God does provide, but I find that He does not often do it in the way I expect or at the times I want. Recently, I was on a hike, and to be honest, I probably didn’t think the process through as well as I should have. I mean, I’ve hiked a lot and already had the basics packed and ready to go. I looked at maps, the trail, and planned out my water supply. I timed out breaks and snacks and made my calls going in so others would know where I was. However, weather changes things and sometimes I forget to check on something as simple as the temperature for the day before I get too far.
That day ended up being hot… really hot. Sure there was a breeze when I was out in the open, but in the midst of the trees or on the side of a hill, no air gets to you. Which means you end up sweating and taking more breaks. More breaks means more water is used up and I ended up needing to use a lot more than I planned on. Unfortunately, it didn’t hit me that this was the case until I was halfway to where I was going to turn around. Halfway there and already the trip was taking twice as long.
So came the point in my journey where I wondered if I needed to turn around. We all have those moments in life and for this adventure mine came about two hours into what was supposed to be a four hour trip – two hours in and I was halfway to my goal for this hike.
Of course, given the situation, the smart thing would have been to stop and come back at a later date. But I already drove a half hour to get there and hiked up the majority of the hills I would face, so I hated to waste all of the sweat and effort I put in. Plus, I knew there were only so many days in the summer when I would even get the opportunity to take a hike. So, I continued, moving my overall estimation to eight hours.
Now whether that was a good or bad decision is hard to say because of the ultimate outcome. I did end up making it to where I wanted to go, but by that point I was rationing my water. Only uphill climbs or a fifteen minute hike would afford me a drink. And food wasn’t appealing, which added into my growing exhaustion. With no calories to burn and rationed water, the trip back was not pleasant.
The whole return journey ended up with me taking about a five minute walk then stopping long enough to calm my heart rate down. It was literally me taking one step, then another, then convincing myself to take another.
I prayed a lot the rest of the way. I prayed for the strength to get back to the car before dark and not twist or break anything in the process. I prayed my water would hold out and I wouldn’t get nauseous or too exhausted to the point I couldn’t continue. The setting of the sun is a real ticking clock and the steady decrease in daylight is a visual that only increases your sense of panic.
But, as I said, God is good.
I knew that before I even got into that situation. I knew He was with me from the start. I just didn’t know how much I was going to see His presence at work in the hours to come. Because He knew exactly where I was the whole time and every time I got to the point I needed to stop for a break or to take a drink I ended up near a patch of ripe berries.
It was amazing to me to see because I wasn’t looking for them as a sign I should stop to rest. They just ended up being at every stop I made on the way back. Blueberries that weren’t in season, yet somehow ended up on the few bushes I sat next to to take a rest. Service berries that had just started to produce small fruits somehow possessed enough I could eat a few handfuls. And the amounts were just right because by the time I finished what was ripe in the area it was enough that I could continue without upsetting my stomach. The fact they were juicy also meant I didn’t have to drink as much water.
At every stop I marveled at how God was showing mercy and grace by providing for that place at that time. It didn’t mean the route became easier. I was still baby-stepping my way back. But the assurance of God’s presence was undeniable.
In the end, the round trip took me the entire day and by the end I was sore, worn-out, and had several blisters. But I was safe and I came out in good spirits because I knew God was the one that got me through. I could not have done it alone. And while that exact situation is an experience I do not really want to repeat, I hope and pray there are many more opportunities that come up where I become aware of how close God is and of how much he really cares, because to see God at work in the way He did that day is a gift I will never forget.
His head pounded like the thunderous beat of a battering ram attempting to break down a stone wall. Above him the world was covered in haze… or a gauze. He raised his hand, but rough fingers stopped him.
“Lie still.”
He tried to think, to remember where he was. Everything was frosted with a thick fog. “Where?”
“Shhh.”
His head would not turn.
“You need to rest.”
A grunt left him as he pulled his hand free then reached for his face.
There was a sigh before a hand covered his eyes.
“Ian.”
Ian. The name caused recognition to bloom in his chest. He was Ian. Or he was Ian. His brow knit fast and hard. He was Ian. That must be his name. It felt right. But something in his mind said that it was not. He was not Ian. He was… Warren.
But he couldn’t be Warren because Warren was his… brother? The thought make his stomach twist. He was Ian and Warren was his older brother. That was what his body told him was true. So, why did his mind say otherwise? Why did the very thought cause his insides to feel like a volcano ready to erupt?
