"Did You Really Mean It?"

After my blog post last night about A Severe Mercy I went to bed full of joy and peace.  Somehow the words that I wrote had seeped into my soul, reviving me and reminding me that I do indeed trust my Maker to give me the very best.

But while I slept I had a horrible nightmare.  It started with the usual bad guys chasing me sort of thing.  I thought I was clear of them, and I was driving in my car talking on the phone to my friend Melinda.  We exchanged the normal chit chat until I saw that the villains had found me and were indeed shooting at my car.  A bullet grazed the window but didn't break the glass. It was at that point that I decided the best course of action would be for me to ram my car into the wall right in front of me.  I thought my pursuers would think I was dead and leave me alone, but what I didn't know was that there was a bicyclist on the other side of the wall.  Long and short of it is that the bicyclist died and I found myself explaining to the cops why I had done such an insane act.  "I was being pursued!  They were shooting at me!" was met with "Have you been drinking Ms. Garcia? Were you distracted by your phone?"  They didn't arrest me that night but the plan was to bring me in for more questioning in the morning.  I found myself face to face with my dad sobbing and saying, "I just wrote these words.  I just blogged that 'all that can be shaken will be shaken'.  My life as I know it is going to be over. I'm going to prison. My kids will be left alone. God is shaking me!"  And with that I woke up, heart-racing, panicked.

As I recounted my dream to Herb these questions filled my mind: will I still trust Him?  If this exact thing were to happen tonight, if my distracted driving led to the accidental death of someone else, could I still trust God's severe mercy in the prison sentence?  Could I still trust God's severe mercy in the anguish of knowing my poor choices had led to the death of someone else?   Could I sit in prison just as Paul did and REJOICE?  Could I write letters to others as Paul did and tell them to REJOICE, again I say REJOICE? (Philippians 1:18)

If I truly believe the words I wrote yesterday, the words that gave all credit and praise to the God who will make all things new (Rev. 21:5), who will work all things together for my good (Romans 8:28), who brings beauty from ashes (Isaiah 61:3), then I have to be at peace with anything that happens. Whether it be prison, or rape, or loss of my children, or homelessness, or torture, or whatever other horrific thing my mind can think up, I have to believe that God will work those things together for my good.  That He is capable of working those things together for my good.  They may not be what He wanted, in fact He will cry real tears as He watches the suffering of this world that I have to endure, but He will look me in the eye and tell me, "I will make this new.  I will redeem this.  I will make something more beautiful than you can even fathom. Wait. Watch me. Trust me."  And because I have known His severe mercies before, because I have watched Him redeem so much of what is broken in my life, I will look back into His eyes and say, "I will."

It is certainly my hope and prayer that none of these atrocities become a part of my life, but I appreciate that God felt the need to ask me, "Did you really mean it? What you said in that post, did you mean it? Do you trust me?"  I'm thankful that He called me on my boldness, perhaps even my arrogance, to remind me, that this thing He has called me to isn't easy, in fact it might be excruciating. He forced me to ask if I was up for the challenge. He reminded me of what C.S. Lewis said: "We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful that best will turn out to be." There is a pondering and a trepidation that comes with thinking about how much pain might lie ahead. But there is also a peace in knowing who I am walking into that future with; He forced me to look at the certainty of faith I have in Him. Jesus wasn't about to let me speak my words lightly, and so now I am reminded that I am choosing to believe in His severe mercies no matter how bleak my tomorrow is.  He who is promised is faithful.  He will redeem, He will make all things new.  And this, my friends, is true Hope.

A Severe Mercy

I recently finished the memoir A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken. This book is many things; it is a love story, the tale of Davy and Sheldon and their Shining Barrier of love against the world.  It is a testimony of how each Davy and Sheldon came to know Jesus as their Savior.  It is a tragedy, guiding the reader through the journey of grief in the immense loss of a spouse. And it is a journal of correspondence between the author and C. S. Lewis, as each of them walked with the other through friendship and grief.  It is a beautiful book, and I keep telling everyone I know they should read it. But it is the title, the title alone, that has resonated over my heart this past week.

The title comes from a letter C.S. Lewis wrote to Vanauken shortly after Davy died.  Lewis is speaking of Sheldon and Davy's immense love for one another, a love that to the world seemed perfect, impenetrable.  This love, however, was rocked as each Davy and Sheldon became Christians.  Prior to their conversion they believed that whenever conflict arose they would Appeal to Love and decide which side of the coin was best for their love. Knowing Jesus changed that; the appeal was now to God, and Davy was comfortable with the change.  She was in love with her Redeemer and her devotion to Him was now the basis for all decision making, all life living.  Sheldon, no matter how deeply he loved Jesus, could not let go of Davy.  He wanted her for himself; he coveted her time, her attention, her devotion to the things he valued and cared for. He loved God, but he could not demote his love for Davy, and he grew bitter that she had demoted her love for him.  Most of this never came to a head while Davy lived, but she did pray and offer her life in exchange for Sheldon's faithfulness to shift from her to Jesus.  And her prayer was answered; a year and a half later she was gone and Sheldon found himself face to face with God.  Lewis points out to Vanauken what he could not see in himself:

 "'One way or another the thing had to die.  Perpetual spring-time is not allowed.  You were not cutting the wood of life according to the grain.  There are various possible ways in wh. it cd. have died tho' both parties went on living.  You have been treated with a severe mercy.  You have been brought to see (how true & how v. frequent this is!) that you were jealous of God. So from US you have been led back to US AND GOD; it remains to go on to GOD AND US. She was further on than you, and she can help you more where she now is than she could have done on earth.  You must go on...There's no other man, in such affliction as yours, to whom I'd dare write so plainly. And that, if you can believe me, is the strongest proof of my belief in you and love for you. To fools and weaklings one writes soft things. You spared her (v. wrongly) the pains of childbirth: do not evade your own, the travail you must undergo while Christ is being born in you.  Do you imagine she herself can now have any greater care about you than that this spiritual maternity of yours shd. be patiently suffered & joyfully delivered?'" (C.S. Lewis to Vanauken in A Severe Mercy).

