Christmas is a story about a Father who loves His children, but whose children don’t want Him in their lives.
Christmas is a story about a Brother whose siblings refuse to see how much He has done and sacrificed for Him.
Christmas is a story about a dysfunctional family. The family of God.
It is a story about love that isn’t always returned.
If this year your Christmas there are fewer people around the Christmas tree than previous years, if there are loved ones who do not return your love, if you love is hard…it’s okay.
Love is hard. And the Perfect Father understands. His love, too, is often unreturned. But He loves.
I just finished rereading the Lord of the Rings. And as always, Samwise is my favorite character. He is the hero of the story, in my opinion. On this rereading, as we move into the week of Advent where we focus on Joy, I thought of how he demonstrates that virtue throughout the story.
As he and Frodo move into the darkness of Mordor, and Frodo is slowly being taken over by the evil of the ring, it is Sam’s joy that keeps him moving.
Despite the evil around them, Sam believes in goodness that he can no longer see. Despite the impossibility of the task, Sam believes they can accomplish it. Sam trusts that darkness only hides the light and the good in the world, but that doesn’t keep it from existing. He isn’t always happy as they trudge through Mordor. But he is joyful.
I think that is the definition of joy.
I have dealt with chronic pain for 27 years now. And as such, I have dealt with depression on and off in that time. That’s just part of chronic pain and illness. I saw a counselor for a period, and she told me that there would be something wrong with me if my chronic pain didn’t cause me to at least occasionally deal with depression. But depression and despair are not the same thing.
I have known despair.
And in times of despair, I stopped believing in the goodness of God. While depression has many causes, I believe despair is a sin. Despair is a lack of trust and faith.
The opposite of despair isn’t happiness. Happiness is dependent on situations. It can come and go. The opposite of despair is joy. Joy, like Sam in Mordor, keeps you walking when all your situation allows you to see is darkness.
We are told “Joy to the world” for a reason. “The Lord has come.” But the world had to wait another 30 years to witness that. The Messiah had arrived. But He arrived as an infant. The goodness was there, but so few saw it. It took almost 30 years for Him to begin His ministry. And then, there was the cross. Still more waiting for the ultimate declaration that the Lord is here in the resurrection. The incarnation reminds us that joy begins sometimes before we can see it.
If you are depressed this Christmas season, it’s okay. Depression can sometimes be part of life. But your depression does not negate the truth that the Lord has come. You can hold on in faith to that even as you trudge through your darkness. Don’t despair. Keep walking through your Mordor with this knowledge:
This weekend, at the Behold the Lamb of God concert, one of the singers asked us to think of our worse day. He commented that not everyone would have a specific day in mind, but I did. I know the date. It was the day my son was in a very unsafe position, when we thought we may lose him.
I won’t go into the details here, but if you ask some day, I can tell you everything. It is etched in my memory.
And as bad as that date was, there was a season after it that was almost worse. The woman who put my son in danger returned to our neighborhood, and there was nothing we could legally do about it. My soul was in constant turmoil.
One day I was reading aloud The Voyage of the Dawn Treader to my classes, and I came to the chapter “The Dark Island”. The Lord had used this chapter to speak to my heart many times before. To quickly summarize, the characters are on a quest to find the lost lords of Narnia, and on the way, they come to different islands where they are tested. The Dark Island is an island where your nightmares come true. As they sail into the island, everything becomes dark and every character hears something different waiting for them. They realize they are sailing in circles and have no idea how to get out of the darkness. Lucy is in the crow’s nest of the ship, and she cries out to Aslan. A glowing albatross appears and leads them out, and only Lucy hears the albatross has the voice of Aslan as it says, “Courage, Dear Heart.” I have a necklace with these words. They are framed in my bedroom. They have been words I have heard the Lord whisper to me for decades in the midst of darkness, but this time on reading, it was a different sentence that spoke to my heart. As I was reading this aloud, I read these words:
“The darkness did not grow any less, but she began to feel a little — a very, very little — better. ‘After all, nothing has really happened to us yet,’ she thought.”
