules so people had to live differently than they were before under the rule of the angry God, and now we have this part. It's the post-Jesus, post-Bible era. It's the part where we've learned not only how not to live a life focused on appeasing the angry God, but also to take the new relationship with God through the sacrificing of Jesus for granted.
And I'm not sure that the way to fix that, the steps to improve this situation, are to revert to the practices of faith written in the Bible. We're not those people. We're not the ones who prioritize rules and decorum over God. Instead, we're the ones who seek constant freedom without realizing that it's from God. We're the ones who run away from God by excessively loving the gifts He's given us. We're the ones who actually love God already, but refuse to call it that.
As time progresses, I feel like I am losing my faith simply because I can't follow the rules. (And yes, "won't" substitutes nicely there, but I'm implying a stronger and more beligerant "won't" based on the fact that if I try, I doom myself to failure every time. Same goes for the rest of this paragraph.) I can't go to church. I can't read my Bible extensively every day. I don't look forward to the textbook slash ritual aspects of what to me is simply religion and not God.
Yes, we have to learn and yes, we need community. But what if our community is in a different form than the ones depicted in the Bible?
If nobody in my circles would set foot into a church by their own will, how is Jesus using the church to draw people to Him?
On the other hand, if we live in such a way that we can find way to integrate God into every thought and every action throughout the day, such that He becomes like breathing or any other unconscious function of the body, then we will end up presenting a picture to the world of a life with God that is actually doable and reasonable.
But maybe that's lazy. Right? Not going to church, not being bound by the rituals of religion, not forcing yourself to read chunks of the Bible every day, sitting at home listening to sermons in your pyjamas... It's laziness, right? It shows a lack of appreciation for God. But on the other hand, forcing yourself to do all those things shows a lack of appreciation for God's grace also. And really, if you believe in an almighty God of the universe who knows your thoughts before you think them and who chooses who has faith and when, then wouldn't said God be able to guide you to a rich knowledge without the religion? Couldn't He pepper our lives with situations that reveal to us our heart and the nature of God? Couldn't He move us in some way to get us to see His character?
If God chooses somebody in some sort of religious desert to have faith, then wouldn't said person have all the tools necessary to have faith and to know God? If the great God of the universe didn't account for the absence of resources when He chose this person, then He's not really a great God of the universe afterall.
So yeah, I am lazy. And I asked God to help me with that. But in the meantime, why shouldn't I be able to love God wholly and feel God with me? Why does it depend so heavily on the "stuff" and not the heart?
But then, if I read the Bible, Jesus basically says that- it is about the heart.
Then why do I feel like I'm constantly doing it wrong?
So I am angry at God. He created a situation wherein He'll love me unconditionally provided I do the "stuff". He explained what real love was in Luke ch 6 in the sermon on the mount, a pure and selfless love, and then made it all meaningless if I don't wedge myself into a pew every week for an hour of false love and false community torture.
Don't get me wrong- maybe your church is your community and you love the people there. That's great for you. But I don't feel at home in church, even in my favorite ones. It feels forced and contrived and entirely unnatural for me. And the fact that I've been made aware that the love often stops when you stop attending the church, that it doesn't transfer into real life, doesn't help. Sometimes, it does though. Sometimes, Christians do actually love people, regardless of circumstance. And in those situations, it reinforces in me that the church is apart from the building, that the community is my own and the knowledge of God can be shared rather than learned from a textbook all the time.
All I know is that if God knows who I am, then He'll know how I express my faith and when I need help with it. And He knows where my heart is. And He feels me struggling. And all I need is exactly that- to know that He's with me and to know that He knows me. If I can keep that, then I think I just may be alright.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
On idealism and the value of a person...
Alternate title: On prayer... again...
When I pray, which lately has become a little more frequent, yet not as frequent as it used to be, I remember Moses praying in Exodus 32:11-14:
He basically says, "if you kill the Israelites, everybody else will wonder what kind of God you are. They'll see you make promises you don't intend to keep and that your intentions are evil and you don't want that, right? Show them instead that you're merciful and gracious and love us. And that's how they'll see you."
And my reference for prayer, even if the usual suggestion is Jesus' teaching of the Lord's prayer later on.
If God answers prayers to glorify Himself, then the way we should pray should reflect that also. Instead of asking God to heal a sick child because she's suffering and in pain (which without a doubt God hates), I'll ask God to glorify Himself through His mercy and healing. I'll say to God, "Here's your chance to make yourself known. If you do this, they'll have no choice but to respond."
Of course, the majority of the time, I'm wrong. I'll ask God to do the impossible for somebody who doesn't believe, and God will do the impossible and I'll be filled with this sort of unmatchable awe and my friend, upon whom the results of my prayer are bestowed, rejects it all. Sure, they might be grateful for the healing or whatever else it was, but they still won't thank God for it. And so feeling a little humbled, I return to God and apologize for my arrogant certainty and my unrelenting idealism.
And other times, they do know it and God is glorified and it makes prayer all the more amazing and full.
