Glimpses of Beauty in the Lingering Ugly

It's four months and counting since the flood. Time does fly. We have yet to begin repairs on our home, but feel we are close to beginning. As we contemplate Christmas in our 400 sq ft trailer, we remember that we are starting from scratch with the Christmas decorations. I'm contemplating whether we should get a tree this year. Will we sacrifice our already slender play area for the beautiful symbol of Christmas? The boys think a mini tree might work, but one boy is concerned about how we will fit all the presents underneath!

There are so many things weighing on my mind lately--so many things unfinished or unknown. I am thankful that God has been teaching me to celebrate the little things in life. Far too often I dwell on things unchangeable or not yet happened, but I am beginning to see the importance of engaging in the present, slowly and thoughtfully.

Each accomplished step in an ongoing project completed. Celebrate.

A special conversation with one of my boys. Give thanks.

A mealtime feast surrounded by faces that I love. Breathe deep. Praise God.

There is always a tension between anticipation and contentment. The load of the future can crush the joy of today. Learning to be content with things being unfinished is difficult. Thankfully, God's mercies are new every morning. (Lam. 3)

But lately I've been bothered by this question: How hard should we fight against the effects of 'the fall'? That rebellion in the garden has real consequences for us today. Surely we should not be complacent about sin. But illness, storms and aging are also consequences of fallen creation so in a certain sense it seems appropriate to fight against them as well.

But when do we cross a line and attempt to usurp the role of Jesus Christ--the One who entered our sin-broke world and began a new creation? Do we think that we can do better than him? Are we trying to create heaven on earth when He has promised us a temporary cross?

At times, I ache with the tension of "the now and not yet." Jesus has begun his new creation, but it is yet to be complete. I long to squirm out of the discomforts of the moment. The effects of sin constrain me and put me in a narrow place. (literally and figuratively!)

But what if we are not meant to be free of it? It's the bitter that makes the sweet so sweet. The sorrow that makes the joy so precious. As food tastes so much better after fasting and the sun's rays warm the soul after weeks of grey. In the same way, foretastes of hell make eternity with Jesus so much more precious. New Creation has broken into the present and my soul glimpses the beauty even in the lingering ugly.

It takes practice to see good in the difficulties--to be intentional about noticing tokens of grace. But can a person who has been blessed with a glorious inheritance act as if she is in poverty. The tokens and foretastes are everywhere if we slow down enough to see.

Trying to Block the Sun with a Speck of Dust

Everywhere I go, I see the t-shirts, "Come Hell or High River." There is a sense of camaraderie. A sense of overcoming something very difficult together. It feels good to be an overcomer. Even so, there are whisperings around us. Uncertainties surface when we least expect it. Will it happen again? Will someone I know be washed away? And then the waves overwhelm because nothing is normal yet. Windows are still boarded, homes are still gutted and there is still no timeline for normal-ness.

Someone recently told me that I was so strong. It felt good to hear. I felt a moment of superhero-ish exaltation. Yet my conscience whispered to me that it rang false.

As ironic as it sounds, I've discovered that even in difficult circumstances, my inner light needs a little damper. Inflated egos are ugly. And I'm beginning to see clearly that my inner light and strength is a flickering wick compared with the massive inferno of God's power, beauty and light. My ego rushes forward to impress, hoping to eclipse an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison. It's like trying to block the sun with a speck of dust.   I'm not sure how many times I need to trip and fall before I understand that God is not impressed with my strength. The power of Christ rests on me in my weakness. (2 Cor. 12:9)

There are some things that can only be learned though experience. God's way defies logic. The way down is the way up. The path to joy is through suffering. The way forward is never straight and easy. It is full of bends and valleys and mountains. It's hard to grow when you're carried from mountaintop to mountaintop, but what's learned in the valley is life changing.

The words of that great preacher, Charles Spurgeon, make me pause:

Those who navigate little streams and shallow creeks, know but little of the God of tempests; but those who "do business in great waters" these see His "wonders in the deep." Among the huge Atlantic waves of bereavement, poverty, temptation, and reproach, we learn the power of Jehovah, because we feel the littleness of man.

It can be easy to live in an illusion of greatness, but it only takes a quiet moment underneath the numberless stars or a long glance at the mighty ocean to feel how small we really are. I find it profoundly freeing to admit my frailty, especially because it causes me to lean on Christ. I feel his mighty power rest upon me in my smallness. In Christ, I become part of something bigger then myself. United to Someone stronger, brighter and infinitely more beautiful than myself, I am filled with hope.

As I walk, trip and crawl through this dark valley, I trust that even though I cannot see clearly, there is a purpose in it. I am learning to be content with weakness and trials because His grace is sufficient for me.

Post-Flood Exhaustion and Compassion

We recently moved into our single-wide trailer on the farm. My boys think it is fantastic. They've been able to go on all sorts of farm adventures. They have been busy catching frogs, shooting arrows, finding cow bones and riding horses.

Despite the carefree ways of our little boys, Clint and I have felt the tension of being displaced. The work to be done battles with our human limitations and so often weariness wins.

HEARTS GROWING IN COMPASSION


A few days ago my two-year-old pulled one of his usual two-year-old pranks while I was on the phone. How many uses can a toddler find for a block of butter? Five, to be exact. And so when this adorable butter-slathered boy comes to me laughing in his slimy glory, I somehow know that he didn't do this alone. Someone unwrapped the butter block for him and encouraged him in his mischief.

