The Wednesday morning before Thanksgiving, as I got out of bed, a word came to me: loss. Loss, I thought, is the theme for this new year (my theme years do not follow calendar restraints). It was a disconcerting word, but there it was, and it did seem to follow naturally from last year's theme of fighting fear, which turned out to involve accepting, if not straight out embracing, sacrifice in various forms (the theme is not mastered before it changes). I extrapolated from the single word "loss" to land on the theme as the processing of loss, beyond merely the actual experience of it.
Through the course of the day, lyrics and lines on loss popcorned into my head:
I remembered a scene from a record we used to listen to as kids, called Nathaniel the Grublet, in which Nathaniel has found himself in the dark forest of Direwood and is beginning to turn "see-throughish." A voice speaks out of the darkness and tells him that he has to lose himself in order to find himself.
And then that night was the Thanksgiving service at Harvest. People spoke of the increase in the love of God that comes with a conviction of sin in a specific sense; of the C.S. Lewis contention that friendship is enriched when friends are not hoarded to ourselves; of the truth that God meets us in places we didn't expect to be, and blesses us there in ways we would not have imagined. Pastor Dale preached on "Greed Vs. Gratitude," that a spirit of thankfulness pushes out greed.
I needed to hear those things, all of them, and in hearing them on the same day as the word "loss," I felt armed against the coming year.
But "life comes in waves and makes its demands" (another Sara Groves line), and I have never been good at holding loosely. I have counted days like beads on a strand leading to inevitable ends, and I have grown harsh and bitter as each bead passes under my fingers. I feel it as probably my greatest thorn in the flesh, one I have often prayed to be taken away. If God's power is perfected in weakness, I don't understand why it seems like I am allowed to cycle through the same angrily self-protective patterns over and over again. (That doesn't seem like my idea of power perfected. Can grace really be sufficient when you don't see it accomplishing anything?) And then when people leave, for whatever reason, I am often sure it is because I didn't learn the right lesson first.
I don't believe this will change. I want to. I try to. But really I don't, really I see myself over and over and over both mourning and getting angry at being left out and left behind. I see myself thrown on that crazy idea of the sufficiency of grace.
"It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not" (Lamentations 3:22).
No matter how much loss there is ahead, no matter if I still respond all too frequently to real or potential loss by lashing out with protective and/or preemptive strikes, no matter if it feels like my heart is blazing destructively. In the midst of the burning, He is walking with me.
This morning, in looking up the reference for a God who doesn't abandon us, I saw that the author of Hebrews grounds contentment in this promise: "be content with what you have, for He has said, 'I will never leave you nor forsake you'" (Hebrews 13:5b). It is, in fact, the same reason Moses gives for the Israelites not to be afraid: "Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you” (Deuteronomy 31:6).
Through the course of the day, lyrics and lines on loss popcorned into my head:
And you will see before the end
That every broken piece
Is gathered in the heart of Jesus
And what's lost will be found again
--from the song "Nothing Is Wasted," by Jason Gray
Many things can be misplaced
Your very memories be erased
No matter what the time or space
You cannot lose my love
--from the song "You Cannot Lose My Love," by Sara Groves
"Even these may forget, but I will not forget you."
--Isaiah 49:15a
I remembered a scene from a record we used to listen to as kids, called Nathaniel the Grublet, in which Nathaniel has found himself in the dark forest of Direwood and is beginning to turn "see-throughish." A voice speaks out of the darkness and tells him that he has to lose himself in order to find himself.
And then that night was the Thanksgiving service at Harvest. People spoke of the increase in the love of God that comes with a conviction of sin in a specific sense; of the C.S. Lewis contention that friendship is enriched when friends are not hoarded to ourselves; of the truth that God meets us in places we didn't expect to be, and blesses us there in ways we would not have imagined. Pastor Dale preached on "Greed Vs. Gratitude," that a spirit of thankfulness pushes out greed.
I needed to hear those things, all of them, and in hearing them on the same day as the word "loss," I felt armed against the coming year.
But "life comes in waves and makes its demands" (another Sara Groves line), and I have never been good at holding loosely. I have counted days like beads on a strand leading to inevitable ends, and I have grown harsh and bitter as each bead passes under my fingers. I feel it as probably my greatest thorn in the flesh, one I have often prayed to be taken away. If God's power is perfected in weakness, I don't understand why it seems like I am allowed to cycle through the same angrily self-protective patterns over and over again. (That doesn't seem like my idea of power perfected. Can grace really be sufficient when you don't see it accomplishing anything?) And then when people leave, for whatever reason, I am often sure it is because I didn't learn the right lesson first.
I don't believe this will change. I want to. I try to. But really I don't, really I see myself over and over and over both mourning and getting angry at being left out and left behind. I see myself thrown on that crazy idea of the sufficiency of grace.
"It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not" (Lamentations 3:22).
No matter how much loss there is ahead, no matter if I still respond all too frequently to real or potential loss by lashing out with protective and/or preemptive strikes, no matter if it feels like my heart is blazing destructively. In the midst of the burning, He is walking with me.
This morning, in looking up the reference for a God who doesn't abandon us, I saw that the author of Hebrews grounds contentment in this promise: "be content with what you have, for He has said, 'I will never leave you nor forsake you'" (Hebrews 13:5b). It is, in fact, the same reason Moses gives for the Israelites not to be afraid: "Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you” (Deuteronomy 31:6).
Not "never until you give Him a reason," or "never until He finds someone more interesting/attractive/worthy," or "never until..." anything. Just...never.
This is my manifesto, written that Thanksgiving week so that I could recall it:
I will not brace myself against all forms of loss.
I will not hold tightly to people in expectation that they will leave me or be taken from me at any second and with the false notion that it is only up to me if they stay.
As people leave or are taken (because it happens), I will remember that this is not the story of my life only, and that it is not for the character to rail against the story the author is writing.
I will remember that paths may cross more than once.
I will consider that while the future holds many losses, there is also much to be gained, and that some gains would not be possible had there not been losses first.
I will not negatively anticipate my future, assuming the worst and living as though it has already happened.
I will be grateful for the time I have been given, and make the most of it.
I will count all things as loss compared to the surpassing gain of Christ.
I will not be surprised by trials, nor will I be surprised when the plan of God includes gifts along with trials.
Help me to remember.