But then there are the selfish things, which I don't understand how people can ask of God. "Please, God, give me this promotion." Or "Please God, let my kid win his softball game." I don't get those. At best, God will ignore you and teach you some more profound lesson you totally deserve to learn. At worst, He'll give you everything you want and you'll eventually stop looking to Him for things.
And I know part of it is my skewed perception, as one friend put it, that everything good is undeserved and the bad things are just my fate and so I never dared to ask for anything, except maybe a little bit of guidance and healing.
But lately, I've found myself asking for more. After getting a glimpse of what life would be like if I had a soulmate, I started to ask God for more. But I know He won't do it if it's just for me, just a selfish ask, and if by chance, He does, I don't want such a selfish prayer answered either. It's too risky. And then as I thought of reasons why God should listen to me on this one, I realized it might not be nearly as selfish a prayer as it felt originally. So instead, I found myself asking God differently: "Glorify Yourself in me too," I said. "Take this girl with a beat up, broken past who can't be loved and let her show the world what love can be like in spite of that brokenness. Because to let me live the end of this life too broken to love anymore... It just makes me a horrible example of Your mercy and grace and healing. Heal me while everybody's watching. Restore me so they can know how good You are."
Maybe it's still selfish. And maybe it's not meant to be. But I have to believe that God will heal me. I have to because it hurts too much otherwise.
So maybe it's selfish, but at the same time, I find myself more afraid of Him healing me and me losing this need to press into Him to get through the suffery bits, which is actually even more selfish because not only am I not glorifying God to those around me because everything relating to Him is in suffering, but also because I'm isolating myself and I'm not loving people the way I used to. It's not good for anybody.
On the other hand, if I pray for everybody and never pray for me, I'm not loving one of God's children properly. And I'm also not trusting that God loves me as much as anybody else either.
I just really hope that people don't look at my life for all its brokenness and use it as a reason to dissociate from God. I hope they don't say things like, "See? She believed in God and where did it get her?" Because you know, even if my life ends tomorrow, what it got me was God. I did get to feel loved for the first time in my life. And that's not nothing. That's everything. I just wish I could make it more obvious, even if I should know by now that even if Jesus Himself stood in front of some people, they'd still say He didn't exist.
When I pray, which lately has become a little more frequent, yet not as frequent as it used to be, I remember Moses praying in Exodus 32:11-14:
11 But Moses implored the LORD his God and said, “O LORD, why does your wrath burn hot against your people, whom you have brought out of the land of Egypt with great power and with a mighty hand? 12 Why should the Egyptians say, ‘With evil intent did he bring them out, to kill them in the mountains and to consume them from the face of the earth’? Turn from your burning anger and relent from this disaster against your people. 13 Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, your servants, to whom you swore by your own self, and said to them, ‘I will multiply your offspring as the stars of heaven, and all this land that I have promised I will give to your offspring, and they shall inherit it forever.’” 14 And the LORD relented from the disaster that he had spoken of bringing on his people.
He basically says, "if you kill the Israelites, everybody else will wonder what kind of God you are. They'll see you make promises you don't intend to keep and that your intentions are evil and you don't want that, right? Show them instead that you're merciful and gracious and love us. And that's how they'll see you."
And my reference for prayer, even if the usual suggestion is Jesus' teaching of the Lord's prayer later on.
If God answers prayers to glorify Himself, then the way we should pray should reflect that also. Instead of asking God to heal a sick child because she's suffering and in pain (which without a doubt God hates), I'll ask God to glorify Himself through His mercy and healing. I'll say to God, "Here's your chance to make yourself known. If you do this, they'll have no choice but to respond."
Of course, the majority of the time, I'm wrong. I'll ask God to do the impossible for somebody who doesn't believe, and God will do the impossible and I'll be filled with this sort of unmatchable awe and my friend, upon whom the results of my prayer are bestowed, rejects it all. Sure, they might be grateful for the healing or whatever else it was, but they still won't thank God for it. And so feeling a little humbled, I return to God and apologize for my arrogant certainty and my unrelenting idealism.
And other times, they do know it and God is glorified and it makes prayer all the more amazing and full.
But then there are the selfish things, which I don't understand how people can ask of God. "Please, God, give me this promotion." Or "Please God, let my kid win his softball game." I don't get those. At best, God will ignore you and teach you some more profound lesson you totally deserve to learn. At worst, He'll give you everything you want and you'll eventually stop looking to Him for things.
And I know part of it is my skewed perception, as one friend put it, that everything good is undeserved and the bad things are just my fate and so I never dared to ask for anything, except maybe a little bit of guidance and healing.
But lately, I've found myself asking for more. After getting a glimpse of what life would be like if I had a soulmate, I started to ask God for more. But I know He won't do it if it's just for me, just a selfish ask, and if by chance, He does, I don't want such a selfish prayer answered either. It's too risky. And then as I thought of reasons why God should listen to me on this one, I realized it might not be nearly as selfish a prayer as it felt originally. So instead, I found myself asking God differently: "Glorify Yourself in me too," I said. "Take this girl with a beat up, broken past who can't be loved and let her show the world what love can be like in spite of that brokenness. Because to let me live the end of this life too broken to love anymore... It just makes me a horrible example of Your mercy and grace and healing. Heal me while everybody's watching. Restore me so they can know how good You are."
