04.07.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 5:35 am by admin
By Jim Rose
God has wired me to look for meaning. I can’t think of a time in my life when it wasn’t so. Some of my earliest recollections of childhood are filled with confusion and shadow as I pondered—unsuccessfully—the meaning of my experiences. My Mom loves to tell how, at four years old, I stood on the sidewalk outside our home holding a love note above my head, waiting to give it to my teenaged babysitter upon whom I had my first romantic crush. She never came by. I was devastated. Why? Over time, the paucity of answers to my existential question left me with only one conclusion: it must be me. The answer to all my unanswered questions; the meaning of all my perplexity; the purpose of all my pain—it must be something about me.
And that was just years old. As I entered my teen years and beyond the questions became more complicated and the emotions more consequential. Is it any wonder I became melancholic, moody, and withdrawn? And when you add God and guilt into the mix it becomes more volatile. It isn’t just that other people reject me; God does too.
I was thinking about this pattern in my life and couldn’t help but consider how different the outcome would be were it not for my obsession with the question, Why? If I didn’t wonder why things happened the way they did; if I didn’t seem bent on finding meaning in even the smallest of details—if there were an answer to every question, how different would my life be?
Yesterday is an example. My wife and I had a minor dispute over some totally unimportant matter. Instead of rolling with it, forgiving and moving on, however, I’ve found myself dwelling, not on the pain but on the reason. Why did she say that? Why did I do what I did? Why, why, why? I guess I’m a modern day Job. He wanted answers too. And his friends were all too quick to give them. But, of course, they didn’t have any more of clue than he did. They just happened to be free of his boils. It’s easier to come up with answers when you aren’t scraping your boils with broken glass.
But, what if I always knew the answers? What if there were never any doubts about the reasons? Because I spend so much of my life obsessively trying to find them, you would think that would make a huge difference in my moods.
Well, I don’t think so. And I’ll tell you why. I already have the answers. I already have the reasons. And it really doesn’t make that much difference. I’m not simply being glib or pious. Every answer to every question is clearly revealed in God’s Word. The answer to every question is abundantly clear. It’s the same answer given to Job and the countless others who’ve asked, Why? You mean, God tells me why my babysitter didn’t walk down the sidewalk that day and pick up my letter? You mean, the Bible tells me why my wife reacted to me yesterday and it quickly escalated into a tense emotional confrontation? Yes, actually. It’s because God has a plan in our lives that He’s working out. He is the reason. And He’s even told me what His plan is: to make me more like His Son: that I might be “conformed into the image” is how Paul puts it (Romans 8:28-32).
Now, doesn’t that feel better? What’s that? I can’t hear you?
Oh, that’s because you’re not saying anything. Maybe just rolling your eyes. Like I just played a practical joke on you or trapped your king in a game of chess.
But this isn’t a rhetorical trick. This really is the issue. All the answers I seek; all the reasons I demand—it’s all revealed. And it’s all pretty simple. The hardship is not the complexity of the answers. It’s the stubbornness of not wanting to hear them. And for that I confess my shame and repent once again.
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03.30.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 5:57 pm by admin
By Jim Rose
I suppose this title sounds rather scandalous—like I’ve been a peeping in someone’s bathroom window. Well, there’s a scandal here for sure but it’s not what you might think. I’ve had to see a reflection in the bathroom mirror recently. Not my own. But the other has been very aware of my presence. It’s my 97 year old father in law who is living with us. And it’s been my unspeakable duty to assist him with his showers for the last several months.
When my wife and I were married 30 years ago, I promised to love and cherish her in sickness and in health, in poverty and wealth, until the death. If you’re married, you made a similar promise. Little did I know what all those words meant at the time. And if you would have told me back then that part of the deal was I would be giving showers to her dad someday I would have considered you daffy. Back then it would have seemed impossible. I mean, he was 67 years old then and could have out wrestled me, out lifted me and out run me I have no doubt.
But time flies, as they say. And it has certainly flown in his case. He has nearly died more than once, but like a Timex watch, he “takes a lickin’ and keeps on ticken.” He’s an amazing survivor.
All that said, it still doesn’t mean he doesn’t need a helping hand. In the shower. And that has been one of the most difficult and undesirable jobs I’ve had to do in a long, long time. It would be indiscreet of me to elaborate on how all this works. So I won’t. Nor do I want to leave the impression that the reason it’s so difficult for me is that he’s some sort of troublemaker (though, as a Depression-Era survivor, he doesn’t take instruction real well and is forever insisting on doing it his way. I have no trouble forgiving him for that!).
Plain and simple, the problem is nakedness. His. For the life of me, I just can’t imagine how doctors and nurses stare at people’s privates all day and not feel somehow dehumanized. I know I do. I feel like I dehumanize him and in some ways I feel dehumanized as well. I heard a male doctor (gynecologist) comment once that it was “just parts” or some such vulgarity. And I guess that proves my point, doesn’t it? When someone’s nakedness is “just parts”, how human is that?
There’s got to be an eternal lesson in all this. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but several things are rolling around in my brain right now.
One of them was brought to my attention when my youngest son (17) knowing the duty to which I was headed, commented, “when you guys can’t give yourself showers, it will definitely be time for the nursing home.” I don’t think he was really serious (I hope not). He was smirking when he said it. But it did give me pause—both for myself and for my father in law. After all, isn’t that what it comes down to? If I wasn’t ready to set aside my inhibition, my pride, my whatever, and give him a shower, we would indeed have to put him in a nursing home. Talk about dehumanizing! Sure, it may be rough on him to have his son in law seeing him naked, and holding him up in the shower so he doesn’t slip and fall, but how much worse a 25 year old nurse. Or half a dozen other nursing home “inmates” waiting their turn in the cattle-shower?
In other words, it could be much worse for him. And for me.
