All Things Being Unequal

This morning I am thinking about the verdict that was reached last night in the case of Florida vs. George Zimmerman.  It was difficult for me, trying to work through the knot of emotions I experienced upon hearing the words “Not Guilty.”  Most pronounced was a tremendous sadness…the kind I have felt a few times before, when hope gave way to cynicism and I resolved that it was no longer reasonable to keep believing for something good.  I am thankful for having the benefit of being able to do two things that always help whenever I am vexed beyond words—pray and get some rest.  With a mind that is a bit clearer right now, I am gaining some insight into why my heart felt so torn.  It is because I had been trying to equate justice with a few other virtues and values.  At least in our justice system, these things have little or nothing to do with each other.  In our system, justice does not equal truth.  I believe I could get an “Amen” to that from some people who are still upset about the verdict in the O. J. Simpson trial almost two decades ago.  It is an interesting system indeed in which “not guilty” does not mean the same as “innocent.”  In our system, justice does not equal compassion.  In fact, jurors are admonished to put their emotions aside in making decisions that can impact lives and communities for generations.  So, it is difficult to fathom—much less accept—that a defendant like Casey Anthony may rightfully be granted freedom, when a toddler has been killed.  In our system, justice does not equal peace.  How striking that it should be necessary for law enforcement officials and other leaders to make appeals for peace, “regardless of the verdict” that came down last night.  And, even if there is perfect calm outwardly in the streets, I wonder about the battles with fear, anger, and distrust that are going on in the hearts and minds of many who have been profoundly affected by this case and others like it.  All things being unequal, our system of justice is much more favorable to some, and it is absolutely formidable to others.  I find myself wishing I could somehow lift the blindfold from Lady Justice’s eyes, if only for a moment.  I would want her to see that her scale is not as balanced as she might suspect.  I imagine she’d want to know that.  I believe she would want to adjust.                    

Taking Notes

This morning I am thinking about how, one year ago at this time, I was in bed wishing desperately that I could go back to sleep.  It was the day of the funeral for my brother, Andy.  I had written in my prayer journal the night before, “I am so thankful that You are the God of all comfort.  Please help me get through this, and let me be better…not bitter.”  As I sit reflecting on the lessons learned through my process of grief and healing over the past year, I am reminded of my brother’s passion for teaching.  How he loved expounding and exhorting from the Word, both as a pastor and as friend.  I remember going to his house that day, after the home going service was concluded and all the guests were gone.  Feeling absolutely lost, I just wanted to be in a place…in a space…where he once was.  I walked through each room of the house, and I know it was not by accident that I ended up in his study.  It was there that I found three post-its on a bookshelf.  In his distinctive handwriting, there were what I presumed to be sermon notes.  As I read them, I couldn’t recall a particular message I’d heard him preach in which these points were used.  But, it was as though he was speaking to me so clearly through the words.  On one note, he had written: “Don’t make permanent what is transitional.”  On another, he wrote: “Your present circumstance is not an indication of your future potential.  Lift up your eyes.  You will never catch a vision if you keep on rehearsing your weakness.”  On the third note, he wrote: “Facts are what you see.  Truth is what God says.  Receive it prophetically, like you already have it presently.”  Perhaps it goes without saying that I took those notes, and I have kept them in the nightstand by my bed since then.  I took out these notes today, and I read them over and over.  I am not sure what this particular sermon of Andy's was about, but I can see what it is teaching me.  I am learning how God truly is mindful of me.  He has a purpose and plans for my life that are good, even though circumstances might sometimes suggest otherwise.  I am richly blessed with God's love, mercy, and favor.  What a lesson!  Of this, I will make note.