Maybe it's still selfish. And maybe it's not meant to be. But I have to believe that God will heal me. I have to because it hurts too much otherwise.
So maybe it's selfish, but at the same time, I find myself more afraid of Him healing me and me losing this need to press into Him to get through the suffery bits, which is actually even more selfish because not only am I not glorifying God to those around me because everything relating to Him is in suffering, but also because I'm isolating myself and I'm not loving people the way I used to. It's not good for anybody.
On the other hand, if I pray for everybody and never pray for me, I'm not loving one of God's children properly. And I'm also not trusting that God loves me as much as anybody else either.
I just really hope that people don't look at my life for all its brokenness and use it as a reason to dissociate from God. I hope they don't say things like, "See? She believed in God and where did it get her?" Because you know, even if my life ends tomorrow, what it got me was God. I did get to feel loved for the first time in my life. And that's not nothing. That's everything. I just wish I could make it more obvious, even if I should know by now that even if Jesus Himself stood in front of some people, they'd still say He didn't exist.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
On loving till it hates...
Listening to Tim Keller's sermon on marriage (I think it's called "Marriage: Part 3" or something), he talked about how when you put too much value into something, it will end up crushing you and ultimately falling apart. And even though this is Tim Keller's usual idolatry line of thinking, this time it was slightly different. He talked about parents who physically (or verbally, I guess too) abuse their kids. He said (paraphrased), "It's not that they hate their kids. It's that they love them too much." And he went on to describe how that works, and it made me wonder things.
My dad was a single dad with three kids- two boys, ages seven and three, and me, two. And over the years, I've come to empathize with his situation more and more, the more I realize how difficult it must have been to feed us, clothe us, look out for us, teach us, nurture us, and discipline us all completely and entirely alone. We lived in the country, away from everybody, away from all family. Apparently, they'd tried to get him to move to the city earlier, but he wouldn't. And he'd raise us likewise, without the ability (or with far too much pride) to ask for help.
I can't imagine being a single parent with three kids, let alone having two of them still in the toddler stage of life. And add to that a full time job in the city with an hour commute each way on a good day. I can't imagine.
So I empathize. I would lose it too. In an effort to get some sort of sense of control over my life, I would exert extreme control over my kids- the one aspect of life I can control. Kinda.
In the end, our childhood was like bootcamp, only the rules were unpredictable. And with the remnants of unlovableness (unlovability?) from my mom leaving us, this new set of reasons we were unlovable took shape and scarred all three of us for life. It doesn't matter how much I try to rationalize it away through empathy, the remnants are still there.
But then Tim Keller starts talking in a roundabout way about the effects that idolatry has on a parent who worships his kids and suddenly, my remnants got lighter on my shoulders.
It's not that he didn't love me. It's not that he didn't care. What if he loved me too much? What if all his value and self-worth were wrapped in us?
There came a time a few years ago when I cut him out of my life completely. Meanwhile, my brothers had done the same, but in very different ways. Suddenly, he didn't have us anymore, and I think that made him reevaluate things a little. It made him let go a little. And when I emerged from my isolation, it angered me how it felt like I was the only one at the dinner table who had remnants. It bothered me that nobody else seemed to care that the family dynamic had suddenly changed and everybody acted as though it'd always been this way, i.e. peaceful.
But if it was idolatry and the idolatry shifted to something else, then it is highly likely that over the span of time it took for a flash of insight, the entire dynamic could change. Suddenly, his value wouldn't be in us anymore. Suddenly, we weren't such massive failures regardless of what we did or did not accomplish. Suddenly, we could just be ourselves and that was enough.
Granted, he still goes through episodes where he is fiercely controlling, but all three of us seem to just back off when those situations arise, rather than cater to his need for control, whatever the root cause.
For a girl who has spent her entire life unlovable, Tim Keller's suggestion is highly controversial. It breaks the patterns I've fallen into almost at their source. I say "almost" because I know that even if my dad had been able to cope more solidly, I still would have remnants of being unlovable because my mom left before an age where I was able to reason or understand what was going on at a level beyond just, "She left because I wasn't lovable enough."
And just to neatly tie up within Christianity, this idea of the complete difference between the actual reasons somebody does something and the reasons we perceive from the point of view of the recipient of the actions is interesting because while the vast majority of the Bible (from my perspective anyway) is very vague and easily misinterpreted, Jesus' death isn't. He made it so clear what he was dying for. He made the reasons for most of his actions as depicted in the Bible so explicit. And I don't think there is any other time in the history of me where intentions, motivations and reasons for actions are so clearly understood. And I think that's why even if I'm unlovable, God is safe. God loves me and I know that because there is never a dichotomy in His love for me. There is never anything for me to interpret in His love for me. Sure, there are other things to interpret, like why things happen, why there's suffering, why the Bible is so ambiguous about so much... But there is just no question about His love for me.