My voice caught as I read. In the darkness of my soul, I stopped and realized, nothing has really happened yet. My son was safe. We were safe. The fear was what was crippling me. And then, as I came to those three words that have meant so much to me, they meant even more, “Courage, Dear Heart”, here in the darkness, before he leads me out.
When I think of peace, I think of that moment. I think of realizing in the darkness and fear, that despite the trauma that had truly happened, it was the fear that was crushing me more than the actually events. I think of the fact that the Lord spoke to me, like the albatross did to Lucy, in the darkness, before the light came in. And I think of how peace is an act of courage. Peace is a decision to be courageous in the darkness and say, “Here, now, I will be at rest. Before all is well, my soul will be well.”
As we think of peace this Advent, I remember that the Lord comes into our darkness. He descended down into the darkness of our world. I remember the need for courage in the darkness as we choose peace. And I remember this sentence from the same chapter:
“And all at once everybody realised that there was nothing to be afraid of and never had been.”
And isn’t that what Christmas is about? There is nothing more to be afraid of. He is here, in our darkness, and He is the light of the world.
The first time I recognized that I was experiencing chronic, wide-spread pain was during a massage. I had been in several car wrecks and my chiropractor couldn’t figure out why my headaches and neck tension weren’t improving. After all, I was young, only 15. My body should have quickly bounced back. But instead it just kept getting worse. So, he sent me to try massage therapy. I expected thereto be pain in my shoulders and neck, where the injuries had occurred. But as she massaged my arms and legs and other places, I realized for the first time: my muscles hurt. All of them.
It was sometime after that when I was first diagnosed with fibromyalgia.
There have been times, more than one, that the weight of the years of pain feel like too much to bear. Not the weight of the past pain or the present, but the idea of years and years to come, I will always be in pain. I will always be in some level of pain, and for now, that level of pain seems to just increase with each passing year. What will that level be in 10 more years? In 20?
But then I remember Amy Carmichael. A missionary to India, Amy was a single woman who also lived in pain due to a back injury. At times the idea of years of loneliness felt overwhelming to her. She said:
“The devil kept on whispering, ‘It’s all right now, but what about afterwards? You are going to be very lonely.’ And he painted pictures of loneliness — I can see them still. I turned to my God in a kind of desperation and said, ‘Lord, what can I do? How can I go on to the end?’ He said, ‘None of them that trust in Me shall be desolate.’ That word has been with me ever since. It has been fulfilled to me. It will be fulfilled to you.”
The Lord reminded Amy that His goodness was with her there, in that moment. It would be with her in her future. This reminder takes away the burden of all the “what if’s” of my future. My pain may be there. But I know my God will be there. Whatever pain you have here, whatever pain you will have in the future, you can rest in this hope: Your God will be there with you.
And that is how we hope. We hope because we see God’s goodness here. We know we are not abandoned in this moment. And so, when we think of our future, we know His goodness will be there too.
When we think of Hope in the season of Advent, Jesus is here. He has come. We see the goodness of God made flesh, Immanuel, God with us.
And as we wait His Second Advent, we Hope, knowing the goodness of God is there too. As a Christian we can always Hope because we rest in the goodness of God here.
Today’s sermon was on reconciliation and estrangement. Robbie wanted to know why I was crying. Well, it was personal in a way I won’t go into on Facebook. But that got me thinking about Romans 12:18, which was quoted in the sermon.
Romans 12:18 gives me a lot of peace.
“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
Which means, sometimes it isn’t possible. Sometimes it doesn’t depend on you.
Here is your job as a Christian during conflict in relationships:
Listen to others as they explain how you have hurt them.
Ask for forgiveness where needed.
Repent where needed.
Share where you are hurt as well.
Forgive where needed.
That is it. You do those things. But there are times when some won’t extend forgiveness. And you aren’t owed forgiveness, but of course, this makes it hard to continue relationship.