He tried to twist to the side, but his head throbbed so hard he wanted to sob. A choked whimper escaped instead.
“I’m sorry.”
The voice was the same as before, familiar and soothing, an herbal tea for a sore throat. “I was hoping you wouldn’t wake before this was done.” The hand slid from his eyes and a sliver of light peaked through the haze. Then a shadow blocked whatever ambient light filled the space they were in. It was circular in form and blurred around the edges. A face maybe. Someone leaning over him? It was hard to tell for there was a wrap of some sort that surrounded his head. He could feel where the edges of the bandage rubbed against his hair.
“How do you feel?”
He blinked, still trying to discern who spoke to him. In the back of his head the name Ian was offered as identification, but that didn’t seem right. Well, it did and didn’t. His mind told him that the voice belonged to Ian, but his heart bulked at that idea. It didn’t sound like Ian. Besides, if he was Ian then the other person couldn’t be Ian. His thoughts were as thick as an engorged bog. The fact that he was getting two separate messages about who he was did not help his confusion.
“Ian?”
He licked his lips, the voice insisting that he was Ian even as his mind continued to tell him he was Warren. His hand rose to pad at the wrapping.
“Let it be.”
The same fingers as before gripped his and this time he clung to them. They were coarse yet full of strength. It felt like… Warren? But it had to be Ian because he was Warren.
He dropped the hand and pushed the bandages from his eyes. Light burned his retinas even though the face still loomed above blocking most of it out. There was another sigh then the figure pulled back.
He groaned, squinting at the bulbs that hung above in three dim clusters.
“Do you know who you are?”
“Ian.” The word came spewing from his mouth as he tried to sit up. “I mean Warren.”
“Easy.” Arms gripped his shoulders and pressed him back down. “You’re not fully healed yet. You’ll break open the incision if you’re not careful.”
He attempted a nod then stopped. Something happened to him. Had he been injured? No, that wasn’t right. He had been with his brother, Warren… or Ian. Either way, they were waiting for their father to return for… something. He couldn’t quite remember what it was. Everything was still fuzzy but it was getting better. The light wasn’t as harsh and there were answers to his questions on the way, but it still didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right. Things weren’t meshing with what his mind knew and his body felt.
“I don’t remember what happened.” He rolled his head to the side, peering through slits at the figure next to the… bed? Desk? No, it was a table. The surface was not soft enough to be a bed and the room didn’t feel like a home. In fact, it felt damp and smelled musty.
“Where are we?”
The face which now possessed features clear enough to be seen glanced behind him. Short brown hair covered the man’s head and there was no beard or mustache. His eyes when he looked back were dark and full of a sorrow that dwarfed the undercurrent of worry.
“Do you know who you are?”
The question was direct, and for a moment he thought about it. He was Warren. That was what his mind told him was true. But was it?
“I don’t know.” He rubbed the side of head then winced. Just that small amount of pressure sent pain shooting through skull. With a groan he closed his eyes. Even the darkness seemed to spin about him.
“I’m sorry.” The honestly in his words was clear. As was the hope that filled his next few. “Do you know who I am?”
Warren. It was an automatic response that felt right until the name Ian surfaced to contradict it. He bit his lip then exhaled as much of the pain and confusion as he could. Who was this that spoke to him? He stilled his thoughts and tried to breathe out the response. What did he know to be true?
“Warren. You’re name’s Warren.”
A sick feeling bubbled in his gut, his mind instantly telling him that was wrong, that he was Warren, that he spoke to Ian his younger brother, that—
“Yes.”
The single word stilled his thoughts. His eyes cracked open and he glanced at the man next to him. “You’re Warren.”
A wilted smile then a nod. “And you are?”
He focused his thoughts. “Then I must be Ian.”
The smile broadened for a moment then disappeared. “That’s right.”
“I don’t understand what happened. Why am I so confused? Why can’t I remember who I am?” He reached to the side of his head. “Did I fall?”
Warren, for it had to be Warren that stood next to him, looked over his shoulder before responding. “You didn’t fall. Our father…” Once more there was a look over his shoulder. “Our father was conducting an experiment. I don’t know if you remember this but he wanted to see if people could be reprogrammed and if data could be removed and replaced without causing harm or getting diluted.”
Warren glanced behind him again and this time Ian caught the outline of a door with a small red light above it. The light remained steady like an “on” indicator or a sensor on a camera.