And the thing about that concept is no matter how we receive it, no matter how difficult it is for us to grasp that inconceivable unconditional love, deep down I think we know we have all the time in the world to work towards it, to work towards figuring out how to accept it, how to deal with it.
What this Tim Keller sermon showed me is no matter how much somebody loves you, there will always be a barrier, a filter through which you receive that love. And whether the mis-reception or misunderstanding of that love is understandable as in the case of a tyrannical parent's over-love being misinterpreted for hate, or it's incomprehensible as in the case of a loving, forgiving, merciful creator God of the universe, the common denominator is me.
My shrink back in the day once said, "You have to stop expecting people to love you the way you want to be loved and accept the love they are able to give." That's not to say that in situations of abuse, one should feel adored or anything, just that maybe, even in the best of circumstances, we seek so fervently to be unlovable that no method of loving will ever break through those filters and barriers.
And then there's God, who loves us perfectly and how many of us spend our lives trying to prove Him wrong?
So here we are, surrounded by love, doing whatever we can, gathering endless bits of evidence, both consciously and not, to convince ourselves otherwise.
So what if it's not that they don't love us? What if it's that they love us too much? And if you look at the people in your life and scoff at that idea, maybe it's time to figure out the root of that cynicism.
Because if they do love us too much, wouldn't we react differently? And wouldn't we love them more? Wouldn't we try to bring them to the middle ground where loving us is safe and good and not a means of indication nor reflection of of their value?
And in the process, if God's love is perfect and without this brokenness that requires so much interpretation, wouldn't we start to view God differently?
My dad was a single dad with three kids- two boys, ages seven and three, and me, two. And over the years, I've come to empathize with his situation more and more, the more I realize how difficult it must have been to feed us, clothe us, look out for us, teach us, nurture us, and discipline us all completely and entirely alone. We lived in the country, away from everybody, away from all family. Apparently, they'd tried to get him to move to the city earlier, but he wouldn't. And he'd raise us likewise, without the ability (or with far too much pride) to ask for help.
I can't imagine being a single parent with three kids, let alone having two of them still in the toddler stage of life. And add to that a full time job in the city with an hour commute each way on a good day. I can't imagine.
So I empathize. I would lose it too. In an effort to get some sort of sense of control over my life, I would exert extreme control over my kids- the one aspect of life I can control. Kinda.
In the end, our childhood was like bootcamp, only the rules were unpredictable. And with the remnants of unlovableness (unlovability?) from my mom leaving us, this new set of reasons we were unlovable took shape and scarred all three of us for life. It doesn't matter how much I try to rationalize it away through empathy, the remnants are still there.
But then Tim Keller starts talking in a roundabout way about the effects that idolatry has on a parent who worships his kids and suddenly, my remnants got lighter on my shoulders.
It's not that he didn't love me. It's not that he didn't care. What if he loved me too much? What if all his value and self-worth were wrapped in us?
There came a time a few years ago when I cut him out of my life completely. Meanwhile, my brothers had done the same, but in very different ways. Suddenly, he didn't have us anymore, and I think that made him reevaluate things a little. It made him let go a little. And when I emerged from my isolation, it angered me how it felt like I was the only one at the dinner table who had remnants. It bothered me that nobody else seemed to care that the family dynamic had suddenly changed and everybody acted as though it'd always been this way, i.e. peaceful.
But if it was idolatry and the idolatry shifted to something else, then it is highly likely that over the span of time it took for a flash of insight, the entire dynamic could change. Suddenly, his value wouldn't be in us anymore. Suddenly, we weren't such massive failures regardless of what we did or did not accomplish. Suddenly, we could just be ourselves and that was enough.
Granted, he still goes through episodes where he is fiercely controlling, but all three of us seem to just back off when those situations arise, rather than cater to his need for control, whatever the root cause.
For a girl who has spent her entire life unlovable, Tim Keller's suggestion is highly controversial. It breaks the patterns I've fallen into almost at their source. I say "almost" because I know that even if my dad had been able to cope more solidly, I still would have remnants of being unlovable because my mom left before an age where I was able to reason or understand what was going on at a level beyond just, "She left because I wasn't lovable enough."
And just to neatly tie up within Christianity, this idea of the complete difference between the actual reasons somebody does something and the reasons we perceive from the point of view of the recipient of the actions is interesting because while the vast majority of the Bible (from my perspective anyway) is very vague and easily misinterpreted, Jesus' death isn't. He made it so clear what he was dying for. He made the reasons for most of his actions as depicted in the Bible so explicit. And I don't think there is any other time in the history of me where intentions, motivations and reasons for actions are so clearly understood. And I think that's why even if I'm unlovable, God is safe. God loves me and I know that because there is never a dichotomy in His love for me. There is never anything for me to interpret in His love for me. Sure, there are other things to interpret, like why things happen, why there's suffering, why the Bible is so ambiguous about so much... But there is just no question about His love for me.
And the thing about that concept is no matter how we receive it, no matter how difficult it is for us to grasp that inconceivable unconditional love, deep down I think we know we have all the time in the world to work towards it, to work towards figuring out how to accept it, how to deal with it.