Beyond that, I guess there’s the old reminder in this too that the greatest demonstrations of dignity, respect and love are not the ones that are comfortable and convenient. Love is sometimes comfortable and convenient (though that part may not really be “love” in the strict sense). More often than not, love is the self-sacrificing, self-denying, self-giving action to do something someone else needs even though the giver could list a dozen reasons he’s not the one to do it. Like give an old man a shower.
So, if I needed any incentive to keep up the “good work” (and I need a lot): how about this? It’s probably about the most loving thing I’ve done for someone in a long time. And in that act, I’m nearer to the experience of what God has done for me than 99% of the rest of the time in my life.
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03.12.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 7:45 am by admin
Since beginning in earnest my research on stress and trauma I’ve become much more aware of stress levels in myself. That’s a good thing. To a point.
We certainly need to know when we’re tense so we can take steps to deal with it. However, I noticed a peculiar byproduct of all this self-awareness. When I am sensitized enough to notice the stress margin increasing I also begin to feel more anxious about my rising stress level! I found myself wondering this morning if something is wrong with me that I can’t seem to manage the same amount of workload I did just a few years ago. And with that anxiety about anxiety the problem only gets worse!
I used to pride myself on being an effective multi-tasker. I am still pretty good at it. For years I’ve been able to balance the demands of husband/father/church leader/business owner (actually, two businesses). And still have time to spare. But what I have noted in recent months is that I fixate more than I used to about details. A Jack-of-all-Trades can’t be a perfectionist and stay sane. Multi-taskers have to take short cuts and gloss over some of the particulars. It’s the only way we can do what we do. And over the years I’ve become more conscientious about the integrity of my work; more demanding about the details. I’m not as quick to brush aside a jot or a tittle in the naïve hope that things are “good enough.”
So, here is the question: is this good or not? In the old days I didn’t “sweat the details.” Now I have to put more antiperspirant on. And when my sense is that I am not managing the particulars as well as I should, there is increasing stress. I can hardly find a lot of fault with this. In some ways it’s a matter of personal and professional integrity—not the stress but the attention to details. I’ve learned over the years that if I don’t handle with those particular adequately up front, I will pay for it later. So part of this is wisdom.
But the anxiety part isn’t good. Worry and anxiety are always indications of trying to control things I can’t control. And while it’s great I’m more aware of my limitations (and the consequences of those limits), the answer is not to pour stress-energy into the mix as if that will solve it! The answer is to be more quick to admit my limitations in the planning stage. Admitting limitations may mean doing things I wouldn’t have done a few years ago. A simple (non-threatening) example of where I made this adjustment was in oil changes. In the early years of marriage I always changed my own oil. It’s not that I enjoy such things. It seemed like a financial necessity. Of course, when you have to do something like this on a regular basis it also becomes a source of stress. Sure, I saved a couple dollars. But at some point I realized the couple dollars saved were not worth the added stress. So it’s been years since I changed my own oil.
I think that’s what I have to examine in every area of my life. What things am I doing right now, ostensibly to save a couple bucks or a few minutes of time, that I really should just have someone else do? Yikes. I’m sure the list is long. And even now I feel a certain revolt in my heart about admitting my limitations—like it’s some kind of defeat or failure.
So, what if it is? Well, the very revolt is an evidence of the arrogance and pride within my heart. I want to be able to do everything and anything and I want others to know I can. Oh Father, I confess this newest awareness of my sinful nature to You. It’s certainly not wrong for me to spend my life doing the things You’ve set before me. However, I must be more aware of the reason I find it so hard to say no when it’s really not clear that You’re issued the command. Too many times in my life I’ve tossed the other ball into the juggling-mix simply because it makes me feel better about myself. And for that, Father, I ask You to forgive me.
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03.10.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 5:29 pm by admin
By Jim Rose
Is there ever enough? Will I ever have enough food? (I just went on a diet, so this one sticks out right now). What about attention or affirmation from those who are important to me? Not to mention money. When is enough, enough? Was it one of the Rockefellers who was asked, “how much money is enough?” and he replied, “just a little bit more than I have.” I guess that says it all.
I have been the recipient of so much privilege and blessing over my 53 years. And to think it’s not just the scraps thrown to the dogs under the table (Mark 7:28). But I’ve been seated at the table! And the Host has actually served the tasty morsels to me. I listen in wonder as people look back at their lives with unfettered gratitude and say, “even if the rest of my life is Hell on earth” (though the ones I’m thinking of didn’t put it that way), “I have so much to be thankful for, I will always be content…”
Yeah. Well, that ain’t me. It should be. But I’m certainly not there.
So, I’ve been thinking today about the roots of contentment. What makes some people content and others not? I’m sure gratitude is a part of it. But I think that’s only one piece. That’s the part that looks back and is able to hold in memory specific examples of good things from the past and (perhaps) acknowledge that they were not deserved. They were gifts from (perhaps) a Benificent God.
In order to foster this kind of contentment I should frequently recount the good things: “when upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed, do not be discourage thinking all is lost, count your blessings…” That’s a good practice. And I try to do it, with varying degrees of effectiveness. But maybe the reason it doesn’t always work is that it’s only one part of the equation. It looks back. But contentment requires a certain forward focus as well: related to expectations.
I was reading a book today by Charles Sykes called A Nation of Victims. As the title implies, it’s a sociological analysis of the growing trend toward victimization in our country. Among the many causes, Sykes talks about the changing attitudes about adversity and suffering in our post-modern (post-supernatural) world. Suffering and pain is no longer viewed as something to “work through” but as an opportunity for a law suit. In my professional field of asbestos consulting I’ve studied this upclose. Over the past 20 years of asbestos litigation well over 250 billion dollars has been paid out. Sure, a lot of those were people who were truly suffering. But a lot more went to people who “might” suffer, “someday” because they worked around the nasty stuff.
