The knowingness of nothing

I didn't get it. I really didn't. I mean it hurt. It really hurt. And I'm no baby, my friend. I can take pain. Ever have your grandmother set you up on a blind date? No? I have. That's blunt trauma, and I'm a survivor.
But this pain, this was different. It was perpetual, enigmatic, and enjoyed traveling about my body, hitching a ride here, taking a drive there, seeing the sights, snapping pictures. A total tourist pain, completely not at home inside me.
After a few weeks I started getting irritable. After a few months I started getting depressed.
I had thrown my back out. Yep, I did. Here's the warning that should be placed on all clandestine boxes, "Picking up and carrying on one's hip could cause disk misplacement and months of whining that even your mother won't want to hear. Check with your physician before lifting any and all boxes."
My chiropractor and I got very close. Although I'll admit, not meaning to be unfaithful, I had a love affair with the roller bed.
You'd think I could have a good sense of humor about such things. And I did. For a solid 20 minutes, I laughed this pain off. Then I started getting testy. And more so, scared.
What I didn't understand, what confounded me time and time again, was the fact God was simply not answering my prayer. No divine communicado. What good could possible come of this? Of all the things in my life swirling down the toilet, was this REALLY what I needed right now?
I could answer that. No. No, it was not. What I needed was to miraculously and spontaneously lose 12 percent more body fat, get a rebate check from my credit card for $15,000, open my front door to find a Cary Grant look-a-like lost and lonely.
This made no sense. None. And I was sick of it.
I HAD been in some of the best shape of my adult life. I had been pushing myself, working out hard, lifting weights, building my strength, pushing myself beyond what I thought possible. It felt good. Too good. So I kept at it. And at it. And at it. My usually three day/one-hour workout turned into six day/two-hour workout. And I wanted more. It made me feel powerful, in control, like I was the one piloting this life. The constant soreness was just weakness leaving my body (who ever made that stupid statement anyway?). And my constant exhaustion was simply lack of sleep. Nothing more. So I kept right on pushing.
Then, on a day I can only remember as rainy, it all stopped. Just like that. No more sweat. No more weights. No more control. I was injured and it wasn't healing.
So time went on. I slept with a pillow between my knees. I went to my chiropractor. I did my stretches. I waited and watched and held my breath hoping for improvement. Then I passed out because you should never hold your breath that long. Eventually, ever so tediously slow, the pain began to subside, I walked normally, I moved freely, and I still slept with a pillow between my knees.
I gave up understanding. God wasn't going to explain this. It was going down in my history book as one of those great question marks I'm suppose to remember post death to ask, though I know I won't. It had been completely pointless. Just bad luck. Just bad karma. Just life.
Months later, sitting in my doctor's office (it hasn't been a steller year), we reviewed the results of some tests I'd taken. I had some problems but nothing that couldn't be reversed with more sleep, supplements, and a whole-foods diet. Thankfully. However, BIG however, I was on the edge, just tittering on the brink of plunging further beyond the line of easy reversal. I was at that point someone named No Return.
And then my doctor said something rather profound, "Good thing your back went out."
Huh? Good thing? It's not like it just "went out" for dinner, "went out" for a smoke, "went out" with Cindy my hairstylist, it w-e-n-t o-u-t, as in, not in. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, had you continued pushing yourself like you were, you'd be in a much worse situation than you are now. It's really a blessing you were forced to quit. Otherwise, you'd be pretty sick right now."
Oh, I thought. 'Oh,' I formed with my mouth. "Oh," I finally said out loud.
Who'd uh thunk it. The pain had a purpose afterall.
I sat across from my mother recently while she received some bad news. After months and months of praying, after disappointment upon disappointment, here she was to be disappointed again. I could see it on her face. Why? She was asking. And I couldn't help but think of my pain.
"Mom, we don't always know the reason for these trials. That doesn't mean there isn't one. We have to trust God knows what He's doing. We just have to trust...God."
I'm still doing my stretches, still seeing my chiropractor. The pain is minimal, though not gone. And there's just enough of a reminder to keep me from picking up any boxes. I don't understand everything in my life. In fact, I have a hard time understanding my cell bill. The mysteries of the world are certainly not frightened of me.
But perhaps that's the adventure. That's the thrill. The not knowing. That's part of what makes life so confounding, intriguing, irrational, yet fascinating. We don't know. We can't. But we've been invited to know Someone who does.

What does it all bloody mean?

Can the seemingly meaningless dumb luck of life have greater meaning?

Could losing $20 propel you into financial freedom?
Could stubbing your toe cause true love?
Could getting cut off in traffic actually save your hide?
Could that missing sock eventually explain the meaning of life?

In the far reaches of unexplained phenomenon, could one innocuous event, or even not so tame event, eventually lead you to a destiny? Or at least a really groovy time?

Hmmmm.....
Let's think about this a bit. More later.