What this Tim Keller sermon showed me is no matter how much somebody loves you, there will always be a barrier, a filter through which you receive that love. And whether the mis-reception or misunderstanding of that love is understandable as in the case of a tyrannical parent's over-love being misinterpreted for hate, or it's incomprehensible as in the case of a loving, forgiving, merciful creator God of the universe, the common denominator is me.
My shrink back in the day once said, "You have to stop expecting people to love you the way you want to be loved and accept the love they are able to give." That's not to say that in situations of abuse, one should feel adored or anything, just that maybe, even in the best of circumstances, we seek so fervently to be unlovable that no method of loving will ever break through those filters and barriers.
And then there's God, who loves us perfectly and how many of us spend our lives trying to prove Him wrong?
So here we are, surrounded by love, doing whatever we can, gathering endless bits of evidence, both consciously and not, to convince ourselves otherwise.
So what if it's not that they don't love us? What if it's that they love us too much? And if you look at the people in your life and scoff at that idea, maybe it's time to figure out the root of that cynicism.
Because if they do love us too much, wouldn't we react differently? And wouldn't we love them more? Wouldn't we try to bring them to the middle ground where loving us is safe and good and not a means of indication nor reflection of of their value?
And in the process, if God's love is perfect and without this brokenness that requires so much interpretation, wouldn't we start to view God differently?
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
What if?
What if we have it backwards? What if we need the misery and God's just accommodating that need? What if we are born divided from God, but not because God divides Himself from us but because when we acknowledge there is a God, suddenly, we become so inferior that we need some way to make up the difference? What if God is like, "Alright, fine, be bad, and when you'll feel like that badness divides you from Me and you start to feel guilty about the horrible things you do, I'll give you some rules to make you feel connected again. And when you rebel against those rules, I'll give you some sacrifice procedures to follow. And when you still can't keep up, then I'll do something of which you won't be able to deny the power and significance. And then maybe you might see that I love you no matter what, even if it seems like your goal in life is to be a failure."
And God will judge us on the last day, and we assume that'll be horrible because we're so terrible, even if He loves us no matter what.
What if rather than creating a God because there is an innate need to explain things, we've actually created suffering to make sense of this world? Or rather promoted it? What if we need the suffering? What if we need the pain and the separation from God to make sense of this world?
As an agnostic, it did make more sense. It made sense to believe there was possibly no God and we're just alone, abandoned by nothing to live on this planet for no reason. It makes more sense at a core level when your life has no meaning and no purpose and very little meaningful love and is riddled with abandonment.
We do crave the suffering. We crave mistakes and regret. We call it rebellion, and even if it has a name, we refuse to admit that that's what we're about.
We want to be in control, even if that control is the equivalent to a passenger grabbing the wheel of a car somebody else is driving. It's pointless and requires far more effort than letting the driver get on with it. But we have trust issues, so even if we're swerving dangerously, we've got the wheel and that's all that matters.
So what if God's all, "Ok... Seatbelts. Let's do seatbelts." And then we swerve more. "Alright, airbags." And still, we come dangerously close to death because of our rebellion and need for control. The next step? Automatic driving sensors- an autopilot. We'll be in the driver's seat and we'll have the illusion of driving, but we won't be in control at all. And being that we'll feel like we're in control, we won't give any credit to the actual driver. Maybe we have to crash every now and then to realize what we're doing, what it's costing us.
And what if all those rules and the procedures are meant to amplify that rather than actually "get good with God"? What if they're just the brick wall we're meant to hit before finally realizing the grace and mercy of God?
The other day when my car's wheel almost fell off, I praised God a thousand ways till Tuesday for what He did. I pulled over just in time. And my entire life built up to that moment. All the knowledge I had acquired about cars culminated into me pulling over at that moment. Other women I know wouldn't have stopped. And so yeah, it might just be my knowledge and a bit of luck, but naw. God is good. And I was so grateful. He saved my life. Or at least my finances. And a heap of time and trouble. And probably the same for whomever else became a casualty of my stray wheel.
Fast forward a few days, and the topic of prayer comes up in conversation. And a few people have told me it's a gift I have. Stuff happens when I pray. Incredible stuff. But it terrifies me because I know it's not me. I know that it can disappear any second because it's not mine. And I dread people becoming dependent on my prayer for that reason. It glorifies me and it's not me. It's God. And so in this conversation, I told the person it may be a gift, but I'm in denial because I don't like the responsibility it brings. It's like a dichotomy. God answers my prayers and then people come to me instead of to God. And I point them to God, always, because I know it's not me, but what happens if I lose it? Will they all lose God? Will they all start to wonder about their faith?
God answers prayers. I just think that He answers mine more explicitly because I believe He will. And that's not to say the people who ask me to pray don't believe, but they just believe more through me. It's more explicit when you tell somebody to do something and you let it go and it happens outside of your control.