A cold chill rippled down his spine and some part of him knew where they were. He couldn’t identify it’s location or why he was afraid to be in this specific room, but they were definitely being watched. Someone outside knew they were here. But where was here and who was out there? Was it their father? Was that why he felt uneasy? The thought sent mixed signals through his body. He loved his father even as a part of him did not. Was it because of what Warren just said?
His gaze returned to Warren who stood silent at his side. “Sorry, I—”
“Did you remember something?”
“No. But I keep feeling like I should call you Ian. I know you’re Warren, but I get almost sick calling you that. Why?”
“Because you were reprogrammed. He did that to both of us, but the chip he used on me wasn’t as sophisticated so it didn’t work. But yours did.”
Reprogrammed. He mulled the word over. If he had been reprogrammed to think he was someone else—like thinking he was his brother—then why did he struggle with both identities?
“But if that’s true, why am I confused? Shouldn’t I just be whoever I was programmed to be?”
Warren’s eyes were on him as if he looked for a sign of some kind. He chewed the inside of his lip then nodded. “Because the chip was removed… I removed it.”
Ian touched the side of his head. That was why he remembered this room. This was where the chip was first implanted. The unsanctioned work their father performed meant that they moved a lot. But this place remained a secure haven that was never found. He could recall being here before.
The ache in his head did not lesson with the knowledge that the chip was no longer there. He didn’t feel any different.
“So the reason I’m confused…”
“Because when the chip was removed the reprogramming ended. You didn’t grow up believing you were Warren so when that information was terminated, those thoughts and memories disappeared. However,” he walked around the table to the other side, “you did spend time believing that you were me, so you’ll still have some memories as me.”
Warren leaned against the table with his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry you were caught up in this. It took a lot of planning to undo the programming. Hopefully there won’t be any lasting damage.”
The coarse fiber of the bandages made his forehead and neck sweat. There was a substantial ache that filled the space between his ears and centered on the left side of his temple. He should be grateful to Warren, but the fact that he still felt like Warren made everything hurt worse.
“Ian.”
“Yeah, sorry.” He rotated his gaze to meet Warren’s.
“We should have you checked out to be sure you’re okay.”
He nodded. They should leave, especially if… He glanced at the red light above the door.
“Where’s father?”
Warren followed his gaze. “He’s not here.”
“Is he watching us?”
“No.”
The certainty in Warren’s face betrayed no lie, yet there was something uneasy about his stance. The way Warren held himself, the way his hands remained in his pockets, did not feel right. It was too…
Ian trained his eyes on the camera light then slowly pushed himself upright. His head swam. Blood sloshed in his ears. There was a surge of nauseous that almost caused him to pass out, but Warren’s arms supported him.
“Careful.”
Ian gave a half nod but even that was too much. He pressed a hand to his head and the other to his gut. They needed to leave. If what Warren said was true about removing the chip, then they could not stay here, not where they would be easy to find. His eyes moved to the camera.
“So, who’s watching us?”
“No one.” Warren let his hands fall to his sides. “For now we’re safe.” He did not look at the camera.
Ian studied the solid red light. It didn’t feel safe. It didn’t feel like no one was watching.
Warren placed a hand on his shoulder as Ian scooted to the edge of the table then swung his legs off the side. In silence they waited for the world to be stable enough for Ian to stand.
“How do you feel?”
The breath he inhaled was long and deep. It made his sides ache and his head swim. The scent of the room filled his thoughts with sewers and underground bunkers and something else… something akin to rust. He scrunched his nose.
“What is it?”
Warren’s face was a blank slate though his eyes were full of guarded curiosity.
“Nothing.”
He took one step then another. Warren reached out a hand, but Ian waved him away. Something bothered him. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was. It could be the fact that he still struggled to discern where his life as Warren ended and began or the fact that he didn’t know how long he lived his life believing he was Warren. But there was something. It was like the underlying metallic scent in the air, the one that grew the closer he came to the door. He stopped moving.
Warren reached out a hand, but Ian brushed his away.
“Do you smell that?”
Warren’s brow pinched. “Smell what?”
“That smell. It’s like…”
Blood. That was what it smelled like. It was strongest when he faced the area between the door and the wall where all the shelves and cabinets stood. The whole area was cloaked in darkness.
Warren placed a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “We should go before someone finds us.”