False Confessions

This morning I am thinking about a friend who has been dealing with a challenging situation lately.  I call her my little sister, and I’ve been praying for her a lot over the past few days.  The other night she wrote, “I’m tired…I give up!”  Reading her words broke my heart, because I could certainly recall times in my own life of being at place of such discouragement.  I’d find myself flanked by Uncertainty and Second-Guessing on one side, with Guilt and Humiliation on the other.  And they’d badger me in a relentless session of “bad cop, bad cop” until, eventually, I’d confess something that wasn’t true.  I would say, “I can’t do it,” “It’s too late,” “I’m not good enough,” “It’s too hard,” or “I just don’t care anymore.”  As a result of these false confessions, I would become imprisoned in my own unbelief.  And, it didn’t matter if I later wanted to recant my story.  I was still bound by my words because, after all, I had confessed!  Today, I am giving thanks for an Advocate who always has been…and always will be…a true witness during my times of trial.  Even when I find myself locked away and thinking that all hope is lost, He comes to bring me freedom through the truth.  He says, “My grace is sufficient for you; for My strength is made perfect in your weakness.”  He reminds me that “I can do all things through Christ, Who gives me strength.”  He declares that He is “able to do exceeding abundantly above all that I can ask or think, according to the Power that works within me.”  At His word, chains of doubt and despair fall away and I am made free.  So, this is what I declare today for my dear “little sister,” for myself, and for all those I love:  Your false confessions are disproven by the faithful promises in God’s Word.  The sentence you have been serving of hopelessness, fear, shame, or whatever-it-is, has been overturned.  You need no longer be imprisoned by regrets over the past or fears for the future.  You are released to live in joy and confident hope.  You have been given a fresh start, a new beginning.  You are free. 

The Dating Request

This morning I am thinking about one of those sponsored advertisements that popped up on the side of my Facebook page over the weekend.  It said, “James is 1.2 miles from you and has sent you a dating request.”  The ad may have been intended to be clever or convenient, but it came across as rather creepy.  Seriously, who do they believe would be cool with receiving a "dating request" from a complete stranger who is less than two miles away?  (Sounds to me like the makings of an episode of 48 Hours Mystery.)  Eventually, I got around to remembering that I had a choice to just ignore the ad.  So, that’s what I did.  But, it got me thinking about one of my most kooky and comical dating experiences.  The man had been asking me out for a while; however my schedule had never permitted it.  Finally, I agreed I could go to dinner for my birthday as long as could bring my daughter along.  She was about three years old at the time.  We had no sooner been seated when he launched into a speech about being at a place in his life where he knew what he wanted, and he knew he wanted to be married by May.  I should probably mention that my birthday is in February.  Perhaps sensing my tension, my daughter said to him, “I don’t like you.”  Undeterred, he went on to tell me what he expected in a wife and what I could expect from him as a husband.  Once he was done talking, I told him I wished him well and that I would pray for him to meet his wife soon.  And so we ate in awkward silence, interrupted every few minutes by my daughter’s declaration in an increasingly loud tone, “I don’t like you!”  As I sit reminiscing about that and other dating disasters, my heart is led to make my own dating request.  I will tell my Father these desires of my heart...to begin dating a man of wisdom, kindness, and integrity…that we will laugh and have fun and be able to talk about all kinds of things…that he will have eyes to see beyond what I am on the outside and perceive that there are treasures within...that we will grow to be best friends.  And I will go on my way, enjoying each day in faith and trust. I know that when we meet, he will be a wonderful blessing—even if it turns out that, all the while, he was less than two miles…or less than two minutes…away.          

A Favorite Four-Letter Word

This morning I am thinking about one of my favorite four-letter words: HOPE. If you know me at all, you know how much I loved my big brother and saying "goodbye" to him yesterday was harder than I can adequately express. So, I drove to the beach and just sat for a while, watching clouds move slowly across the sky. It occurred to me that something similar is happening in my spirit. Little by little, an unseen wind is pushing away clouds of heaviness and sorrow. The name of that wind is HOPE. I am catching glimpses of blue sky as intermittent cloudiness yields to increasing clarity. Behind the clouds, I see the counsel, friendship, and support my brother gave me through the years...and I am so thankful. I know that this precious love gift named Anthony has been instrumental in preparing me for a beautiful, purposeful life of love and ministry--just as we had prayed, believed, and HOPED. I know he will be so proud of me.

