Changeless Love

God is changeless.

Not boring and monotonous sameness, but changeless, I believe.

Changing seasons, even changing vistas hourly scroll as the backdrop of our days so that constancy can be a difficult concept.

We make distinctions about 'the God of the old testament' and 'the God of the new testament' as though God is changing costumes during intermission and playing the role of another in Act II. In fact, some like to distance themselves from that old testament God; a kinder and gentler God sells better.

Marketing experts know people love puppies and babies, so Jesus in a manger scene can bring folks on board. Then just when we think we can handle reconciling those two like an out of kilter bank balance, the Holy Spirit shows up and we have another person to define. Some just want God to get in the right box and stay put.

But God will not be leashed. The creator of the universe will not sit and stay in order to appeal to one's notions of theological propriety. Try as we humans do, we cannot diagram the actions of God, Jesus, and the Spirit so that they fit neatly into a compact travel size paragraph of Christianity.

God is bigger than that.

Far bigger.

God is still in the business of calling and redeeming humankind. That mission has taken many turns through the centuries, and it continues still. In God's economy nothing is ever wasted. God can redeem and restore what we would throw away - and whom we would throw away.

Yes, it may take a long time, but God operates outside of our time and space constraints.

Learn from the blessings and promises of the scriptures of the old covenant just as we receive those of the new: God is the god of them all. And I ask daily for a larger understanding of this unsearchable Greatness:

"Study to show yourself approved unto God, a [worker] who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth."
2 Timothy 2:15

Working the Night Shift

"ғaiтнleѕѕ iѕ нe тнaт ѕayѕ ғarewell wнen тнe road darĸenѕ." J. R. R. Tolkien

Tolkien and his contemporary, C. S. Lewis, brilliantly used the ancient means of story to transport truth to children and adults alike. They infused their works with images and narratives that blend reason and the vivid imagination for which each is known, conferring on their characters the power to communicate ideas of faith. In looking at the world around them they sought flashes of insight into what they saw as the fundamental nature of things.

Fundamental. What is fundamental anymore?

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are among the unalienable rights mentioned in the Declaration of Independence.  We seem to have elevated achieving perpetual happiness to the gold medal position on the podium. Many strive to maintain the illusion of happiness and success, as though any alternative is tantamount to failure.

We may coast through some days in life, but sooner or later we are put on the night shift.  The night shift--that season when life presents what we never dreamed would happen or that which we feared to face.

Our days and nights are not our own anymore on the night shift. They’ve been usurped, taken captive by that new thing, that no longer mythical monster that holds us in its grip. Cancer does it for some. Any sudden interruption of our lives will do this.

Crises have a way of reordering our priorities. They reveal our character. They give us the chance to step up to the podium and present ourselves authentically as wounded but walking, as pierced but persevering. We may choose to be honest and press on, accepting this new life experience as an opportunity to grow—to grow in ways we would rather not but find we must. But we need help, companions on the journey.

"O Lord, do not be far from me," the psalmist says.

There is so much about sickness and pain we do not understand. C. S. Lewis wrote from his deep loss about suffering and its value. Some would dismiss the refining fire of suffering as pure myth, but not Lewis. The witness of many is that we experience redeeming grace during what I call the night shift.

We may never understand suffering; I can accept that as a limitation of our human condition. But there are some things we can know as bedrock:
That God is always good.
That God is always loving.

May I dare say that suffering is one of those things that is transformative when we encounter it: We are changed in it. Fundamentally. I have come to believe it, but do I have the guts to write it here, in this place where I am sitting up writing in the night watch feeling healthy while some of our friends or family members are in the fight of their lives? How dare I say such without sounding glib and utterly insensitive?

Because I have seen it done. Writers give us examples to point to a truth until we may accept it for ourselves; Real life examples shine brightly for me.

I have seen the example up close when a friend chose to allow God to move in her life in the presence of intense suffering and pain. She gave us glimpses of grace, pictures of what suffering looks like over a period of years.  She remained full of grace and faithfulness because she refused to give into bitterness. She denied a place for the bitter seed to take root every time it raised its persistent tendril. I want to face adversity like that!

For the faithful, that's what we do: 

We carry the Light when the road gets dark. 

We hold the lantern for one another.  

We learn to walk faithfully the path we have even when we would rather take another road of our own choosing.

In prayer we can freely offer the desires of our heart and then trust in God's provision. The trusting part can be hardest. It is the task of a lifetime. And it is not the American way of self-sufficiency and prideful independence. But when we understand another bedrock truth—that God is always trustworthy—we can rest in the care of the One who created us and loves us and will never let us go.  

Offer God our pain and broken dreams when the road is dark. Pain only festers when buried and denied.

Offer suffering so that it is shared, and then we can learn how to bear it. “Pain that is not transformed is pain transferred,” writes Fr. Richard Rohr. We pass it on.