And there was a time where I thought number four was a mistake. I thought, “accept the blame to let the relationship continue.” But that isn’t truth, and as a Christian we live in truth. And there are times when some will not accept their own responsibilities in a conflict. And so, that makes it hard to continue relationship.
Listen, if you are estranged from a family member or a loved one, odds are you are not faultless. But as a Christian, there is forgiveness for your sins.
But unless you know you abused someone in some way, don’t sit under the weight that all fault lies with you. Don’t let the enemy rehash your mistakes and convince you that you and you alone are at fault. That is rarely the case. It is okay to acknowledge that things are complicated. It’s okay to say, “I need forgiveness and I need to forgive.”
And when forgiveness is not extended or the need for forgiveness is not acknowledged by the other party, well, it doesn’t depend on you anymore.
That doesn’t mean you won’t be hurt by the estrangement. But you can let go of the need to keep reliving every word and argument. You can rest that you tried to reconcile.
It is comforting to know that our God Himself understands the pain of estrangement. He is truly faultless in every conflict mankind has had with Him. He has nothing to be forgiven for and everything to forgive. And yet He is rejected over and over again. This year I have been reading through the Bible in chronological order. And the story of the Old Testament at times brought me to tears. And then, finally enter Christ. And here at the cross is how much God yearns for reconciliation. But again, He is the one rejected.
He understands the pain. He can sit with you in it. He loves that person and He loves you. He can hold the complexities of who is at fault and where the sin lies and look at each of your hearts with love. Ultimately all sin is against Him, and He has forgiven you.
Sometimes there isn’t much to say about living in pain. You just keep going, and so does the pain. You just keep getting up and doing what has to be done, and you keep doing it in pain. Sometimes you don’t break down in tears, not because the pain isn’t overwhelming, but because it doesn’t change anything.
Sometimes I find myself unsure what to write for a period. I feel like I’ve said everything I know to say. Living in pain is hard. It is isolating. It is hard to keep your eyes on hope.
And sometimes it feels like there isn’t even anything new to write about that hope. I feel like I have said it before. God is with you in the pain. He is with you in your isolation.
But while there isn’t anything new to say, that doesn’t mean His mercies aren’t new every morning.
The pain may be the same morning after morning. But His mercies are new. Each morning, when I turn over to grab the pain medicine before I can get up, each morning when I limp to take a shower to loosen my muscles so I can get around, when I struggle to remember what needs to be done that day as the pain fogs my brain…each morning that seems like it is always on repeat, His mercies are new for me.
His mercies in my husband bringing me breakfast as I wait for the pain medicine to kick in.
His mercies in my children helping me put on my shoes because I can’t bend down yet.
His mercies in the beauty of the clouds on the drive to work to remind me of his majesty.
His mercies in a job I can still physically do that gives me a place to use my talents and serve.
His mercies in colleagues who take the time to ask me how I actually am doing.
His mercies in friends who text that they are praying.
And always, always, His mercies at the cross. In a Savior who became incarnate so He could understand physical pain. His mercies in a high priest who can sympathize in every way.
So, if you are feeling overwhelmed with the constancy of pain and suffering in your life, I don’t have anything new to say today.
But that’s okay. Because His mercies for you are new.
We are told in Scripture to ask for healing, such as in James 5:15
But we are also told to ask for:Wisdom (James 1:5)Forgiveness (1 John 1:19)Sanctification (1Thessalonians 5:23)Peace (Philippians 4:6-7)Joy (Romans 12:2)Justice of the poor (Psalm 82:3-5)The gospel to be spread (Colossians 4:3)God’s name to be glorified (John 12:27-28)The unity of the church (John 17) It is not wrong to ask God for healing or to ask him for the money to fix your broken car.But when our prayer lists are ALL about illness and money, well, aren’t we then just a watered down health and wealth gospel?God cares about our bodies. He made them. But He also cares so much more about our souls, our sanctification. He cares about the lost. He cares about justice. He cares about how we treat fellow believers we disagree with and how that represents His name to world.If you want to pray for my healing, please do. It is exhausting living life in pain. But please also, pray for peace. Pray that I will find joy in the pain and wisdom to live my life. Pray that I can forgive those who have hurt me due to their thoughtlessness of how to speak to someone with chronic illness.I will not use my illness to water-down an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent God to a neat box I can understand, a genie to grant my wishes. I will not use my pain to make God into an idol of my own making.May our prayer requests show that we pray to the true and living God. Don’t make your prayer requests smaller than that.