It's why I praised God for my wheel. It was completely out of my control. It could have been gnarled up suspension parts. It could have been thousands of dollars' worth of repairs. It could have been deadly. It was outside of my control, and God gave me the tools to fix it. He gave me knowledge, a jack and a tire iron. Not to mention the physical capacity to jack up a car and remove a wheel. He gave me the inquisitiveness to have asked questions in the past that led me to assess that my suspension was indeed perfectly safe and fine. Nothing was in my control. In that moment, it was clear that my life was not in my own hands at all.
And that's what I believe my prayer does for other people. It separates them from the consequences. It separates them in such a way that they can't accidentally take credit for the things that happen. They can't brush it off as coincidence or as their own accomplishment.
And I have to admit, every time a prayer is explicitly answered, I love it. I love that this girl who hated even the idea of God is now not only heard but heard in such a way that deeply affects those around her. I look at my neglected prayer list and everything ends up done. It's the most bizarre thing ever. It's the only "to do" list I have that actually gets wiped clean. It really is a beautiful thing.
And it scares me. It really does. And so I don't pray. And I deny that I have a gift. Because I really don't. I'm not more special than anybody else. And one day, without a doubt, I'll feel like God's not listening. Well, actually, I'll feel it again. And again. And I could either start the processes to "get right with God", or I can stop praying for the wrong things and ask God to help me pray for the right things.
I can stop trying to drive the car and instead, use this opportunity to become more aware of my surroundings, all while pointing out the things I love as He drives us by all the people and places He built for me and show my gratitude and appreciation by letting Him take care of it all for me.
Because He loves it all too.
And somehow, I think He wishes we didn't need the suffering to understand that.
But it's merely speculation. God is God and even if I won't presume to know what any of it is all about, He gave me the drive to wonder. :D
And God will judge us on the last day, and we assume that'll be horrible because we're so terrible, even if He loves us no matter what.
What if rather than creating a God because there is an innate need to explain things, we've actually created suffering to make sense of this world? Or rather promoted it? What if we need the suffering? What if we need the pain and the separation from God to make sense of this world?
As an agnostic, it did make more sense. It made sense to believe there was possibly no God and we're just alone, abandoned by nothing to live on this planet for no reason. It makes more sense at a core level when your life has no meaning and no purpose and very little meaningful love and is riddled with abandonment.
We do crave the suffering. We crave mistakes and regret. We call it rebellion, and even if it has a name, we refuse to admit that that's what we're about.
We want to be in control, even if that control is the equivalent to a passenger grabbing the wheel of a car somebody else is driving. It's pointless and requires far more effort than letting the driver get on with it. But we have trust issues, so even if we're swerving dangerously, we've got the wheel and that's all that matters.
So what if God's all, "Ok... Seatbelts. Let's do seatbelts." And then we swerve more. "Alright, airbags." And still, we come dangerously close to death because of our rebellion and need for control. The next step? Automatic driving sensors- an autopilot. We'll be in the driver's seat and we'll have the illusion of driving, but we won't be in control at all. And being that we'll feel like we're in control, we won't give any credit to the actual driver. Maybe we have to crash every now and then to realize what we're doing, what it's costing us.
And what if all those rules and the procedures are meant to amplify that rather than actually "get good with God"? What if they're just the brick wall we're meant to hit before finally realizing the grace and mercy of God?
The other day when my car's wheel almost fell off, I praised God a thousand ways till Tuesday for what He did. I pulled over just in time. And my entire life built up to that moment. All the knowledge I had acquired about cars culminated into me pulling over at that moment. Other women I know wouldn't have stopped. And so yeah, it might just be my knowledge and a bit of luck, but naw. God is good. And I was so grateful. He saved my life. Or at least my finances. And a heap of time and trouble. And probably the same for whomever else became a casualty of my stray wheel.
Fast forward a few days, and the topic of prayer comes up in conversation. And a few people have told me it's a gift I have. Stuff happens when I pray. Incredible stuff. But it terrifies me because I know it's not me. I know that it can disappear any second because it's not mine. And I dread people becoming dependent on my prayer for that reason. It glorifies me and it's not me. It's God. And so in this conversation, I told the person it may be a gift, but I'm in denial because I don't like the responsibility it brings. It's like a dichotomy. God answers my prayers and then people come to me instead of to God. And I point them to God, always, because I know it's not me, but what happens if I lose it? Will they all lose God? Will they all start to wonder about their faith?
God answers prayers. I just think that He answers mine more explicitly because I believe He will. And that's not to say the people who ask me to pray don't believe, but they just believe more through me. It's more explicit when you tell somebody to do something and you let it go and it happens outside of your control.
It's why I praised God for my wheel. It was completely out of my control. It could have been gnarled up suspension parts. It could have been thousands of dollars' worth of repairs. It could have been deadly. It was outside of my control, and God gave me the tools to fix it. He gave me knowledge, a jack and a tire iron. Not to mention the physical capacity to jack up a car and remove a wheel. He gave me the inquisitiveness to have asked questions in the past that led me to assess that my suspension was indeed perfectly safe and fine. Nothing was in my control. In that moment, it was clear that my life was not in my own hands at all.
And that's what I believe my prayer does for other people. It separates them from the consequences. It separates them in such a way that they can't accidentally take credit for the things that happen. They can't brush it off as coincidence or as their own accomplishment.
