Custom Built

Confession: What I’m about to say is going to sound an awful lot like self pity. But I’m going to take a moment and speak some personal truth.

Sometimes, in moments of exasperation and exhaustion, I fantasize about what it must be like to live a “normal life”. To have children with two, involved, living parents. To have a calendar filled with piano lessons, school dances and track meets instead of visits to specialists, therapists and hospitals. To have a phone ring, and it be someone other than the school nurse or autism support room teacher reporting on the latest issue. To explore colleges with your kids, and focus on available majors and activities and location rather than availability of quality food that won’t poison them.

I’ll confess, that sometimes I’m tempted to resent the life and story line that God has given me and my kids.

But there’s a verse in Ephesians which keeps rearing its head. It tugs at my brain, grabs me by my spirit, and pulls me out of this self pity pit and resentment spiral.

“For we are God’s handiwork, His masterpiece, His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

Since my earliest days of Sunday School, I’ve heard about God the Creator. That I am “fearfully and wonderfully made” and “created in His image”. So for the longest time, I would look at that verse in Ephesians through the lens that I’ve been designed with certain physical capabilities, talents and skills that God has given me to do good things in this world.

But in the face of my resentment, this verse has been making me dig further lately to consider that the way God has designed me goes beyond my genetic makeup and resume. That His creative work in me is ongoing as he carves experiences into me through the very life story line I sometimes resent. What if those moments of discomfort, pain, sorrow...the non-normal living that occupies space in my story...what if that’s where his handiwork, his mastery, his workmanship really shine?

And what if the result is a specially designed, one-of-a-kind, perfect instrument custom-built to do a specific, targeted, unique work in this world, as no one else could?

It stops me in my tracks to think that when it comes to completing the good works God has prepared for us, the most powerful and effective tools we bear could actually be those painful experiences and deepest hurts we endure. That the very best chances I have to make a difference in someone’s life, in my community, in my world are made possible by the qualifications I’ve received through these most difficult points in my story line.

When I consider the experiences and circumstances God has chosen to weave into my life, I can see I am custom-built for laser-focused empathy, comfort and encouragement for the person who has to

• Write an obituary for a parent.
• Process the news that someone she loves took his life.
• Attend a 50th anniversary party weeks after signing divorce papers, fully cognizant that she will never have such a celebration.
• Sit in an IEP meeting by herself, hoping desperately that the eyes of others in the room will open so they can truly see that her child is so much more than a diagnosis.
• Press for one more blood test for a child, because gut instinct and incessant googling won’t let her drop this suspicion that something’s wrong.
• Face a spouse who tells her he’d be happier without her.

Don’t get me wrong -- these experiences absolutely sucked to go through.

But I am going to try like crazy to trust that they make me more complete and perfect to do the work God’s prepared for me. And I'm going to trust that my kids, because of their specially crafted story lines, are going to be super-powerful, custom-built instruments to complete the works God has for them as well.

It is my prayer that the experiences of our deepest hurts are not wasted. That they are redeemed and made useful in bringing real, authentic, laser-focused comfort to others.

Because that’s a good work that is worth it.

Standing

Today I was reminded of something.

A couple of years ago, my counselor told me that the word she would use to describe me was ‘survivor’. I immediately hated that. Survivor feels like a passive participant who stumbled upon victory – someone who by luck and chance and wits managed to walk away from the plane crash or cancer. Someone whom life had acted upon; a victim of circumstance, but yet managed to eek her way through.

Without a whole lot of thought, I responded that I’d rather be described as a Warrior. Someone who has been actively pursuing victory. Perhaps the odds weren’t in her favor, but she fought courageously anyway. Fighting against the enemy. Strong, and certainly not a victim.

At that point, as she was a big proponent of yoga, she introduced me to the Warrior Pose. As soon as I saw it, something clicked in my brain, and I knew it was the visual representation of what I wanted my life to be.

I have to begin by saying I know nothing about yoga.

My time spent attempting the Virabhadrasana 1 (Vira=hero, bhadra=friend, asana=pose) position was directed by a variety of YouTube videos and miscellaneous websites and nods of friends. I have no idea if what I was doing was technically correct. But I feel OK about that, because the way I’ve been doing Life is probably not technically correct either.

The first time I did this pose, I was dressing for work in my bedroom. I attempted to recreate what I saw in the photo galleries on my screen, my right knee bent over my right ankle, my left leg extended back with left foot slightly tilted. As I awkwardly extended my arms upward, I became acutely aware of only one feeling. Pain. I hurt, deep within every muscle between my knees and waist.  I had no idea how painful standing still could be.

What I desperately wanted to do in that moment was move. Shift my weight. Pick a different position. But to do this correctly, I couldn’t choose a different position – after all in life, often (maybe not always, but often) circumstances are chosen for you. In this position I was called to stand still.

I observed two things during this attempt and those that followed.

First. The grip between my feet and the surface on which I stood deeply affected my strength and ability to maintain that position. That connection could make or break me. No matter my inner strength, my physical strength, if I stood on a slippery surface in socks, I had no chance of holding my position.

And Second. I could affect the magnitude of the pain for brief moments in time by shifting my focus to my hands. As I considered where my hands were reaching, and concentrated my mind on that location, I noticed that pain occupied less of my attention. That time was short though, because as soon as I made the observation, I thought about pain, and my thoughts went back to my aching muscles, that hurt just as much as before. But because of those brief moments, I had new hope that I could stand longer and stronger than I had previously thought possible. 

As I’ve been reflecting on these things, the pain of standing, the significance of the connection with the surface upon which one stands, and the focus of one’s attention, I’ve thought much about God’s word in Ephesians, “Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power…then after the battle, you will still be standing firm. Stand your ground.”

Grief was the ache I felt deep within during those days years ago. I woke up, and it hit my chest like a brick before I even got out of bed. It was my first emotion of the day. This was not a circumstance I chose for myself. This was thrust upon me. And just like when I attempted the Warrior pose and itched to move to relieve the pain, I had that same desire in life. But that’s not how life works, and I had observed that as my former husband had tried to outrun his pain. He had immersed himself in video games, alcohol, pornography. He ran away, moved out, obsessed about others. And eventually, took his life.

Standing firm, though it sounds deceptively simple, is hard. And it can be painful.

The ability to stand your ground depends greatly on where you are deriving your strength – what you are rooted in – and where you place your hope -- what you focus on. Standing our ground, claiming this space for light and love and reconciliation despite all that seeks to darken and despise and condemn, is what God asks of us. Just as Gandalf reminded the soldiers of Gondor, that “no matter what comes through that Gate, you will stand your ground.” That is His call for us, for you, for me.

And here I sit, remembering that lesson. Though years have passed, and circumstances have changed, standing still in my mess continues to bring new challenges. So I'm grateful for the reminder.

Warrior. hero friend. Whatever the battle brings you today. Don’t run. Don’t charge. Dig your roots in deep. Focus on what matters. And stand your ground.