Lifetime movies and lots of questions

I'm sitting here, alone, watching a Lifetime movie on a Sunday evening and feeling not a little envious.

She's beautiful. A not-so-ugly duckling transformed into a gorgeous swan before the movie's end. Shiny, buckets of cliche later, she's come to the realization that she can write her own happy ending. She's also gotten a book published under false pretenses, had a stunningly handsome publishing mogul's son fall in love with her, and had not 16 Cinderella references made.

It's cliche, overplayed, and wonderful.

It's a world where personal resolve and the right shoes can reweave the fabric of your life. Where the right clothes and a can-do attitude are the passkey to Tall, Dark and Handsome. Most of all, everything wraps up neatly and with no unresolved questions.

And tonight I want it badly.

Biscuits and gravy, denim and leather

Her mouth had more gaps than teeth.

She greeted me, smiling, with a "Hey, Darlin', what can I get you?" And, handing me a menu and a silverware set, passed me off into a booth that glittered with decades-old vinyl.

I sat, nearly swallowed in the broken springs and cracked seat, and obediently perused the menu. She took my order and left. 

It's an interesting collection of patrons who collect at a 24-hour diner at five minutes to 10 at night.

Across the restaurant, a weathered blonde woman dressed in head-to-toe denim and leather sat with her back to the door and jukebox. She was a regular, familiar with both the food and the patrons.

The cook wandered out from the kitchen, his formerly white apron tied haphazardly around his waist. Locating the dish bin, he wandered back. 

My waitress came back with a "honey," and a "sugar," left me my black coffee and biscuits and gravy.

She turned, distracted by her sister and brother-in-law coming in, and left me alone.

Texas biscuits and gravy aren't quite the best in the world, but they're close. Combined with strong coffee and a good dose of welcoming, they go a long way toward creating a bit of a haven on a cold Friday night.

I sat there, mopping up the lakes of gravy that pooled in the corners of my plate, and realized I had been missing this sense of grounding. 

New running shoes and old hurts

He nearly had me convinced.

He crouched there, showing off the features of the brand new, ultra technological, medically perfect running shoes. Not only would these shoes make my running stride ideal, they'd also help just about every other bone in my body.

They were also cute.

I sat on the bench, a bit entranced to be honest, trying to let myself be convinced to buy these podiatric wonders. I need to run, right? I need to be healthy while doing it, right? After all, my tolerance for nearly losing it is diminished after a while. Also, he had a South African accent. And that's just cool.

Common sense won out though. I realized one of the most upscale athletic stores in the city was probably not the wisest place to buy footwear. Or really anything.

Once I put my old shoes back on though, I realized my feet hurt. And they hurt bad. There was only a problem, mind you, after they knew what they were missing. Before, fine. After, lots of pain.

I think sometimes my heart and soul are the same way.

I don't see the ways I'm broken and hurting until they sound in sharp relief to a different situation.

Once I feel that something could be better, that healing could come, it's hard to go back to enduring the sting of sharp edges and cracked borders.

I don't have the perspective to really understand the right questions to ask as I process through what's happened this last stretch of life. Unlike the Shoe Manager, I can't tell what's going on or how to heal just by looking. 

What I can do is run hard- broken, painful feet and all- after the One who does know. 

I think He'll be ok with my old tennis shoes.

Running and bananas

Running with terrible allergies and a barely settled stomach after a banana breakfast is a terrible idea.

This morning I woke up seized by an intense desire to get sweaty and healthy. This also was a terrible idea.

Just wanted to put that out there.

My friend and I went running this morning with the plan to go eat afterward. I had a banana for breakfast before leaving, thinking it'd be a good idea to have something in my stomach before heading out. I was proved wrong.

As my muscles were screaming at me to stop this foolishness, while trying to remember when the last time I actually went running was, and my sinuses and stomach were getting  rowdy too. My feet pounded on.

It all came to a terrible head that left me spasming in the grass trying not to completely lose it. My friend watched from a distance. I hope we're still friends.

My body is rebelling against me as it protests the punishment I've put it through. I'm thinking the rest of me is going to be on strike a lot longer though.

Typing with eyes shut...

And so the last chapter of life smacked shut.

Somewhere between a whimper and a bang, that part of life came to a screeching close. It was completely done, coming to a natural end not a moment before it was meant to; and yet it did so with all the grace of a hurtling sofa.

Six hours of driving, 48 ounces of Mountain Dew, a Red Bull and some granola later, I find myself at the beginning of What's Next.

Whatever that means.