Why the difference? It’s partly related to expectations. A hundred years ago it was expected that life was filled with adversity. But it was also expected that you could get through it some how (“this too shall pass…”). More and more people are imagining that they can live a life with no hardship, no sickness, no adversity. If they just play their cards right (or roll the dice—whatever). Then, when things don’t work out like we thought, we feel cheated. No wonder we live in a such a litigious society.
What about me? On the surface, I would not subscribe to this kind of thinking. Yet I suspect it’s crept into my subconscious in a multitude of ways. I too expect that all problems can be fixed or managed; that all pains can be medicated (with herbal and nutritional solutions the first choice!). And, if all else fails, I can pray and ask God to take care of it. And then…
Oh yeah. He doesn’t always (ever?) do things exactly like I expect. No wonder He’s often my last resort. If I were Abraham being asked to sacrifice my only son, I’d probably come up with a dozen viable options before trudging up to Moriah. Why? Because I would still be expecting things to work out. But God has another agenda. He wants me to expect Him.
That’s what I mean by God being “enough.” I used to hear that phrase and think it meant that God is big enough to solve a problem or smart enough to figure out a solution, no matter how complicated or confusing. But I’m realizing that misses the mark completely. All those solutions and fixes are secondary to His primary purpose: Him.
Is there any doubt that, when we finally get to Mount Moriah God will provide for Himself a lamb for the sacrifice? In theory, no. There is no doubt. In fact, no. There is no doubt. In feeling, well, I’m hedging. And that’s the problem, right there. I’m too quick to hedge my bets. And if I can hold out just a little longer with my upraised knife, maybe, just maybe, I’ll think of another way. For years I assumed that Abraham had to obey in order for God to stop Him. Well, that’s true to a point. But that’s not all of it. Abraham didn’t just have to perform some act of obedience. He had to “know.” He had to come face to face with God in a more profound way than he had before. And that is what I need as well. We know that happened to Abraham because at the end of the experience he learned a new name for God: YAHWEH YIREH—the LORD Provides. That wasn’t just a clever theological exercise for Abraham. It took his knowledge of God to a whole new level. And at that level he found he could answer the question: Is there ever enough? Yes. There was. God was enough. God was all he needed.
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01.19.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 2:43 pm by admin
The Rock that is Higher...
By Jim Rose
Here my cry O God, attend to my prayer;
From the ends of the earth will I cry to Thee;
And when my heart is overwhelmed,
Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I;
For Thou hast been a shelter unto me;
And a Strong Tower from the Enemy… (Psalm 63)
My friend Tom and I used to sing those verses as a Scripture chorus many years ago. I always liked the moody, plaintive sound of the melody. And of course, who cannot love the words! But it’s only been in recent days I’ve really appreciated what the words are saying. The short version is: when we’re in trouble, we need to find a place of safety. Only then can we feel secure. The long answer is what goes on in our bodies when we’re threatened; and even longer, what God is up to in our lives when He plans times of trouble for our good.
At the base of my brain is a tiny gland called the Reticular Formation. It has several neural connections to many other parts of the brain, but one in particular is the Thalamus. I like to call the Reticular Formation the smoke alarm of the body. It goes off when there’s danger. The Thalamus is where those first data warnings go. The Thalamus interprets the alarm signal from the Reticular Formation in very simple terms: is this going to be painful or pleasant? At that point, other brain systems are activated and corresponding responses are set into motion.
When the psalmist found himself in trouble—“from the ends of the earth”—his Reticular Formation noted the change of circumstances, sounded the alarm bells, and alerted his Thalamus. Evidently, his Thalamus made the determination that this alarm was a threat; that it was painful: “hear my cry…”; “my heart is overwhelmed…” There was an intense feeling of danger. And when we feel that kind of threat the most important thing we can do is find a safe place: “lead me to the Rock that is higher than I.”
This is nothing new to you, I’m sure. But what is new to me is the practicality of this. It’s not just some theological concept or poetic imagery. It’s a working solution to a very real situation. When we’re in danger we need to run for cover.
Today I had opportunity to put this into practice. The situation may sound trivial to you. That’s ok. My pain is not yours and yours is not mine. So I don’t mind if you find yourself saying, “that’s nothing! Now, my pain, on the other hand…”
The threat came to my wallet. Yesterday it was “only” a hundred-twenty bucks. A new battery for one of my vehicles—in addition to the added stress of trying to manage our complicated transportation issues without that vehicle for a day. I handled that one pretty well, if I do say so myself. I was just a little upset about it (I hate spending money on car problems). So, God said, “Hmm. I guess that wasn’t enough. Let’s try that again.” Today, I went out to start the other car and knew immediately that something was seriously wrong. It started but made a dreadful sound. I won’t bore you with the technicalities. Suffice to say it was broken. I thought it was probably a water pump—maybe a couple hundred bucks; an amount that made me suck in a deep breath and say, “Oh well…”
But after dancing around trying to reshuffle the transportation with all the kids, getting it in to be checked by the mechanic, the news was much worse than I thought. How about $1100?
And God saw that it was good. And I cried out to God. From the ends of my little earth I cried out to Him. And my heart was overwhelmed…
But then something amazing happened. I actually remembered that phrase, “lead me to the rock that is higher than I.” And I instantly saw what needed to happen. I was under threat (actually, my credit card). The one thing I needed most of all was the Rock. And I don’t mean Prudential Insurance! (bad joke, old commercial).
I found myself crying out for God to be that Rock. Right there, in my car (the one with the new battery) I said, “God I need to feel safe and protected right now.” And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it wasn’t I who was in danger at all. It was my pocketbook. And as much as I still hated paying out all that money, I was able to see it differently from the way I’ve viewed such things in the past. I wasn’t afraid.
Like I said, this is a rather trivial example. I’ve had much more serious tests of the principle. But I hope the simplicity of the situation helps you appreciate how it works—no matter how severe the test.