Original post date:  July 3, 2012

One Year Ago Today

This morning I am thinking about the life-changing, heartbreaking experience I was facing exactly one year ago today.  I was standing helplessly by the side of my brother, Andy, in the intensive care unit.  A team of nurses flew in and out of the room trying one thing after another.  In retrospect, I suppose they wouldn’t have allowed me to be standing there, holding his hand and singing to him, unless they realized there really was not much else they could do.  One of the nurses said, “The doctor is on his way.”  Another nurse began to explain how suddenly things had changed.  He said of my brother, “He wasn’t concerned about himself.  He just kept saying, ‘Call my family.’”  I think he intended that bit of information to be comforting, but it truly broke my heart.  “Why hadn’t I stayed with him longer last night?” I wondered.  I remember feeling conflicted as my other siblings started to arrive, each of them saying “goodbye” to Andy.  On one hand, I felt compassion for their grief.  On the other hand, I was angry that they were giving up.  And they seemed unfazed by my announcement that the doctor was on his way.  With all the hope I could muster, I tried to block out the sights and sounds of the respirator.  I tried to shift my attention from the sorrowful countenances all around me.  I tried to pray.  I wondered if Andy could feel me holding his hand.  I wondered if he could hear me singing to him.  I wondered if he was aware that we were all there.  I wondered if he was still there.  Once the doctor arrived and made his grim announcement, I relinquished my façade of strength and optimism, and I wept.  I wondered what in the world I was supposed to do without my big brother, my friend, my confidant, my pastor, my other single sibling, my “person.”  I wondered if my faith would survive this.  I wondered if I would ever really be happy again.  As I reflect on the grace and healing that have filled my life over the past year, I see that my faith was not destroyed.  On the contrary, it been strengthened.  I can remember Andy now, without completely falling apart…his wit and humor, his wisdom, his strength, his kindness, and his love for me.  Most of all, I remember the prayers we prayed together, and it gives me great hope.  It makes me look forward to blessings and answered prayers for which I will be giving thanks one year from now.       

Looking At What I Didn't Want To See

This morning I am thinking about the last days I spent with my big brother, Andy.  I had a routine, in which I’d head over to his house every day as soon as I got off work.  I guess I fancied myself as some kind of sentry whose duty was to stay until at least midnight, even if he’d fallen asleep long before that.  Some days he’d be waiting for me, sitting in the leather rocker he loved so much.  We’d talk, laugh, watch TV, or pray together, agreeing for things we each wanted and needed. Sometimes he’d become overwhelmed by fatigue, so we’d move to his room, where I would sit cross-legged on the side of his bed until he fell asleep.  On other days, I’d find him already sleeping soundly.  So, I’d sit in his leather rocker myself, working on assignments for school.  I realize now that he was so tired, but I really didn’t want to think about it then.  I distinctly remember one day when I walked into his house, there was a great sense of heaviness.  It was eerily quiet, the blinds were closed, and the house seemed especially dark.  In a panic, I flew into his room, where he was lying in bed.  He greeted me with a weak “Hey” and a smile.  Like a maniac, I started opening blinds and turning on lights.  I walked through the house, going from room to room, praying loudly.  I made bold declarations for life and light and joy and peace.  I ended my prayer back in his bedroom, declaring that he would be raised up, stronger than ever, with a testimony of God’s power to heal.  With tears rolling down his face, all he said was, “Lord, thank You for being so good to me.”  I realize now that he was so weak and in so much pain, but I really didn’t want to dwell on it then.  On July 1, 2012 I was once again sitting at his bedside.  This time, it was in his hospital room, and he was drifting in and out of sleep.  I found it impossible to focus on whatever assignment I was supposed to be completing.  I just kept looking at him.  During one of his waking moments, our mother called.  “It’s Mom,” I told him.  “She wants to know how you’re feeling.”  His response was, “Tell her I’m ready to come home.”  I realize now that was getting ready to die, but I simply refused to accept it then.  As he dozed off again, I began to pray desperately.  Pacing back and forth, I launched words of faith from my mouth, aimed at an invisible enemy that was weighty and unyielding.  After a while, I was exhausted.  I packed up my laptop, gathered my other belongings, and prepared to leave.  It was not yet midnight, but I kissed him goodbye and left him alone to rest.  I did not imagine that he would enter into eternal rest early the very next day.  One thing I’ve learned over the past year is that true faith is more than believing God for things to turn out the way I think or hope they should.  Faith also calls for an unwavering trust in the goodness of God’s heart, even when my own heart is broken.  So now, whenever I sit in that leather rocker, I think about Andy.  I remember his wisdom, laughter, kindness, and friendship.  And today, even through tears, I can imagine him giving me the biggest hug and saying, “Everything is going to be alright.  You will see.”