Love is blind

I stood in the back lurking. Deep in the shadows I watched, like a stalker, like a thief in the night, like a serpent hunting. The darkness thickened near the corners so I backed up, edging closer and closer to obscurity. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, not quickly, but slow, a timeless rhythm tossing the wind back and forth between movements. I stayed inside my personal space, shrinking to nothing. Unseen. Unnoticed. Unknown.
The only light, the only sound, came from a stage in the distance. The eyes of cameras watching every movement, much like me. It was just a show, a simple national platform, and a friend of mine sat there among the cables and wires, the backdrops and backlights, being in the cornea of the spotlight.
He's a special man. A success by any standard. A national columnist. An award-winning author. An international speaker. A dreamer who knows the smell of battle to keep the dream alive.
At age 17 he started going blind. At age 29 the process was complete.
The bubbly interviewer smiled through her raspy voice, an extravagant personality beneath big hair and a small frame. She spoke on his books, his movie, his television network.
Still, I remained in the dark. He didn't even know I was there, a spy among strangers. I thought I came to support him. I learned later it was all for me.
She began wrapping up the interview and asked one final question.
"Jim, does being blind limit you?"
He answered, in the sure-footed way he always speaks, comfortable whether at Tiamo's talking about my life or sitting in a ghastly lit chair in front of a live feed talking about his.
"Yes, of course," he said. "It limits what I can do."
And here's the pearl I haven't been able to get out of my head all day.
"But it never limits who I am," he said.
I stopped shifting my weight, stopped my nervous twitch of shifting my weight, stopped feeling the cushions in my shoes squish with my body weight. I stopped lurking in the dark and just stood there plainly. I stopped seeing the chaos behind the scenes and started seeing the chaos behind my eyes. I just stopped.
There in the cool darkness I realized I was the one blind. I cannot see where I'm going, only sometimes where I've been. My eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness. My other senses haven't heightened.
I'm blind. My life makes little sense, the directions even less. I turn north and find out I've gone east. I've make a right to realize I should have made two lefts. And I step out to realize I should have used the other foot.
So many times, I live life blindly still believing I've got perfect sight. But I don't. I'm blind. Completely and totally in the dark. Decisions are limited. I don't have the ability to push my future forward or back, to curve my direction to the left or right. It does not, however, change who I am in Christ.
I'm still His daughter, His beloved, the twinkle in His eye. I'm constantly in His sight, the object of His affection. I'm still His and everything He made me to be. And I don't need my eyes to see it.

what do you WANT?

If a friend asks me that question, I usually answer, "understanding."
If a boss asks me that question, I usually answer, "money."
If a man asks me that question, I usually answer, "dinner."
If God asks me that question, I usually answer in stunned silence. What do we want? What do we REALLY, truly, from the blood and guts of it, want?

Don't answer that. Let it marinate awhile. Your response might surprise you.

Back to the Future

Somethings just need to be left alone, like beehives, sizzling coals, government employees, construction areas littered with non-English speaking men on their smoke break, cactus, scabs, ceiling insulation, and the past. Sometimes, yes sometimes, it just needs to remain where it belongs, behind you.

We seem to be in the rehashing generation. Everyone needs to talk things out, clear the air, vent their frustrations, release their tention, right the wrongs, and get closure.

I think those are excellent ideas. Here's how I'd do it:

- Need to talk? Get a plant. They'll actually appreciate it.
- Clear the air? Open windows are good for such things.
- Vent your frustrations? Punching bags don't feel the blows, people do.
- Release tension? $65 for an hour massage will be worth the money.
- Right some wrongs? Put your energy into helping someone else.
- Get closure? Leave it alone. Closure just happens.

Don't stand with your eyes on the past, turn your focus back to the future.

The Fisherman

Wrote a letter to Larry Huntsperger, author of "The Fisherman," recently. (He graciously responded the next day.) This is an amazing book about Peter and his grandest adventure as the best friend of Jesus. The book is out of print as of December, but still available on Amazon. And a journey each of us should be willing to grab our nets, pack a few dry clothes, and climb onto the boat to experience. You may discover how much of Peter you really are.
Here is the email and my own Peter experience.