“I thought you said we were safe.” He scanned his brother’s face and for the first time looked at him. The dark eyes were older than he remembered, his face more weathered. Warren’s beardless chin and cheeks were shaved too quick and gray poked through in spots. Did he live as Warren for that long that years passed?
Warren’s hand was wrapped about his forearm. The scent of blood still lingered in his nostrils.
“Where’s father?”
The fingers on his arm grew heavy.
“Warren, where’s father?”
Warren’s lips were sealed, his jaw set.
Ian felt a need to move toward the source of the smell. The thought that Warren may have committed a serious crime was somehow more terrifying than the prospect that their father might be dead. Even confused as he was about who he was, Ian knew that his brother was no killer. Warren never could stomach the thought of hitting back, even when their father did. It was a wonder he ever got enough courage to defy their father’s work.
The grip on his arm tightened.
“Warren, what did you do?”
Warren pressed his lips together then blinked. “What had to be done.”
Ian shook his head. “No. No, I know you. You’re no killer.”
“We should leave.”
“No.” Ian yanked his arm from Warren’s hold, backing up until he could turn around.
“Ian, wait.”
Warren’s steps were heavy on the floor behind him but before he could catch up, Ian tripped over a pile of dark sheets halfway to the shadowed corner.
He dropped hard, rolling onto his side with a pained cry. His knees and wrists ached from the impact, the jostling of his skull making the room spin as he turned to see the dark lump on the floor. In the process of tripping over the dark covering, the tips of pale fingers and a shoe were exposed.
“Don’t.”
Warren grabbed for sheet but Ian pulled it back first. The scent of iron filled the air as the body beneath flopped onto it back.
But it was not the body he expected.
The eyes were familiar though they no longer saw. Now dull, they once gleamed with a lively brown that matched his hair. On the left side of his head, a thick badge of oozing blood clung to his hair and cheek. It complimented the one on his chest while accentuating the drying red that stained the smooth jaw and slack lips.
Warren.
Ian blinked. That couldn’t be right. Warren was next to him, trying to recover the body, to tell him they needed to leave before it was too late.
In a daze, Ian stared at the man that knelt before him.
“Ian, we need to go.”
He shook his head. It wasn’t possible. This was Warren, his brother. But so was the body on the floor. The similarities were too close… except one was older—the living one.
“You’re not Warren are you?” His voice rang hollow between his ears.
Warren’s frown was condescending. “Of course I am, now let’s go.”
“No.” The body on the floor was Warren. He was the right age. He looked like their father, like he always did. Why did he not remember that before? Out of the two of them, Warren inherited their father’s appearance. Which meant…
“You killed him.” The eyes that only moments before gave him a sense of hope now filled him with dread. “You killed your own son.”
The man beside him sat back on his heels, his exhale full of disappointment. “Oh, Ian. He interfered.” He rose then moved to one of the shelves. “By removing that chip, he ruined everything. Years of work wasted. I tried to convince him to tell me where he hid the chip, but he wouldn’t.” Opening one of the cabinets, he pulled out something that flashed in the dim light. “I didn’t want to do it, but I couldn’t let him stop my work. You were a success and I need to know why.” He turned around with a syringe in hand. “You have his chip now and I almost got it reset before you woke up.”
Ian flailed in his attempt to rise. It was as if the ground undulated beneath him. He fumbled onto his hands and knees, climbing to his feet as his father crossed the room then followed him to the door.
But the handle would not turn.
Heat rose in his cheeks, his chest burned from inhaling too fast. He banged on the metal surface.
“You can’t get out. And there’s no one around to hear you.”
Ian glanced at the camera. Someone had to be out there. There had to be someone that would see and put a stop to this. He wasn’t going to loose himself again. He wasn’t going back to that.
“I’m sorry, Ian.”
He spun about now face to face with his father, his jailer—the one that killed his brother for trying to save him.
“I still have plans for you.”
There was a prick and a wash of darkness… then nothing.
There are some wonderful times in life when you cry out for help when no one is around and yet still know that someone is listening. There are other times in life, however, when you cry as loud and as hard and as often as you can and no one seems to care. Both times carry a sense of hope, but only the first results in a hope you can see and feel. Hope still exists in the second situation but it’s so much harder to see because of the added sense of being alone.