In psycho-social terms, it’s all about attachment to a secure figure. The psalmist understood that he needed a secure attachment figure—the Rock that was higher than he. And in that moment of threat he made the all important move: detachment-attachment. He detached from the threat (whatever enemy was after him) and attached to God. This may not sound very practical. But it is. Infinitely so. If we have ears to hear.
Strong towers and high rocks are dated symbols that do little in our cultural imagination to create images of security and protection. Maybe that’s one of the reasons these familiar verses haven’t ever struck me like they did today. Maybe it would be more poignant to talk about God as my “armored car” or my “bomb shelter.” But even those concepts miss the mark. For each person and each danger is unique. Today, God was my “bank account” from the enemy. Next time He may be my “hospital bed.” But in any case, He is all I really need. And the sooner I consciously “detach” from the insecure object or threat and attach to Him, the sooner I will feel secure.
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01.15.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 7:01 pm by admin
By Jim Rose
I realized today how deeply rooted self-pity lies in me. It’s like one of those vines that my son has growing in his back yard. You keep cutting more and more off, thinking you’ve got it all, only to find it’s also growing under ground. And seems to go on and on. I’ve known for years that I have this tendency. It shows up in a variety of ways: “poor me” feelings, victimization, defensiveness. But it’s all from the same nasty root.
So, what exactly is the root? It’s really pride. Of course, it doesn’t feel like pride. Especially when I’m in the throes of it. Pride feels like I’m strong and invincible. Pride feels like I’m getting what I deserve. Self-pity? Obviously it feels very different. And it’s thought-patterns are different as well. But I’m here to say, it’s all from the same pernicious vine.
In years past I used to feel sorry for myself because I didn’t have enough money. I remember vividly watching Swiss Family Robinson with my wife many years ago. And when they get to the part where the Dad (Mr. Robinson, I presume) builds a fabulous tree house for his family and takes his wife on a tour of their penthouse bedroom in the top of the tree, I was filled with mourning. You see, we didn’t have our own home in those days. We rented. And on the little money I made it seemed like we would never have enough (”never” is a favorite word for us victims). I started crying. My wife wondered what was wrong. And I blubbered that I wanted nothing more than to give her a home of her own. I really meant it.
It wasn’t long and we had our own place. And since that evening we’ve had several. And they keep getting better. I’m not going to list all my episodes of self-pity–I’d have to buy more bandwidth. But I will say that everything I ever used to complain about in those days or yore–no money, no jobs, no house, yada yada yada–I have been the recipient of them and more in recent years. And so now, I never feel self-pity because I realize how much I have to be thankful for–well, er, ah, I guess that’s a lie. Not the “how much I have to be thankful for” part, but the part about never feeling self-pity.
These days, I’m more likely to feel like a victim of my success (amazing how that happens). Just today I was groaning and grumbling about how busy I am; about how I made so much money last year I have to figure out how to deal with the additional income taxes; and how I have this huge property and house that requires so much upkeep–how am I supposed to handle all this?
Gag. What’s worse is, when I’m throwing my pity-party I feel so sad, so empty, so unsatisfied I can’t even appreciate all the good things. And, if you asked me if I feel proud of myself I’d tell you emphatically–No! I feel terrible about myself.
But here’s the dirty little secret. It’s still pride. It’s thoughts and feelings that say, “I deserve better than what I have.”
I just looked up self-pity on Wikipedia. I found this incredible statement.
Boasting says, “I deserve admiration because I have achieved so much.” Self-pity says, “I deserve admiration because I have sacrificed so much.” Boasting is the voice of pride in the heart of the strong. Self-pity is the voice of pride in the heart of the weak. Boasting sounds self-sufficient. Self-pity sounds self-sacrificing.
That’s heady stuff! Boasting and self-pity are two sides of the same coin. Pride says, “I deserve admiration.” The boasting or self-pity are merely the disguise it wears. The same article goes on to say:
The reason self-pity does not look like pride is that it appears to be needy. But the need arises from a wounded ego, and the desire of the self-pitying is not really for others to see them as helpless, but as heroes. The need self-pity feels does not come from a sense of unworthiness, but from a sense of unrecognized worthiness. It is the response of unapplauded pride.
I was so taken by this observation I tried to find out who wrote it. As near as I can tell, it’s actually from my old Buddy, John Piper! (at least the foot notes reference him).
Beyond the pleasure of finding a great quote and concept, I am moved to confess my sin of self-pity in a new way right now. Not just to ask God to forgive me for being such a miserable failure (”poor me”). Actually, I am confessing my pride and my desire for admiration.
Father, thanks for showing me this about myself. I already saw the self-pity. I knew it was wrong. But now I know even better why. And I know that it isn’t I who deserves admiration. It is You!
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01.03.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 3:22 pm by admin
Jim Rose
When we took our PFC Marine to the airport Saturday morning (at 3 AM, no one should ever be driving at that hour) after his two weeks of Christmas liberty, I was expecting it to be a dreadful, somber drive. Chances are, he’ll be going to Afghanistan in the next six months. The anticipation of that scenario is almost more than I can imagine. So, I had been dreading this drive for the entire two weeks of his being here! Visions of WWII era photos of dads crying as they put their boys on the bus have been branded into my brain cells. And those pathetic scenes of the same boys returning with no arms and legs (or in a flag-draped box) didn’t help. I purposed in my heart to shove such macabre imaginations out of my mind this past two weeks. Why allow such things to crowd out the good experiences of being together? Well, I did push them aside. But they were still in the background, no matter how hard I tried not to think about them (okay, here’s an experiment: don’t think about a purple elephant dressed in a tutu dancing playfully? How’d that work out for you?). It seems that when I try really hard not to think about something, it makes things even worse…
So, all that was in the background Saturday morning at o’dark:thirty. Oh, there was one other thing. I should mention the night before. The crushing realization of his departure could be compartmentalized no longer. I knew that within a few hours we would be at the dreaded moment. No more happy moments between now and then. And “in despair, I bowed my head; there is no peace on earth, I said…” As I prepared for what I expected would be a fitful few hours of sleep, I got on my knees beside my bed and cried. “Oh God. I have nothing else to say. I just feel so, so weak and lonely right now. Please. Help me!”