In a bad-mothering moment, I burst out crying and couldn't seem to stop. Three little faces looked at me with bewilderment and a maybe a twinge of sorrow. My eldest, feeling terrible about his part in the adventure offered to help me clean it up. As we cleaned, he ventured, "Mom, why did you cry? You never would have done that before. You would have laughed." I thought for a moment because it was true. I told him about the straw that broke the camel's back. To my amazement, he got it.

In that moment, I started to see how God is using our recent difficulties to expand the heart of my son. Namely, God is growing him in compassion. This humbles me and fills me with thankfulness to God because there are some things that I can't teach my children. In fact, I worry that I will damage my children with my mistakes. But it is just like God to show me that despite my weakness, he is able to  expand the hearts of my sons.

THE COMPASSION OF GOD

With everything being so unsettled in my life, I feel like I'm learning about the compassion of God in a new way. Not as an abstract attribute of God, but in a know-it-in-my-gut kind of way.

My heart is wearied by the constant chaos. There are so many unknowns--so many things that I cannot control. I feel like I have been disillusioned by flood and disease. Perhaps God knows that my illusions of stability need to be stripped away in order for me to see clearly.

One thing that has become significantly clearer for me is the compassion of God. It is a quality that I love to see echoed in humanity. Without fail, I am filled with hope because it so strongly points me to the source of all compassion. A.W. Tozer in his book Knowledge of the Holy speaks of the connection between God's mercy and compassion:

"Mercy is an attribute of God, an infinite and inexhaustible energy within the divine nature which disposes God to be actively compassionate."

Actively compassionate. Without limitations. He never grows weary in it, no matter how flawed his loved ones. "For I , the LORD your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, "Fear not, I am the one who helps you.""

Flood, Sweat and Tears

It's hard to describe last week. It feels like a month since last Monday. I was driving to Spruce Grove to visit my parents with the boys when the call came. "They're letting us in tomorrow." After 11 days of waiting, they were finally letting us go home.

When I arrived at our place on Monday evening it was surreal. At first glance the town looked fairly normal, but on closer inspection there was an almost eerie quality to the abandoned town. Businesses were dark, shop windows broken from the powerful flood, and a thick layer of mud was on every surface touched by the murky waters. Ready to greet me as I stepped out of my air conditioned vehicle was the smell of rot--musty, stinking, moldy homes and garbage. As the week went on, more residents were let back in and the sights and smells accumulated. Mounts of mud soaked belongings strewn across every lawn. There was a slight sense of embarrassment among the residents to have their personal belongings so exposed to the picture-taking tourists driving by.  There was uncertainty in the air--everyone a little shaky and not sure where to begin or what to do next. And yet, everyone happy to be doing something because the waiting, without knowing, was excruciating.

At this point, Clint and I were blessed beyond measure by our church family and our own families. Crews organized by our good friend, Frank Evans, worked around the clock to serve us. The amount of blood, sweat and tears shed this week was enormous, but overshadowing it all was the love of God poured out through some amazing people.

This week wasn't without it's share of humorous moments. To mention a few, there was the time when I returned home from the laundromat to discover that one of the men working for us was directing traffic with a pitchfork in his hand. Another time, although I didn't witness this one, Hunter's rubber snake poked it's head out of the murky waters and I hear it made a few grown men jump.

One of the more poignant moments was when Clint loaded hundreds of his muddy library books into the loader to be dumped and noted various books that people had given him that had meant something to him. For me, I had twinges of regret seeing parts of our life battered and muddy--things that were familiar, things that were ours. But for the most part, we felt fairly free to throw away our stuff. At times it even felt cathartic.

 So it has been a week of incredible labour, of gutting and cleaning our basement, yard and garages. A week of discovery and paper work and documenting. A week of cleaning pictures and laundry, of sorting and throwing things away. A week of cooking for work crews and replenishing respirators and rubber gloves. Many who couldn't work prayed for us and for this we are incredibly thankful as well. And above all it has been a week of love. God's love poured out on us through his people. And once again we feel blessed beyond what we thought or hoped for.

There is still a long road ahead, but we trust in a Sovereign God who cares intimately for us. And this, above all, gives us hope.

Flooding and Lupus

As we drove home from church this morning, Clint and I looked at each other. Our middle son was belting out one of his original songs, and we were both thinking the same thing. We are blessed.

We have seen so many tangible tokens of God's grace in our lives.  We have three healthy, beautiful boys, a warm place to stay, a God who loves us and an ever deepening love for each other. We have felt so blessed by the love of our friends and family, and a host of prayers have truly upheld us.

I have been grieving the loss of our home. I wasn't there when the call for evacuation came so I was unable to save our wedding pictures or Knox's blankie. I wasn't able to pack a bag or save sentimental belongings. To lose the place we call home makes me sad, but I am also acutely aware that I have a kingdom that cannot be shaken. There are some things that cannot be touched by flood waters--things that are kept in heaven for me. For this I am thankful.

Last Thursday as the flood waters rose around our house, I was visiting a doctor in Calgary. The diagnosis was lupus. Results from a skin biopsy confirm it. We still don't know the extent of my disease and it may be awhile until I am able to see the specialist that would assess this. Lupus is not curable, but it is treatable and I am praying for a milder, more managable form of the disease in my own life.

God's words through the prophet Isaiah speak to me. I know His compassionate heart and tender care toward his loved ones.

"Fear not, for I am with you;

be not dismayed, for I am your God;

I will strengthen you, I will help you,

I will uphold you with my

righteous right hand."