That is when discouragement, even fear and despair, come crowding in – snuggling in so close you can barely breathe. Yet in those same moments, when we are most honest with ourselves about where we are and how far we have fallen from the string of hope, that we can get a gentle nudge. It changes nothing for the situation we are in. No earthquakes erupt or thunderclouds crack. The feelings of loss and abandonment might still be there. But sometimes things shift just enough you can feel a tap on your shoulder.
It’s light and easy to miss in the middle of all the grief and heartache. It doesn’t even carry a jolt of energy or a burst of happiness. It’s just a poke that says, “I know and I am still here.”
I often find those moments hard to deal with, especially when all life presents is a run of never-ending problems. There’s so much of it that at times it seems nothing good ever existed. Positivity is smothered or drowned out by all that’s negative. Happiness hides away and it’s hard to remember when things were different.
It’s like when you’re out walking in the woods, and while it’s not winter anymore, nothing is ready to show signs of spring. Everything is still barren. But you know (maybe deep down) that something is going to grow eventually. You know there will be life coming from what appears to be death – a warm spring after a cold winter – but you can’t see it. And the time in between drives you crazy.
That’s when you need that tap.
I’ve faced many of those days in the last year and often desired to be tapped on the shoulder. I prayed for it. I cried for it. I didn’t and don’t always get it. So the only thing I find I am able to do in those moments is just keep looking to the next day… and the next… and then the next. It’s a tiring way to live and it gets discouraging fast.
Yet if you’re able to stop in those hard times – when you’re lost in the middle of the woods – and look up for just a second, you might catch a glimpse hope. It may take several tries, but maybe, just maybe, there might be a deer in the midst of the trees.
And I’m not talking about the one that darts away as soon as you make eye contact. I’m not even talking about the ones that blink at you and then continue to eat as if you weren’t there. I’m talking about the one that is alone, nestled down in the dried grass, content, calm, and unafraid of your presence. It’s eyes are on you the whole time and it’s attentive to every sound you make. It’s not standing ready to run. It’s just waiting and watching.
Those are the ones that really mean something because those are the ones that remind us of God’s Spirit.
It’s a reminder – especially to me these days – that I’m not alone. Even when I want answers, action, and for things to change, I must remember (and be reminded) that God is not waiting for my command. He is there, yes. He is aware of my struggles and is able to help, yes. But He also knows my heart and mind better than I do and knows the world and all its sorrows. He sees my problems and that of the world’s and yet sometimes He waits.
I don’t claim to understand it. But what I so often forget in my frustration is that even when nothing seems to change in that dead forest, deep below the surface life is being renewed. Even though I can’t see it, the trees are getting nutrients and water from their roots. They are pumping life through their trunks and into the branches without my assistance or even notice. Buds will break forth, new life will begin again, and I will have nothing to do with it. Even if the process and the inner workings of the world and my situation are hidden, it does not mean they do not exist or that nothing is occurring beneath the surface.
Right now, I can’t see very far. I don’t see what will be, just what is. But ahead of me there is a deer sitting in the woods looking at me unafraid. It listens and watches my every move just as God in all His goodness does. It’s still a lonely place to be because nothing has changed in an external sense. But God is still there and that knowledge is good.
Even if that’s the only thing I can hold onto right now, it’s still good. The image of the deer might become faint or vanish yet God is still good. Remembering and reminding myself of this truth is sometimes all that can be done.
So I wait – we wait – and watch and cry and pray and cling to the feeble string of hope that soon the life underground will break through the surface and be able to be seen again.
Trees are amazing. I don’t know if you’ve ever gone out for a walk and stopped to gaze at a tree that is big, thick, and so tall it towers over the rest of them, but if not, be sure to do so. Do it as often as you can. Consider, as you stand at its base how long that tree has been around and how many years it has seen go by.
Yet beyond taking the time to marvel at how long that tree has lived have you ever stopped to look at the same tree and seen all the scars and marks it bares? Have you seen the dents and felt the ache of loss it has faced in those years? Do you see the places where the bark has been ripped off by animals, man, insects, and the weather? Among all of those trials that tree is still there. It stands tall and proud and patient. It waits as time goes by.
Maybe there are branches missing. Maybe half of it lies broken on the ground or there’s moss too thick to see its base. Maybe burns blacken its side or fungus grows along the trunk or creaking limbs. They could be signs of past trauma or things going on beneath the surface. Maybe they are a sign of deeper trials yet to come.
But that is the same for all of us.