I won’t tell you I instantly felt peace and slept like a baby. Actually, my sleep was crowded with bizarre dreams in which the son played a main, but confusing part.
Then the waking hour arrived.
But that’s where things were so much different from what I expected. It was certainly hard to see him going. I won’t glamorize the moment. And when we finally got to the busy airport, stopping by the curb to let him go, there was a long and clutching embrace. A few tears. A whispered, “I love you.” And then, hurry back into the car. Because you can’t park long by the curb. And then we were back on the road. For the long drive home.
But all the imagined anticipation of horrendous despair; all the gut-wrenching sadness and tears I had assumed I would feel; the broken father watching pathetically as his warrior walked away “never to be the same”—it didn’t play out that way. In fact, what rather happened was something totally unexpected. Peace.
In Philippians, Paul said we should be “anxious for nothing but in everything by prayer, and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God; and the peace that passes understanding shall guard your heart and mind in Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:4-6). I like to read that “the peace that doesn’t make any sense.” I got a little taste of that kind of crazy-peace Saturday morning. In fact, by the time we returned to the garage (just barely dawn), I was feeling “as light as a feather.”
From a biological point of view, I understand some of what was going on. For two weeks the dreaded moment had been building. Even though I was purposely putting it out of my conscious awareness, other parts of me knew it. Like a gathering storm just beyond the mountain, I could hear the distant thunder even though the clouds were still out of view. And during that two weeks of anticipation, the level of stress and anxiety continued to build. Finally, when the moment was past (and it wasn’t as “bad” as I thought), the coiled spring of stress began to unwind; the level of pressure dispersed. And my body reacted: “whew…”
But that wasn’t all. That may explain some of the physiology. But it doesn’t explain the meaning. The fact is, God met me. The coiled spring was unwinding. But God’s hand was doing it. The pressure valve was being opened. But again, it was God who turned it.
And I believe the measure of peace I experienced was in direct correlation to the degree of desperation I felt. God met me: not in the morning, but the night before. It just took me a while to realize what happened.
I know this scene will play out again and again. In a few months, we’ll be making a similar trek with another son—this one joining the Marine Corp and heading off to boot camp. I know a few months after that, we’ll be taking a daughter to college and leaving her in the big-bad-city all by herself. I know that there may be unexpected experiences of sadness or loss between now and then. But I pray, O God in Heaven I Pray, that I will never forget this moment: the crazy-peace; the peace that doesn’t make sense. It’s nonetheless real. And it’s as close as a cry for help.
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12.23.09
Posted in Uncategorized at 6:19 am by admin
By this time in the Christmas season (December 22, I’m writing this) we’ve all heard Elvis’ rendition of Blue Christmas way too many times (you gotta wonder why we keep hearing the same songs over and over). You remember how it goes:
I’ll have a blue, blue Christmas without you I’ll be so blue thinking about you
Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree
Won’t mean a thing if you’re not here with me
I’ll have a blue Christmas that’s certain
And when those blue, blue heartaches start hurtin’
You’ll be doing alright with your Christmas of white but I’ll have a blue, blue Christmas
As with most pop songs about Christmas, this one is woefully deficient in the theological department. It is typically focused on self. There’s nothing in it about the real “reason for the season.” It’s an easy target for a theologian to shoot at.
But if I am honest, I’ll have to admit I’ve had my share of blue Christmases. In fact, I have had more blue than green ones. And they’ve had little to do with “you’re not here with me”-type stuff. Though last year I blamed my blue Christmas on that (my son had newly entered the Marines and I missed him terribly), typically there have been no obvious circumstances to which I could point. So for me, it’s not “I’ll have a blue, blue Christmas without you.” It doesn’t matter whether you’re here or not. I still may be blue.
Why is that? There’s usually something that doesn’t seem right at the time. When I was a kid, it was the proverbial gift-wish that got forgotten. In those days, I assumed if I just got that particular present I would have been so much happier. As I grew older, and my gift-wish list shrunk, I realized the gifts had little to do with it. I usually managed to find (or create) some relational conflict to explain it away–like a ghost from Christmas past coming out of the memory closet to haunt me.
Yet, even in years when all was well in the relational department, I still battle the blues.
I think it was a couple years ago it dawned on me why on holidays I’m extra vulnerable to dysthymia and melancholy. It actually helped to analyze popular Christmas tunes because they embody so many mistaken ideals about Christmas. Here are three memorable phrases in the song Sleigh Ride that illustrate why we are so prone to a blue Christmas:
• I want a Christmas by Currier and Ives
It’ll nearly be like a picture print
by Currier and Ives;
These wonderful things are the things
we remember all through our lives!
For generations, the popular scenes by Currier and Ives were part of Christmas celebrations all around the country. I remember the ones my Grandma had on special Christmas plates. According to Sleigh Ride, the ideal Christmas is like the scenes on those plates. “These wonderful things are the things we remember all through our lives.” Talk about idealistic!
I confess to being gushingly idealistic, especially on holidays. Or at least, I used to be. Now I tend toward cynicism (that often happens to us idealists). Songs like Sleigh Ride, and prints by Currier and Ives, set up impossible expectations for a “perfect Christmas” that we will remember all through our lives.