As I am not blessed with the gift of clairvoyance, I'm left with a limited number of options.

I can try to guess, which- let's be honest- doesn't have too very great of a track record of proving successful, or try and get some sleep and let Dad worry about it.

This is going to take some time, I think, to bridge this transition.

Six questions: Sixth Question

If you are the God of All Comfort, why aren’t you comforting me?

“Lord, if this is the way you treat your friends, it’s no surprise you have so few.” 

Teresa of Avila

It all depends on what you want comforted.

According to the Webster Dictionary, “comfort” can mean a number of different things, including “to give strength and hope to” and “to ease the grief or trouble of.” The word comes from the Latin, “confortare” meaning, “to strengthen greatly.”

Never once did Jesus promise the kind of fluffy lovelies and nice fabric softener comfort that’s perhaps associated with the word.

And what more shall I say? I do not have time to tell about Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel and the prophets, who through faith conquered kingdoms, administered justice, and gained what was promised; who shut the mouths of lions, quenched the fury of the flames, and escaped the edge of the sword; whose weakness was turned to strength; and who became powerful in battle and routed foreign armies. Women received back their dead, raised to life again. Others were tortured and refused to be released, so that they might gain a better resurrection. Some faced jeers and flogging, while still others were chained and put in prison. They were stoned; they were sawed in two; they were put to death by the sword. They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated—the world was not worthy of them. They wandered in deserts and mountains, and in caves and holes in the ground. (Hebrews 11:32-38)

And these were only those heroes of faith before Jesus came! “These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised. God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect.” (Hebrews 11:39-40) Conservatively speaking, the persecution has increased.

God’s promise is this: that we are his.

“Fears and scruples shake us: in the great hand of God I stand; and thence against the undivulged pretence I fight of treasonous malice.” (Shakespeare)

“See now that I myself am He! There is no god beside me. I put to death and I bring to life, I have wounded and I will heal, and no one can deliver out of my hand.” (Deut. 32:39) “I, even I, am the LORD, and apart from me there is no savior. I have revealed and saved and proclaimed—I, and not some foreign god among you. ‘You are my witnesses,’ declares the LORD, ‘that I am God. Yes, and from ancient days I am he. No one can deliver out of my hand. When I act, who can reverse it?’” (Isaiah 43:11-13)

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” (John 14:1-3)

“In the world they had trouble, but in Christ they had peace.” (Matthew Henry commentary on 2 Cor. 1)

We’re comforted—or strengthened greatly—by God who has given us a name, a purpose and a destiny. He’s rescued us from “the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves.” (Col. 1:13)

There are times in life, however, when a deeper, more painful question emerges. A little afraid to even voice the question, we whisper, “If you’re the God of All Comfort, why aren’t you comforting me?”

American playwright Thornton Wilder wrote a single act play called “The Angel Troubled the Waters.”

Broken, sick and wounded people are gathered around a pool. They wait—some for days—for an angel to come and stir the waters of the pool (From John 5). Tradition has, it is said, that the first into the pool after the angel troubles the waters will be healed.

A newcomer, a doctor, comes today. He prays, “Free me, long-expected love, from this old burden. Since I cannot stay, since I must return into the city, come now, renewal, come, release.” (Thornton Wilder)

Another invalid waiting at the pool tells the newcomer that if he were to be the first, that the cure would be wasted, as he is not as sick as some.

An angel comes—visible only to the doctor—and kneels, finger poised over the water.

The doctor begins to beg, asking that the angel heal him, that he be free from his burden and melancholy. Repeatedly, the angel tells him, “Healing is not for you.”

The doctor asks again, pleading on the basis of the good that he could accomplish if only he were healed. He begs, “Must I drag my shame, prince and singer, all my days more bowed than my neighbor?” (Thornton Wilder)

The angel pauses a moment and answers, “Without your wounds where would your power be? It is your melancholy that makes your low voice tremble into the hearts of men. The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on Earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living. In Love’s service only wounded soldiers can serve. Physician, draw back.” (Thornton Wilder)

Perhaps the last line can be rephrased as, In Christ’s service, only wounded soldiers can serve. We don’t have the wisdom or perspective to see how our continued brokenness—our lack of healing—serves the advances of God’s purpose.

All praise to the God and Father of our Master, Jesus the Messiah! Father of all mercy! God of all healing counsel! He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us. We have plenty of hard times that come from following the Messiah, but no more so than the good times of his healing comfort – we get a full measure of that, too. (MSG 2 Cor. 1:3-5)