To be like a tree we must weather the storm and stand tall while displaying missing limbs and bark and leaves. Those same things that make us not so pretty to look at as all the younger, healthier trees are a part of the growing process. It doesn’t make it any less hard or easier to face when those things come along, but it is a testament to a power greater than our own when we remain faithful and upright and continue to grow amidst the storms life throws at us.
May we all be like trees in a forest, sturdy and standing as tall as we can among the other trees, ready to receive what comes our way with grace, strength, and courage. May we remain to display the scars we have as examples not only of what we have suffered, but what we have come through. May our lives inspire others to keep growing through the storms and make proud the one who made us as we persevere like trees.
There’s something so beautiful about the season that I find so encouraging because it’s more than just the cold. It’s those moments when you step outside and see everything covered in a fresh white coat. It’s the icicles hanging from the roof and catching the sun’s light like jewels. But there’s also something about winter that I can identify with on a deeper basis. It’s a more personal feeling like when you share the same space with someone for so long that you understand them better.
The last few years – at least to me – have felt as if I’ve been living in a perpetual state of winter. Especially this last year. It’s been hard. It’s been a very dark and cold time, the kind that’s so cold it burns and you do everything in your power to avoid it. But winter can’t be avoid. It comes every year – at least where I live.
Winter is one of those seasons you know you have to pile on coats – layer after layer – just to walk outside your door in the morning. It’s one of those seasons when the wind can turn suddenly and as you twist from one blast another comes from the opposite direction to freeze every portion of exposed skin. It’s the time of year that you leave extra time in the morning to get ready because you have to make sure you’ve got gloves, scarves, coats, extra pants, extra socks, and really thick boots on so that every inch of you is covered.
And that is exactly how I have felt these last few years. I feel like every part of me that is not covered up will burn from the cold, from the despair, from the lack of hope. Every time I step outside the door I need to put on these layers like armor – in more than a physical sense – because I know what lies ahead. Because right now, it’s a really long winter for me.
But that is also why I love the physical season of winter. Because despite the cold and harshness and the feeling that you really don’t want to leave your house to face another day, there is still beauty out there. There is still a sun that shines through the clouds and makes everything look as if you’re walking through a dream. There are ice crystals that glitter on every branch and dead leaves still clinging to trees covered in a shell of ice. They glisten and gleam and remind you of how beautiful things can be even in the middle of winter.
It certainly doesn’t mean that every day is going to be beautiful or enjoyable or warm enough to even comfortably get out your door, but it does mean that there is a chance that exists. It means that something beautiful may come from whatever it is that’s going on right now, something you may not be able to see because it’s growing beneath the surface. Beneath the piles of snow, under the feet of frozen ground, there is still something going on… and someday – whatever it is – will break through the surface and be warm, beautiful, and alive.
Winter is not a dead time – even if it feels like it. It’s a time of internal growing beneath the surface, the expansion of roots that builds a better foundation. And that is the hope that I cling to right now – the hope that winter brings. Because it’s not a forever season. This too will pass and that reminder is why I love winter.
Storms upon the horizon. That has been my life this year: a never-ending tide of tribulations with only the briefest glint of sunlight between… or sometimes not at all.
The hardest part was that I knew they were coming. I could see the breakers upon the horizon as clearly a captain feels waves beneath the hull. Yet knowing a storm lies ahead doesn’t mean you can maneuver enough to evade them. The boat only turns so fast, especially if the motor goes out.
So, you brace yourself. You tie down the masts and draw in the sails. You drag the life jackets out and fasten all the doors, windows, and hatches. Then you hold on.
Yet no matter how much you prepare, the force can still surprise you. It can wrest the breath from your lungs and toss you overboard.
The speed and strength of those waves are hard to predict and so often leave devastation in their wake. They turn the world upside-down and leave you wondering which way is where. I’ve had one of those waves overtake me and I wanted to run when it first appeared. But you can’t outrun a storm most times and this one was no exception.
I’m still reeling from it. I can’t see an end to the dark sky yet. It feels like I’m treading water and the boat is only getting farther from me. Even though there’s a rope lashing me to its rail, I’m being tossed about like a plastic bag on the wind. My whole family is being tossed about and there is no end in sight.
Times like this are hard to deal with because they make everything else in life much more challenging. Even the normal day to day things intensify. It becomes harder to focus, takes longer to get things done, and the exhaustion is so much greater. The energy to enjoy something disappears along with the desire to even try for it. Days become routine except for the constant reminder of thunder that booms overhead and the lightening that flashes across the sky.