Mr. Huntsperger,

It was my favorite aisle. Somewhat dark. Secluded. And the book selection excellent. I saved that aisle during my visit to the library to the very end. It was so secluded, like my own private book collection. Row stacked on row stacked on row, I knew the profile of nearly all of these books. After years, their sharp chins and pointed noses were familiar, like the recognizable drawings of Albert Hitchcock and his potbelly.
So there I was, walking that special spot in the universe, when a new book walked up to the line, turned sideways, and waited for acknowledgment. The color of it's complexion caught my eye. "I don't remember you. Who are you? Where did you come from?" I picked it up and met, "The Fisherman."
I wouldn't say it was kismet or even fate. But I read the first paragraph in Chapter One and couldn't put it down. I tried but it stuck, no chewing gum or Karo syrup needed. It just wouldn't budge. Finally, I tore it's talons from clutching my hand and I set it back down. But I needed to read this. I HAD to read this. I stood in my secret garden for a few moments, holding that book yet again, knowing it had to come home with me.
That was perhaps one of the best decisions I made that year, whatever year it was. I LOVED your book. Adored it. I read it and cried and skimmed the words with my mouth open. Sometimes I even added a few head nods. It was a very interactive experience.
Afterwards, I talked about it to everyone. I went to Mardel's, took every copy they had (about three), which was all I could afford, and asked if they'd be ordering more. I even got a copy into the hands of Larry Payton, the owner of Celebrity Attractions and producer of the national stage production, "The Rock and The Rabbi," about Peter and Jesus. The play is one of the best I've ever seen, absolutely amazing, and it reminded me of your book. I told Mr. Payton about it who agreed to read it. A week later, he sent word that he loved it and had passed it on to his wife to read next.
Anytime I've met someone struggling to understand Jesus, I said, "I know this book you should read. If I get you a copy will you read it?"
My father, also a pastor, read it and wept. He said it was incredible and kept my last copy for far too long. I staged a coup and took it back.
I don't know why I'm writing you now. It's been a few years since I read your book, but I still love it. Today, in the midst of deciding to either follow God's voice no matter the destination or sit in my quiet cubicle life and despair, I thought of something in your book, of an imagery I haven't been able to forget.
There was Peter and his crew, tired from fishing all night, and with nothing to show for it. Jesus told them to cast the net one more time. Just one more time Peter. Don't ask questions. Don't explain the tide or the temperature or the lay of the sea. Don't grumble about all the effort you've already exhausted, your unending knowledge of fishing, or your half truths. Just cast the net. And in exasperation, he did.
Suddenly, the waters moved. The surface erupted. And the fish crawled over each other, anxious, willing, excitably even, trying to get into that net. As if they were saying, "I want the honor of following my Creator's voice, even to death. Give that honor to me!"
I've never forgotten that scene. And I realized today, that's what I want. I want the honor of following my Creator's voice, even while I die to myself. So today I searched for you on the web and found one of your friend's on myspace. I know him only as Mr. Jackson. He directed me to your website and email.

So thanks. That's all I wanted to say. You're writing moved me. It did more than that, actually, It affected me. It gave me a vision of a Savior I want to know in perfect clarity. What you did has enriched my faith. And I'm quite grateful. Wordy. But grateful.

Tara Lynn Thompson

P.S. You can visit my blog, if you are ever interested, and read today's blog. I didn't mention the book. But it inspired me to write, "My resignation letter". Thanks. My blog is taralynnthompson.blogspot.com.

P.S.S. I'm going to read your book again.

My resignation letter

Stop trying. Just stop. This very moment, quit.
I've been a fighter my entire life. If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try harder again, and again, and again. And just keep trying. And put more effort into it. Give it all you've got. Don't back off or back down. Don't let up or let go. You'll succeed if you put your back into it, your arms into it, your legs and your core and your pinky toe.
That's me.
And somewhere along the way, some mile marker I never noticed, the successes stopped. The wins decreased. The victories didn't come.
I gave it a little more.
Still nothing.
I gave it all I had.
Nothing.
I muscled up more strength.
No, was the answer. A resounding, unyielding, immovable, unshakable, unintimidated no.
It hasn't been easy to swallow for a fighter, retired too early to the bench. I just needed to train harder, eat more protein, get my second wind.
No.
Today, strapped with this no answer for far too long, I came upon a note. It was double-stitched with flowers around it. And it was hanging on a bathroom wall. It said something very similar to this, or this exactly, "Be still and know that I am God." And underneath was a little geographical location, Psalm 46:10.
Be still. Do nothing. Relax. Don't move. Let go.
I read the entire Psalm and reread it again. I realized what I was reading was my own resignation letter. So here it is, the Psalm, written in my own hand.
Ladies and gentleman, I'm quitting. And here it is, in my words, in black and white, Psalm 46


"God is our fallout shelter and heavy-weight, a primed warrior when trouble comes knockin.
So we're not going to fear. Not going to do that. Even if the earth starts doing a jig and the mountains topple into the ocean like in Superman I;
Though the waters start howling like a disgruntled and mammoth sized sea urchin and even the mountains freak out.
Then we'll see Fantasy Island, although it isn't a fantasy, with it's beautiful waters crisp and cool and giggling. God has a place here, above the peaceful streets, where He's on call 24/7. Ready to respond with a simple prayer, instead of the Bat signal, which can be costly and difficult to operate, not to mention inconvenient and somewhat gangly.
There are other places, sin cities, where people snarl and try to pick your pocket. They talk a lot of smack, as if the earth will obey. But it takes orders from no one except God.
And He's ready to battle it out, always and forever for us. He's like Rocky, but without the calcium deposits, and His speech is easier to understand. Plus He has a mighty posse of angels you don't want to tussle with.
So open your eyes! God is amazing! He's superfantastic! He's an active environmentalist, a peacekeeper, and likes to bend weapons in half with his bare hands.
Take a knee. Take a chill. Step back and relax and take a look. He's there, all around you, above everything, high on that hill at Fantasy Island.
And He's ready to rumble."

Effective immediately.