We have been reading through 1 and 2 Samuel as a family. Tonight we came to 2 Samuel 11 (David and Bathsheeba). First, well, that was an interesting conversation with our 8 and 11 year old. But as we discussed David’s sin, we turned and read Psalm 51, David’s psalm of repentance. And I noticed some things that I hadn’t noticed before. I thought about Psalm 51 not in connection with 2 Samuel 11 but with 1 Samuel 15, Saul’s sin and rejection from God. When Saul is confronted with his sin by Samuel, Saul responds, “The soldiers took sheep and cattle from the plunder, the best of what was devoted to God, in order to sacrifice them to the Lord your God at Gilgal.” (1 Samuel 15:21). Look at what David says about sacrifice: You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it; you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings. My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise. (Psalm 51:16-17) David knew Saul’s story. He knew that God wasn’t pleased with sacrifice when the heart is far away from him. David watched Saul’s story play out, where the kingdom was torn from him, the anointing removed, and the Spirit of the Lord left him. And of all that, what is David terrified will happen to him now that he is caught in his sin? Do not cast me from your presence or take your Holy Spirit from me. (Psalm 51:11) David isn’t afraid of losing his kingdom. He is afraid of losing the presence of God in his life. David saw what happened to Saul and he said, “That right there. God leaving him. I can’t endure that.” David wasn’t the man after God’s own heart because he was perfect. Clearly he wasn’t. But he knew how to repent well. And that is a skill worth cultivating.
I was starting to get sick in high school, but I got really bad in college. And then after college, when I had started teaching, that’s when I began to realize what my reality was. The pain was always present, and with that, so was the depression and the loneliness.
As I tell this story, I want you to realize I see now that those in it were young themselves. They were doing the best with learning how to live with their own griefs and struggles. I don’t say any of this with malice. I’m just telling my story.
In that period, the pain wasn’t the hardest part. It was always the emotions associated with the pain. I found myself talking more about it a lot as I tried to process how to live this way. And well-meaning Christian people began to tell me to, you know, talk about it less. I’m not sure honestly if they felt it would help me trust more in God or if maybe it made them uncomfortable in their own faith. But I began to learn that Christians don’t like it when you say your life is hard.
There were some who tried to help. They meant well. I remember when someone tried to make a meal train to help me not have to prepare meals every night. And the second time someone was supposed to bring me a meal I think they forgot. Anyway, I spent a lot of the night waiting for them to come. When I finally realized they weren’t, I think I ate some potato chips and went to bed.
Then there was the time I asked some people over. I didn’t know they had other plans, so they didn’t have to come over. But they did. Anyway, I was a downer and talked a lot about how hard things were and I started crying. Well, it was time for them to leave. They walked out the door as I was crying. I think they felt bad because they turned around and came back to pray with me. But they did have to go. I know that. But they left me there sobbing on the floor. I cried for a long time that night.
There’s a line in a Rich Mullins’s song about Gethsemane. It says, “When you were barely holding on, did your friends fall asleep? Don’t see the blood that is running in your sweat. Will those who mourn be left uncomforted?” And every time I hear that song I thing about that night.