Yet the reality is so different. People are hysterically obsessed with the trappings of Christmas. So much time and money is spent on gifts and decorations trying to make it perfect. Radio waves overflow with Christmas songs prodding us to find the perfect combination of experiences. And we’re told that it’s the “happ-happiest season of all…”
Of course, all this is terribly self-absorbed. It’s all about us. And that’s one of the reasons Christmas is so disappointing. In no other arena is the law of diminishing returns so apparent: the more time, energy and money we spend on ourselves, the less satisfying and happy we are. If we really want an ideal Christmas it would be one where the focus was more on the happiness of others than ourselves. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a “merry” Christmas. But it’s the way we get it that counts. I spend way too much time focusing on what will make me merry. It really isn’t about me at all. But more than that, it’s that desire for perfection; that idealism. “If we just get it right, Christmas will be perfect.”
• I Want the Chocolate and the Pumpkin Pie
There’s a happy feeling
nothing in the world can buy,
When they pass around the chocolate
and the pumpkin pie…
I realized last year how this is another part of my problem. I’m not fat. I’m not terribly overweight (it wouldn’t hurt me to lose five pounds. But that’s another story). My blood sugar and cholesterol are within normal range. I’m actually in pretty decent physical shape.
Even so, I’ve been realizing more than ever how metabolism affects my frame of mind. In traditional celebrations food is a big part of the holidays. And, if the song is to be believed, “there’s a happy feeling nothing in the world can buy” when we eat it. I’m not a food-cop by any stretch. But let’s be real here! Both chocolate and pumpkin pie? We’re talking lots of sweets. We’re also talking fats, carbs, extra caffeine (newer versions of Sleigh Ride substitute “coffee” for “chocolate”). Combine this with the change of routine, lack of sunlight (most Americans are Vitamin D deficient) and little physical exercise and it’s a perfect scenario for chemical imbalance. And food represents much more than what tastes good. It’s part of the expectation and part of the memory.
At least for me, “the happy feeling nothing in the world can buy” is pretty short-lived. After the sugar buzz and the caffeine rush, I usually crash and my mood gets dark. And if this keeps up for several days before and after Christmas, is it any wonder my Christmas is blue?
Does this mean I’m going to lay off the Christmas cookies and the lattes this year? Probably not totally. But I am definitely cutting down and trying to balance my intake of bad stuff with good stuff. I’m also trying to get more exercise.
• I Want a Perfect Ending to a Perfect Day
There’s a birthday party
at the home of Farmer Gray,
It’ll be the perfect ending a perfect day;
We’ll be singing the songs
we love to sing without a single stop,
At the fireplace while we watch
the chestnuts pop. Pop! pop! pop!
Who wouldn’t want a perfect ending to a perfect day? I know I do. And in this song that perfect ending is described as a birthday party with singing and a crackling fire, watching chestnuts pop, pop, pop. If there are any lines from the song that approach the real essence of a merry Christmas it would be these: time with friends and loved ones, singing together. There is nothing wrong with that. Even so, you can’t “sing without a single stop.” The party has to end sometime. And often, for us idealists, that realization causes its own sadness.
I mentioned above that last year’s Christmas was marked by the sadness of an absent son—far away serving his country in the armed services. Well, this year, he was able to spend with us. That’s been a wonderful gift.
But you know what? I’ve been fighting a secret battle since he got home: knowing that in a couple weeks we have to put him back on a plane and send him back—most likely this time into armed conflict. Perfect end to a perfect day? How can it be perfect when we have to say good-bye at the end?
All this makes me appreciate even more the idea of the “perfect day” I really want. I long for a day when there is no more parting; no long farewells; no anxieties about the future. This reminds me of another song. It isn’t a Christmas carol, but it does describe well the longing for a perfect day:
No more night. No more pain.
No more tears. Never crying
again. And praises to the great “I
AM.” We will live in the light of
the risen Lamb.
See over there, there’s a mansion,
oh that’s prepared just for me,
where I will live with my Savior eternally.
No more night. No more pain.
No more tears. Never crying
again. And praises to the great “I
AM.” We will live in the light of
the risen Lamb.
This is really what I want. And it’s not too much of a reach to state that my Christmas (and other) blues result from this homesickness in my soul. But here’s the good news: the more I focus on that hope, the less the Christmas blues can hold on to me. And that, is a very special reason to be merry this year!
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12.09.09
Posted in Uncategorized at 4:55 pm by admin
By Jim Rose
We all know the old song, “sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me.” You’ve probably also heard it said that this is patently false; that words are some of the most hurtful things in our world. That is certainly my experience. I’ve rarely been hurt by some physical object. I’ve had a few bumps and scrapes. I even got into a couple of fights in grade school (and ended up on the losing end of the fisticuffs).
But I’m wondering tonight why words hurt so much? I’ve been hurt more often by words than I could ever count.
It has to be because we’re expecting something different from people. It isn’t the words that do the harm as much as the contrast between our expectations and the realities. And what we really expect is to be treated with dignity, respect, deference, even wonder. We want people to speak to and about us in such a way that we feel better about ourselves. As a result, the more stock we place in the opinion of the other (in other words, the higher the expectations in the relationship), the more vulnerable to the pain of disappointment. Far and away, the most injurious words are not those of strangers but friends; not the neighbor across the street as much as the family member in the next room. This doesn’t mean the stranger’s or neighbor’s hurtful words do nothing to us. But their impact is considerably less than those to whom we are closest.
I’ve observed in my reaction to hurtful words a particular pattern. Since I’m not by nature an outspoken confronter, when I feel the sting of some linguistic bullet, my typical response is to go off and nurse my wounds in silence. I don’t verbally fight back very often (I didn’t say “never.” There are a few people with whom I’ll go toe-to-toe). But it doesn’t mean I’m ok. Nor does it mean I’m not fighting back—in a passive sort of way.