And I have to admit, every time a prayer is explicitly answered, I love it. I love that this girl who hated even the idea of God is now not only heard but heard in such a way that deeply affects those around her. I look at my neglected prayer list and everything ends up done. It's the most bizarre thing ever. It's the only "to do" list I have that actually gets wiped clean. It really is a beautiful thing.
And it scares me. It really does. And so I don't pray. And I deny that I have a gift. Because I really don't. I'm not more special than anybody else. And one day, without a doubt, I'll feel like God's not listening. Well, actually, I'll feel it again. And again. And I could either start the processes to "get right with God", or I can stop praying for the wrong things and ask God to help me pray for the right things.
I can stop trying to drive the car and instead, use this opportunity to become more aware of my surroundings, all while pointing out the things I love as He drives us by all the people and places He built for me and show my gratitude and appreciation by letting Him take care of it all for me.
Because He loves it all too.
And somehow, I think He wishes we didn't need the suffering to understand that.
But it's merely speculation. God is God and even if I won't presume to know what any of it is all about, He gave me the drive to wonder. :D
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
On faith and unknown unknowns...
One thing my meanderings into Christianity has brought me is a new perspective of truth. Pastors seem to like the elephant analogy where a bunch of blindfolded people represent all the religions, and each religion representative touches a part of the elephant and has their own version of the truth of what the elephant looks like based on their tiny fragment of it and combined, they form the whole picture, the one which the self-proclaimed outsider claims he sees when they don't. And they like it because it shows that the outsider thinks they know more about truth than everybody else, and it illustrates the sort of arrogant self-righteousness of that particular truth claim.
But from the other side, none of the blindfolded people will ever think they're the blindfolded ones either. Yes, the atheist or agnostic or Oprah can make a truth claim and we can laugh about how they don't think it's a faith-based truth claim because they think they have no faith in anything but science, but where does that leave us?
The problem is the categories. When you categorize a Christian, you say things like, "All Christians think they know where they go when they die," or, "Christians think they know what is God's will." But I don't know those things. I don't know where I go when I die. As a Christian I think I'm supposed to believe it's somewhere with God? But only when He decides it's over? I don't know.
[Whoever does the supposing in the "Christians are supposed to" statements and whether they are of any worth is beyond my realm of knowledge also.]
I used to be firm in my belief that death was a grocery store of possibilities. Aisle six had the possibility that we reincarnate. Aisle seven, that we reincarnate irrespective of time. I could be Jim Morrison in my next lifetime. Or my last one. Another was that we're one collective soul, split up into fractions, each fraction left to fend for itself and only when we work as a collective will we ever end this suffering. Another still was that we are all God on holiday. God was all, "I want to know what it's like," so he split himself into the billions of people and animals and things and is experiencing every breath of everything simultaneously. And when we die, we will be one again.
There are endless possibilities really. And even if I like my Jesus, I don't presume to know how it ends. Jesus says there's a paradise of some sort, but God also says, "Never presume to understand what I mean or intend because your little pea brain really has no idea." Paraphrased, of course.
My point being that Christianity has taught me a lot about truth in that none of us really has any idea what's going on. Not even the atheists. Not even the agnostics (like me) who think they know they have no idea what's really going on.
I do like that Bush quote, even if it makes me a social outcast- the one about how there are known knowns, known unknowns and unknown unknowns. Because he's right. Known knowns are science. Known unknowns are the breaches of faith and unknown unknowns are... well... who knows? And in my humble opinion, none of us can make a full truth claim until we can actually see all the unknown unknowns.
In the meantime, we have partial truths that end where faith begins.
All of us.
And that's my truth claim. :D
But from the other side, none of the blindfolded people will ever think they're the blindfolded ones either. Yes, the atheist or agnostic or Oprah can make a truth claim and we can laugh about how they don't think it's a faith-based truth claim because they think they have no faith in anything but science, but where does that leave us?
The problem is the categories. When you categorize a Christian, you say things like, "All Christians think they know where they go when they die," or, "Christians think they know what is God's will." But I don't know those things. I don't know where I go when I die. As a Christian I think I'm supposed to believe it's somewhere with God? But only when He decides it's over? I don't know.
[Whoever does the supposing in the "Christians are supposed to" statements and whether they are of any worth is beyond my realm of knowledge also.]
I used to be firm in my belief that death was a grocery store of possibilities. Aisle six had the possibility that we reincarnate. Aisle seven, that we reincarnate irrespective of time. I could be Jim Morrison in my next lifetime. Or my last one. Another was that we're one collective soul, split up into fractions, each fraction left to fend for itself and only when we work as a collective will we ever end this suffering. Another still was that we are all God on holiday. God was all, "I want to know what it's like," so he split himself into the billions of people and animals and things and is experiencing every breath of everything simultaneously. And when we die, we will be one again.
There are endless possibilities really. And even if I like my Jesus, I don't presume to know how it ends. Jesus says there's a paradise of some sort, but God also says, "Never presume to understand what I mean or intend because your little pea brain really has no idea." Paraphrased, of course.