This morning I was reading about Gethsemane. I read about what doctors believe could have happened when blood ran in His sweat. The process is called hematohidrosisand is always the result of intense stress and fear. The author I was reading (KJ Ramsey in her book “The Lord is My Courage”) was discussing how sometimes Christians read the passages that say “Do not be afraid” to mean “Do not be human”. But our God was human. He was so human that experienced one of the most intense experiences of stress a human can feel. That night in Gethsemane He wrestled with His own fear.
Gethsemane comforts me. It reminds me of Hebrew 4:15. “We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses.”
In that season of my life when my pain and depression and isolation were so intense, my God understood. He knew my weakness and my struggle.
Honestly, my pain is worse now. I do more physically in more pain and with more symptoms than I did in my early 20’s. But I feel less isolated. I know more about how to bring my depression to the foot of the cross. It’s easier to bear the pain when the emotions surrounding the pain are easier to bear. But today as thing after thing kept reminding me of Christ in the Garden, I remembered that season of my life, and I especially remembered that night of tears and I am thankful for a God who didn’t leave me there. He did not chastise me for lack of faith. He didn’t tell me that my pain made him uncomfortable and ask me to talk about it less. Instead, He knelt on that floor and He wept with me.
Pain itself is isolating.
Even when people who care about me check in, even with a loving husband who goes out of his way to make things easier for me, the pain can make me feel alone.
It feels like a barrier between me and the world, and trying to express to others what that barrier feels like feels like complaining.
I read once that for others your pain grows old. “Did you say that yesterday? Yes, I know it hurts.” But for you it’s always new.
One of the things that is hardest for me to describe is the difficulty of working in this pain. Those minutes before the alarm goes off, as I lay there taking mental inventory of every muscle that is screaming at me, and I think “I can’t do it again. I can’t make myself get up.” But the alarm goes off, and I do. And it doesn’t feel heroic. It just feels hard. The mental fog of pain in the morning as I try to get the kids and myself out the door with all our lunches and computer cords and important signed notes for the teacher and the violin, to remember to put the crock pot on so we will have dinner, and how often I forget something. The moments after I drop the kids off and there is that short drive without them and I try to think through the day and sometimes I just cry.
Then there’s my planning period. I finally make it through most of the day and I can finally sit down. I have papers to grade and personal phone calls to make (usually to my doctor), and all I can do is just sit for the 49 minutes and try not to think about the pain or the fatigue or the nausea or the whatever symptom has popped up today.
Telling you these experiences feels wrong. It feels like complaining. It feels like asking for your pity. But how can I let others behind the barrier of pain if I don’t describe it? It’s not complaining to state where you are in life.
It’s hard to get up every morning despite how much pain I am in and get ready for work. It’s hard to focus on staff meetings in pain. It’s hard to walk around the building when my right leg is hurting so bad. It’s hard to deal with difficult students when my body is so fatigued, I am barely standing up. It’s hard to teach a lesson when I just threw up between classes. It’s hard to say no to every single activity in the evenings of my work week because I know I have to go to work the next morning and I don’t have enough “spoons” for that. It’s hard explaining why I can’t do those things.
I love the Lord. I see His goodness in my life. I know He has brought me through things I never imagined I could survive. I feel His peace even in the midst of the chaos of the pain. I trust Him even when it doesn’t make sense.
Both of those previous paragraphs are true. But sometimes there is a toxic positivity in the church that wants me to get to the second paragraph so fast I’m not allowed to say the first. Lest I be seen as negative and complaining.
Friends, I know the barrier of pain that isolates me. But I may not know the barrier of pain that isolates you. It may be grief or depression. It may be divorce or miscarriage. It may be financial worries. It may be that life hasn’t turned out the way you thought. Whatever barrier of pain that makes you feel alone, I want to know about it. I want to know if there is a way I can get behind that barrier and sit with you in it. If you tell me about it, it’s okay. I still know you trust in God. I still know your faith is strong, even if you say aloud it’s hard.
Pain itself is isolating. Let’s not allow the idea that speaking our struggles aloud is somehow sinful to make it even more so.
Some Thoughts... 