Pursuing happiness for itself is ephemeral, not fundamental. The love of God is deep and wide, reaching to times and places we do not see and holding us fast in the embrace.

Salute In Memoriam

A common fear among those who have lost loved ones is that others will forget them. Upon request I offer a tribute that aired on public radio ten years ago this week of one who deserves to be remembered.

Aaron Holleyman was born in Rankin County, grew up in Clinton and had family ties to Monticello and Carthage. I knew him as Glenda Carpenter’s son. Good people, his family: the best among our Mississippi towns. 

Holleyman was 26, assigned to the 1st Battalion, 5th Special Forces Group, Fort Campbell, Kentucky, when on August 30, 2004 his last-in-line military vehicle hit an improvised explosive device in Khutayiah, Iraq. He had been injured on a previous tour and did not have to return, but chose to do so despite his hearing loss, at the time of his death. 

There is always a back story—everybody’s somebody’s baby—for each of our casualties of war. And our task, as I see it, is to remember.

---

American flags like sentries line the iron fence leading into the Monticello cemetery. Crisp standards whip in the faint breeze beating back the Mississippi afternoon heat, unaware that they set more than the stage, they set the tempo. They define the moment.

Cars crawl into line along the gravel shoulder as friends from long ago emerge and cluster a respectable distance from the tent, giving warm hugs and fleshy handshakes, waiting for over an hour in the sun to pay respects. The family arrives in the company of Special Forces officers. The human wave undulates to allow them passage to the green turf-covered chairs in the shade.

Once the playing field in this small town was striped with white, and crowds cheered, and sweaty teams fought to the finish to see who would win. Now we know that was child’s play. Another playing field has claimed a friend’s child, and today we honor them.

Not a number anymore. 

Not a statistic on the nightly news.

Staff Sgt. Aaron Holleyman has a name. Now he has a resting place.

Special Forces:  The 82^nd Airborne. Fifth Special Forces Training group. Even the uninitiated among us knows they have something we don’t: They’ve been tested and proven worthy. They serve their country. And they bury their dead.

Soldiers snap to attention. 

The triangle of blue and white is pressed into the hands of his mother, our friend and high school classmate. Collective tears fall onto the dust at the sight of them – proud, aching, faithful—all at the same time. The young fatherless child leaves her daises atop the casket. The bagpiper compresses humid air into strains of “Amazing Grace,” then seamlessly moves into “The Green Beret.” 

            “Silver wings upon their chest.

            These are men, America’s best…”

More tears and silence.

A sharp command, the only human sound before the crack of seven rifles firing as one, fails to dislodge the lump in my throat. And they fire again…and again. It’s too much, and a community cries the tears of a grateful nation, for this is our hometown hero now.

His family will not mind our tears, for they celebrate his life and his faith. They hold no grudges, harbor no malice, and offer only words of gratitude and pride for his service. 

And right beside them strides his brother, Daniel, wearing the same uniform, marching in the same brave footsteps as soldiers before.

America’s best indeed.

_____________________________________________________________________________

It’s been ten years since I tapped out these words because I couldn’t not do so. My feeble effort at verbal tribute was the only way I could process the emotionally draining military burial and compassionate response of the local folks who showed up to say goodbye to a shared son and grandson.

We’re all extended family in Mississippi. 

Aaron is one of many we lost too young. Each man and woman deserves to be remembered so that their sacrifice will not be in vain. A preoccupied, forgetful nation may pay a steep price for neglecting history and memory.

2014 and Counting....

"Be careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise—making the most of every opportunity..."

 Ephesians 5:15,16

Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.

Benjamin Franklin

 

“Time’s a-wastin,’ Loweezy!”

Snuffy Smith comic strip

 



 

     Inspiration abounds from countless sources to nudge us toward accountability for our time. I have as much and as little as anyone else, but have not found time to write and reflect in recent months. I am hoping to pick back up the pen, as it were, and enjoy more time at this journal, unless discernment calls for a different use of time.

2014...New beginnings...and I am keenly treasuring the memories of old friends through the years. That is where I've been lately in remembering and reconnecting. 

Whether you know it or not, you've enriched my life, all of you who have passed through. Some have left an indelible mark, an imprint no one else can make. Faces crowd in even now as though someone turned upside down a box of worn Kodak photos, scattering memories across the table. With a little time, I'll pick them up and remember and smile. My desire is to let you know. 

So I find myself with a bit of solitude where the water meets the sky and am inspired to balance a windy January day with the warmth of a grateful heart. 

 
 The morning began with sand untouched except for the wind: sculpted in soft mounds like snowy seven-minute icing peaks on a birthday cake. 

By day's end, footprints show who's been there. My life is like that, it occurs to me, and yours. Some day I'll have the time to dig deeper here. I hope. But for now, I am content to remember and give thanks.








(Clock from Ann Voskamp's kitchen; originally posted on www.aholyexperience.com, to which I eagerly direct friends for her wisdom and insights that far exceed my own.)