My point being that Christianity has taught me a lot about truth in that none of us really has any idea what's going on. Not even the atheists. Not even the agnostics (like me) who think they know they have no idea what's really going on.
I do like that Bush quote, even if it makes me a social outcast- the one about how there are known knowns, known unknowns and unknown unknowns. Because he's right. Known knowns are science. Known unknowns are the breaches of faith and unknown unknowns are... well... who knows? And in my humble opinion, none of us can make a full truth claim until we can actually see all the unknown unknowns.
In the meantime, we have partial truths that end where faith begins.
All of us.
And that's my truth claim. :D
Sunday, June 13, 2010
On white-knuckles and trust issues...
God will be glorified in me regardless of how I live my life. Whether it be through His mercy or through His justice, my life will be a means through which He will show Himself.
And in the meantime, my failings as a Christian don't change that. Nor do they change the world. I am not that important and my failures and faults aren't surprises either. If I am a piece of a puzzle, I can't suddenly change shape. Even if I rip off the sticky outy bits or patch up the dents to either better myself or ruin myself, God will still find all the pieces, clean me up and make me fit.
And there's nothing I can do to change that.
And in the meantime, the things I do, the habits I fall into, the things I refuse to ask for help with, all affect my joy. They're all to my own detriment. They don't affect my relationship with God on His end. Because you know what? Even if I conquer all those things, all the things I perceive to be detrimental to my relationship with God, they are but the tip of the iceberg. And to believe that I will be able to somehow be good enough for God one day is to underestimate God's righteousness and undeservingly amplify my own.
Repent. I think that's what I'm having trouble with. Repenting without action is a meaningless admission of flaws. Repenting with action is behavior modification, which often leads to the replacing of one behavior with another, rather than absolving the need for the behavior to begin with. It also seems like a way to control your salvation. So where's the line between futile, self-important repentance and real repentance? Asking God for help? Asking God to remove whatever it is? Asking God to be more satisfying than the benefits of the behavior? Asking God to change your heart?
But what if that behavior pattern or lifestyle is the only facet of your life in which you have any sort of certainty at all? What if that is where you're comfortable and you don't want it to be removed? What if without it, life just doesn't seem worth it?
Obviously, there are a whole bunch of underlying issues there. But they're there regardless. This is the hand we've been dealt and in some ways, it's a bad one. In some ways, we need something to hold onto for fear that if we let go to merely hold onto God, we'll get dropped.
I'm the girl who, when my dad would carry me on his shoulders as a tiny child, would grip his hair so hard in an effort to keep myself from falling that he'd get a headache and lose handfuls of hair. Every time. God knows I can't let go. Not yet anyway. And I like to assume that He knows I would if I could and I wish I could.
And in the meantime, I guess all that's left is to pray that God might protect me and watch over me while I make my mistakes so that eventually, I might realize He's got a tighter grip on me than any grip my tiny white-knuckled fists could ever muster on their own.
And in the meantime, my failings as a Christian don't change that. Nor do they change the world. I am not that important and my failures and faults aren't surprises either. If I am a piece of a puzzle, I can't suddenly change shape. Even if I rip off the sticky outy bits or patch up the dents to either better myself or ruin myself, God will still find all the pieces, clean me up and make me fit.
And there's nothing I can do to change that.
And in the meantime, the things I do, the habits I fall into, the things I refuse to ask for help with, all affect my joy. They're all to my own detriment. They don't affect my relationship with God on His end. Because you know what? Even if I conquer all those things, all the things I perceive to be detrimental to my relationship with God, they are but the tip of the iceberg. And to believe that I will be able to somehow be good enough for God one day is to underestimate God's righteousness and undeservingly amplify my own.
Repent. I think that's what I'm having trouble with. Repenting without action is a meaningless admission of flaws. Repenting with action is behavior modification, which often leads to the replacing of one behavior with another, rather than absolving the need for the behavior to begin with. It also seems like a way to control your salvation. So where's the line between futile, self-important repentance and real repentance? Asking God for help? Asking God to remove whatever it is? Asking God to be more satisfying than the benefits of the behavior? Asking God to change your heart?
But what if that behavior pattern or lifestyle is the only facet of your life in which you have any sort of certainty at all? What if that is where you're comfortable and you don't want it to be removed? What if without it, life just doesn't seem worth it?
Obviously, there are a whole bunch of underlying issues there. But they're there regardless. This is the hand we've been dealt and in some ways, it's a bad one. In some ways, we need something to hold onto for fear that if we let go to merely hold onto God, we'll get dropped.
I'm the girl who, when my dad would carry me on his shoulders as a tiny child, would grip his hair so hard in an effort to keep myself from falling that he'd get a headache and lose handfuls of hair. Every time. God knows I can't let go. Not yet anyway. And I like to assume that He knows I would if I could and I wish I could.
And in the meantime, I guess all that's left is to pray that God might protect me and watch over me while I make my mistakes so that eventually, I might realize He's got a tighter grip on me than any grip my tiny white-knuckled fists could ever muster on their own.
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