I don’t know when this storm will end. But because I knew it was coming it seems like I’ve been living in it longer than I have. Time is odd like that. And now I’m in the water and all I can feel is the pain of cold.
But there’s still a rope.
That’s what I have to keep telling myself – that there’s a rope and life preserver I’m clinging too. There’s someone at the other end that is holding on and preventing me from slipping away. I can’t see who it is because of the swirling rain, but I know that God is near. I know He’s in the midst of the storm and that Jesus is at my side. He dived into the water after me and is holding onto my hand even as my grip slips free.
That’s why I have to keep reminding myself there’s still a rope. Because if I don’t, I’ll lose sight of the rope itself and only see and feel the waves and wind. Until the storm has past I need to repeat over and over again that daylight will return.
But weathering such storms are not just about “hanging on” because there really are those that brave the storm with us. God is always there, I believe that, but at times it is only through the interaction of another human being that His presence can really be seen and heard. They are the buoys – my friends – the family I have turned to that are praying and holding the situation up to God. They are a true gift, and even though it often feel like it, I am not alone.
I pray that you have those buoys that keep your head up in the storm too, people that are there to reach for you even when you can’t reach for them. But more than that, I pray you have the assurance of Christ with you as you face whatever storms have swept you out to sea because we all have them. If not reach out and grab the chain of arms that can link us together to The Lifeline. Because we all need a hand to weather the storms.
I don’t know about any of you, but I hate making decisions. I’m the absolute worst when it comes to making decisions. Try as I might to get better at the process by seeing each one from all angles and weighing options, even asking advice of others, I still struggle with making decisions. Sometimes they are stupid ones: “Do I like the green shirt or the blue one?” But most often the ones that haunt me are the ones I know are life changing – the ones that have no way of being undone once the choice is made.
And yes, I know the saying that sometimes gets tossed around that goes “nothing is permanent” but sometimes that just isn’t true. Some thing cannot be changed this side of heaven. However, it also is true that sometimes things seem more permanent than they really are. Sometimes it’s just the knowledge that a lot will have to change in the process if a choice is made one way or the other that really makes it difficult to know what’s right.
And, yes, I believe prayer helps and is an important tool to be used in all we do. But I’ve also experienced so many times in life where it doesn’t seen to matter how much or how hard I pray about something because no answers come. The other end remains silent and there is no clear direction. It’s just a choice. And I think those are the moments I struggle with the most because I really do want to do what’s right.
So what is to be done when those are the choices that lie ahead? What is the answer when no hint is given?
Unfortunately, I don’t have that answer. I wish I did. I really do. I wish I always felt peace about every choice I’ve ever made, but the truth is I don’t. I regret a lot and more often than not, I don’t feel settled about the choices I make. Sometimes I am left wondering for weeks – or even months – if the path I’ve taken is the one I’m supposed to be on. Sometimes I never get a confirmation either way.
Of course, at that point it’s too late to go back. At that point all I can do is keep moving forward the best I can and make the most of each day and every other decision that comes along. And without being able to see into the future, I think that’s all any of us can do. If we’ve sought counsel, His direction, and His Word, and weighed all the options as best we can than all we are left with is to take a step and make a choice.
It’s a real bummer for those of us that want to make sure we are doing the “right” thing, but sometimes I don’t think God asks us for the “right” thing but “a” thing. I think He asks us to move sometimes from the knowing into the unknown, to take a step of faith and not remain in that comfortable spot of having all the answers. Because if I’m honest with myself, I don’t know it all and will never know it all, even if I wish it was otherwise.
So, we breathe and pray and hope and cross all our fingers and toes and then make a choice as best we can, because we know that God walks with us each step of the way – even if we can’t see or hear Him move.
The aftermath of surgery is a hard place–no matter how minor or major it was. It’s been over fourteen weeks for me and I’m still trying to wrap my head around all that took place. To say that I regret the decision is wrong. But if you ask me whether or not I’m okay with it–that’s a different story. That answer still remains to be seen.
In one sense, I’m okay because I know it was the right decision. There is no other way to say “it had to be done” yet the loss of what could’ve been and no longer exists as a possibility is a heavy weight to bear. It’s a weight I still can’t think of without being mournful in some way, either through tears or general depression, because I know there’s no going back. There is no changing the outcome. What was done is done. Even though that finality is difficult to accept, I know it needed to happen. I know it in my heart and in my head. I knew it in the curtained-off waiting room, while signing the forms, and being wheeled back hall to the table. I knew it talking to all the doctors and nurses beforehand and when speaking to them afterward as I looked at the photos they took of the mass they removed.