It’s all about defenses. The aggressive, confronter, when attacked goes on the offensive: fighting fire with fire. The combative words are the defense. They are like a shield thrown up to protect against further attack. What about me? I’m still trying to defend myself. I just do it by retreating. I’m not saying that my way is better. It may be worse in some respects. I’m just trying to map out the pattern.
But here’s my point: the hurt comes because the words—whether intended or not—don’t do what I want. Instead of building me up and making me feel better about myself, they demean me and make me feel worse. Yet, this makes me wonder even more: why do they hurt? Why should it matter whether someone—even someone close to my heart—uses language in this way? Obviously, it matters because we expect more of the relationship than what we got.
I’m reminded of Psalm 55:
12 If an enemy were insulting me, I could endure it;
if a foe were raising himself against me, I could hide from him.
13 But it is you, a man like myself, my companion, my close friend,
14 with whom I once enjoyed sweet fellowship as we walked with the throng at the house of God.
This is the real pain: it’s not the words as much as the breakdown of the relationship—especially of the expectations we have of others. The psalmist recalled fondly the days they went to worship together, walking in “sweet fellowship.” He muses that if it were one of his enemies being hurtful he could endure it. But this was unbearable.
Some of this is probably inevitable. We cannot have a meaningful relationship devoid of pain or threats of pain. As C.S. Lewis said, “to love at all is to be vulnerable.”
Even so, how we handle the pain says a lot about the maturity of our hearts. If we work through the injury and move beyond it, it’s one thing. Tragically, we often get stuck in a rut of self-pity and bitterness, especially against those close to us who say hurtful things.
What should we do? What’s the better way?
First of all, I think we have to admit that words are weapons. James said that the “tongue is a little member but it boasts great things…setting on fire the course of nature and is set on fire by Hell” (James 3). So, we can’t minimize the destructive potential of hurtful words. Nor can we overestimate our ability to control them in our relationships.
Secondly, God has designed us to protect ourselves when under some threat of attack. It’s the natural—call it automatic if you want—reaction. We can learn different ways of doing it. But my point here is that seeking shelter in the storm is perfectly normal and actually unavoidable for finite creatures.
Thirdly, some defenses are better than others. Again, I’m sure no one would disagree with this statement on the surface. It’s obvious. If a friend says something hurtful and I start demeaning them, calling them names, dragging out past disappointments—it’s going to destroy or at least damage the future of the relationship, creating more mistrust and leaving scars on the heart of the other person. Thus, the old “count to ten” strategy our parents taught us: “take a deep breath and count to ten before you say anything.” The idea is, you won’t be as inclined to say something you’ll regret later.
Well, maybe this could be part of a larger strategy. But it’s totally inadequate by itself. What we need in the moment of injury is two things: we need to have a defense from future attack and we need comfort or healing from the wounds already experienced.
My Shield and My Defense
I could be the toughest guy around and my defenses are still vulnerable. None of us has the ability to defend ourselves adequately from all the hurts and injuries possible. That’s why we need someone else to be our shield and defense—someone who has limitless strength and power. The psalmist understood that. That’s why he so often cried out to God as his defender and his shield:
1 Blessed be the LORD my Rock,
Who trains my hands for war,
And my fingers for battle—
2My lovingkindness and my fortress,
My high tower and my deliverer,
My shield and the One in whom I take refuge,
Who subdues my people under me (Ps 144).
If I don’t acknowledge and actively pursue a place of safety and defense against the weaponized words, I’m at risk for permanent injury! If I foolishly assume “it’s no big deal. I can handle it” I’m also on the wrong track.
There is only one way I can access this kind of defense capability in a moment of attack: I have to cry for help.
My Comfort and My Peace
I’ve been pretty good in the past at doing the above. I should say, to the extent I have sought God as my shield and defense for past injuries, I’ve found a certain degree of safety. I’m hedging on this one, however, because I realized recently that I’ve still been missing something. When the hurtful words are hurled, I not only need to run for safety. I also need a medic. I’m wounded. I need healing in my heart. And what often happens is, when I don’t take the time to seek the healing balm, I bump along for quite some time in my injured state until the pain gets the best of me and I start trying to be my own shield and defender again. This time, I’m more aggressive—often employing a passive-aggressive strategy of over-reacting to one thing based on previous things totally unrelated.
So, what I really need, in addition to a place of safety, is a place of healing. And, specifically, what will heal me most readily is the right kinds of words. It was words that injured me in the first place. It’s words that will bring comfort and peace to my heart.
Recently, after some stinging words left me bruised and bleeding, I cried out to God for help. I prayed that God would give me grace to release the person from threats of future revenge (my definition of forgiveness). But I still hurt. It was then some words from Psalm 139 popped into my head:
“O Lord, You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up….”
And so? That’s what I began to say to myself. Not to sound sacrilegious, but so what? I know that. And I can tell you a dozen theological truths about God’s omniscience, etc. But all of a sudden, that word “known” touched something deep in my hurting soul. I realized that the opposite of being known by someone is being ignored by them. How tragic to be the man by the road in the parable, bleeding and crying for help, and being ignored by the Levite and the Pharisee! They treated him like he was invisible. He wasn’t “known” by them.
But David said, God doesn’t ignore us. Even though He knows everything about us, He remains intimately connected and attentive to us—no matter what condition we find ourselves. That awareness that God notices me; that He pays attention to my hurts, brought enormous comfort.
In contrast, I’m reminded of a few times years ago when my kids were little. Someone might scrape a knee or get a little sliver. You’d think the end of the world had come! Rather than “search and know” the injury and listen patiently to the cry, I ignored them or shushed them up (I’m ashamed to admit this). But God doesn’t do that. He doesn’t do like the frustrated parent of a toddler I saw in the grocery store when the kid is throwing a temper tantrum on the floor. He doesn’t pretend not to notice. He doesn’t walk away. I’m not denying that sometimes His “comforts” don’t seem comfortable at the time—“whom the Lord loves He chastens…” But God never ignores His children. And in that attention, there is the ultimate solution for my misery and my hurt. What I’m really seeking in my relationships is to be known and acknowledged; to have others notice me and care enough about me to pay attention to what’s going on in my life. The reason the words of others so often leave me injured is that they aren’t doing this. The reason God’s Words can heal my soul is that they do.
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12.02.09
Posted in Uncategorized at 5:28 pm by admin
By Jim Rose
I’ve never been ashamed to cry like some men. It doesn’t bother me to wipe my eyes after a tear-jerking movie. Even so, I don’t cry very often. For me, it’s not because I’m ashamed. It’s more that I become too hard.
I am thankful my Mom never used the old line on me, “Big boys don’t cry” to shush me up when I was a whiney toddler. But she didn’t have to. The sentiment was all around me. Men are typically uncomfortable with vulnerable emotions like crying. So, even though we wouldn’t try and defend it as a proposition, we live that way: big boys don’t cry.
The other night I was unable to sleep. There’s been a lot of stress in our home recently. My wife’s father came to live with us after a serious fall. She’s bearing up under the added responsibility really well. But seeing her take it on the chin without complaining and with a cheerful heart was really getting to me. I was taking up an offense for her that she didn’t even take up herself. I will admit to being perturbed with God for the timing of this whole thing—the upcoming holidays, kids coming home from distant places, an already busy schedule. I will also admit I was having some conversation with Him about it. That was also keeping me awake.
After a couple hours of this, I got up to walk around the house, hoping the change of scenery would help me settle down. My wife heard me. She too got up, asked me what was wrong. It was shortly after that the dam of my heart broke and I began to cry—not just a couple tears, but a flood; a sobbing, heaving gusher. I think she was really taken aback by the whole thing at that hour and perhaps wondered why it was I who was crying and not her! But she didn’t censure or judge me. She just pecked me on the cheek and reminded me that God is still good, He knows what He’s doing, and we have much to be thankful for.
I was still weeping when I got back under the covers. But in a different way. And within a few minutes, I slept the rest of the night (what was left of it).
It was when I woke up in the morning I began to reflect on what had happened. There was no question my heart felt lighter. I found it easier to smile. And, as the day progressed, I realized that something had changed in me. Certainly the prayer time in the night was a huge part of that. But I think the tears were just as significant—for three reasons.
Behaviorally
Hans Selye was the “guru” of modern stress science. He developed what is called the General Adaptation Syndrome to explain how biological systems (including humans) react to stress. Stress is like winding up a spring. The more tension on the spring, the more reaction when it pops. At some point, the tension has to be released. Stress management theory is an attempt to somehow control it rather than let it go berserk.
I’ve tried to practice stress management exercises with varying degrees of success: the slow breathing; the vigorous calisthenics; even laughter (when I can manage it). But it dawned on me today that crying is a powerful stress-management tool in my box. From a behavioral standpoint, I believe the weeping did more than emit saline solution from my glands. It relieved stress, not only making it easier for me to get to sleep but to face the next day differently.
Affectively
I said earlier that my heart often grows ‘hard’ during times of stress. This is common for everyone. Not just men. Life doesn’t permit us to have a breakdown every time something goes wrong in the day. It’s not just shame. It’s that we have to “keep on keeping on.” We need to be strong. But strong is often interpreted as unfeeling. It’s one thing to push through the pain. It’s another thing to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
I picture my feelings like the concrete wall of a dam (that’s why I put a picture of the Hoover Dam up there). While it’s effective at keeping the emotions (water) inside, allowing me just to plug away, you can’t just keep loading up the reservoir on the other side of the wall. At some point there has to be a release.
Okay, enough of that metaphor. My point is, deep-rooted tears like I experienced, break down some of the hardness and unfeeling insensitivity that accumulates in my life. C.S. Lewis once warned that to love anything is to be vulnerable. There can be no love without pain. The only alternative is to hide our feelings in a little box (behind concrete in my metaphor). But a box like that soon becomes a casket. And we all know what happens inside caskets.
Tears like I experienced the other night force me to face my own pain instead of shoving it aside.
Crying rips the lid off the box and (hopefully) prevents it from being a casket. Of course there are different kinds of tears. I suppose you could argue that angry tears don’t have nearly the same cleansing effect as broken ones. So, it’s not really the saline emissions we are after as much as the tenderness of heart.
Imagine how this impacts my relationship with God? My heart grows cold and hard toward Him as well. I think it had been increasingly so leading up to my midnight vigil. But it was the brokenness of my heart that permitted God to invade it. Wow. That’s a staggering thought: perhaps the same dam that keeps the emotions in also keeps God out. I’ll have to think about that one for a while…
Cognitively
Finally, there is something that happens to my thinking when I cry. I think of the multitudinous times King David said he cried.
Psalm 77:1 – I cried unto God with my voice, even unto God with my voice and He gave ear to me…
Psalm 30:2 – I cried to God for help, and He healed me…
Psalm 57:2 – I cried to God, Most High…
Of course, he didn’t just cry. He cried to God. If there was ever a tough guy it was David. He was no pansy. A guy who killed lions and bears with his hands was no wimp. He was no weakling; the kind of guy who sits around sucking his thumb in the corner.
But David wept (that reminds me–Jesus did too–John 11:35). In addition to the behavioral and affective benefits, David also experienced the cognitive ones. When he cried out to God, it reminded him of two imperative, essential life lessons: God is God and we are helpless without Him. David understood better than most the implications of his creaturely humanness (read Psalm 139). When he cried out to God in a time of distress, it did something to his thinking, placing front and center in his thoughts the reality of who God is and who he was.
I guess the point is this: big boys do cry. Actually, the “bigger the boy” the “bigger the cry.” That’s a very refreshing truth. So now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go have a good cry.
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