And just to be clear, I did have a choice. I could’ve refused and left everything as it was, but there were a lot of side effects going on and continual blood infusions can only go so far. It really wasn’t as much of a question of if but when. So, I don’t regret the decision. I don’t wish I could go back and change it. Do I wish it never happened? Definitely. Do I wish I had more time to investigate other options? Maybe. But I think the uncertainty that surrounds me right now is not so much of a true uncertainty but a sadness. It’s not regret as much as it’s a profound sadness for all that’s changed. And sadness, I think, will be my companion for awhile. Because this was one of those unchangeable things that couldn’t be avoided no matter how much I wished and prayed for that to happen.
Now, don’t get me wrong, God can still do miracles. I firmly believe that, although I often have a hard time believing for such things to happen in my life, especially right now. It’s one of those things that seem like it’s meant for someone else to experience but not me. Which, I know isn’t true, but that’s where I am right now.
So it is to the moving forward that I must look. It is to the act of the picking up the pieces and making something out of what is–and not what could’ve been–that must draw my effort. Without that focus my world would forever remain dark and gray. It would become a place of perpetual night. And that can’t be where I stay because that leads to a black hole of selfishness and defeat. The choice to move on and find the pinprick of sunlight that lies hidden within the clouds is my goal for now. It may be awhile before I find it, but if I keep looking–instead of giving up or getting bogged down by regret–I might just find it someday. That–at least, for now–is my prayer.
Sometimes I find myself in a place I never expected or wanted to be in. I realize that part of my being there is based on choices I’ve made over time, but sometimes, things just happen. They just happen and there doesn’t seem to be a clear reason as to why.
Like the day I went out in a canoe to show some people around. It started out great-the sky was clear, the lake calm, but then the clouds rolled in and so did the wind. While everyone else was in a two person canoe, I was solo, which meant I had to paddle twice as much as everyone else.
At some point, you can’t keep up, or rather, I couldn’t keep up. I got stuck in the weeds-literally. I could not get myself free of the weeds and the instant I did I started drifting backwards away from my group.
They were having a great time and kept going, which was fine until the fog rolled in. And yes, I totally lost sight of the those I was supposed to be showing around. I go so tired from paddling, going in circles, and being unable to see anyone else that I broke into tears.
I started telling God out loud that he had to help me and that I wasn’t going anywhere until he did. I was putting on a little tantrum, but I was beyond caring. I could not do it. I could not beat the wind and see past the fog. And yet I was still trying to do just that.
It’s times like that I (sometimes) realize, God is trying to get my attention and teach me something, although those are the times I really don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be told to wait, to be patient, to stop and think before acting.
The lessons of “know that even in the fog and wind he is still there” are not always welcome, but they are true. He still cares. He knows the frustrations, the attempts, and the failures. He knows and will sit with you in it, even if you don’t want to, or even want him; he will be there.
I sometimes hate lessons like that. But they are necessary reminders that no matter what we face, we are loved. We are seen. We can be known on a deeper level if we take the time to stop and breathe and wait upon more than ourselves.
And yes, the fog lifted and I did get through the weeds and wind to my group, but only in God’s grace and with his timing.
Sometimes I find that things don’t go the way I think–strike that–they often don’t go the way I think. Take this summer for example. For the first time, in my life I switched to a job that enabled me to have the summers off. Yeah! (Not so for the checkbook, but great for potentially writing more)
Then the offers start coming in–jobs I wasn’t even looking for. So, I think, I am obviously meant to keep working. But what to do? (This is one of those times I kept praying for an answer and never seemed to get one.)
-Insert: hours of prayer, conversations, and absolute frustration…and still no answer.
So, I go for one. I take the one I think will be the most enjoyable and least familiar. Not my usual option. I usually play it safe and take the one I know I can do without any questions. I don’t know about you, but I like knowing I can do something without having to learn a lot of new tricks. But do we really grow that way?
So, for this summer I’ve taken on the camp life. I’ve moved into a cabin with roommates and have been thrown into a bunch of events i never got the chance to preview. It’s been a ride so far and it will continue to be. I think the summer will go fast and I think by the end I will love it, but there are some days I ask myself “What was I thinking!?”