A Severe Mercy.  Severe being strict or harsh, mercy being full of compassion and forgiveness.  How can these two co-exist?  They are an oxymoron of sorts.  How can we receive a harsh compassion? It was indeed severe, harsh, horrific, heart-rending to have Davy stolen away from Sheldon.  His companion, his best friend, his lover stolen from him after only 12 years together.  But if Vanauken really wanted Jesus, if He truly desired to be changed, to be transformed, to bend his knee to the King of Glory, he could not love Davy to the degree he did before.  She could no longer be his everything.  And as long as she lived, he was unable severe that love, to make the leap to GOD AND US.  And so with the greatest compassion and mercy, knowing the true longings of Sheldon's heart, Davy is taken home to be with Jesus.

I remember distinctly someone telling me after Hope died that I would someday be grateful for her death.  After such aching loss it seemed like such a bitter blow.  But six years later I sit here and I am grateful.  You see, in the months leading up to Hope's death, I was crippled by anxiety.  It had been a rough year and in an attempt to feel in control I began to obsess over everything, but specifically germs. I would bring a meal to a friend, washing my hands 40 times in the 40 minutes it took me to make the meal, and then I would sit by the phone and wait to make sure no one had gotten food poisoning.  I broke a jar in the school parking lot, and I searched for an hour for the tiny pieces of glass so that I might not be responsible for some student cutting their foot open.  My fear was paralyzing me. Enter a pregnancy where you worry about deli meat, unpasteurized cheese, caffeine and any substance consumed. I was going to keep this baby healthy if it killed me.  From the moment Hope died I knew with certainty I couldn't have done anything to change the outcome.  No crazy amounts of obsessive control could have kept her alive.  Losing my sweet girl was severe, it is still severe. (Sunday at church I started sobbing during a worship song as I remembered this baby who I never really got to know.)  And also her death was merciful.  God used her death to free me.  I hold my Josh and Izzy so loosely because I know that while I can control some things, these babies are entrusted to me but belong to God.  There is such FREEDOM in knowing I am not in control, and that is God's mercy in my life.

My most recent severe mercy came in our move to Phoenix.  This past week marks a year ago that our house sold in Tucson and the ball began rolling toward a move I did not want. I was leaving my very best friends, a home I loved, my dreams of what I envisioned my life to be.  To say I was heart-broken was an understatement.  This change was severe; I was angry with God.  How could He break me so?  Hadn't I been broken enough?  And yet, I had faith. I believed God had asked us to move and so I had to believe He had a reason.  This year has been amongst the hardest of my life.  Loneliness, parenting challenges, loneliness, discomfort, loneliness. But I have also seen God change Herb and me in ways I never could have imagined.  Herb has grown so much as a parent; he's grown in confidence, in creativity, in love.  He is pursuing God in new ways and surrounded by men who are challenging him to do so.  We are on mission and in ministry so much differently than we have ever been. I have found a community where I feel challenged to grow as a mom, as a student of the Word, as a wife, as a teacher.  God has placed me in a mission field I wouldn't have thought of in Tucson.  Izzy is going to a school that will offer her unique learning opportunities and life experiences.  Through our friendships here we found a sleep specialist who has revolutionized Josh's sleep; I have a confident, more healthy and exuberant little boy.  The short version of that is that I am so thankful we moved to Phoenix.  The harsh move, brought merciful renewal in our lives.

Hebrews 12:27-29 says: "And His voice shook the earth then, but now He has promised, saying, “Yet once more I will shake not only the earth, but also the heaven.” This expression, “Yet once more,” denotes the removing of those things which can be shaken, as of created things, so that those things which cannot be shaken may remain. Therefore, since we receive a kingdom which cannot be shaken, let us  show gratitude, by which we may offer to God an acceptable service with reverence and awe;  for our God is a consuming fire."

God shakes those things which we are dependent on, the ones we hold so closely to, the ones where we get our value and identity, the ones that give us our strength, and He shakes, and He shakes, and He shakes, until we let go.  It is severe; we love those things more than we can ever hope to articulate, but it is merciful because that "which cannot be shaken may remain."  God will shake away the strongholds we have so that we have no other choice but to hold on to Him who will always be, Him who will always love, Him who remains faithful until the end of time.

Six years ago I wrote about this same idea (All That Can Be Shaken).  Since then my experiences with severe mercies have grown; these severe mercies keep coming and deepening in severity.  I have lived through many severe mercies in my life, and I am so thankful to be able to name them as such.  Being able to look at your most painful moments and see how God was compassionate to you in those moments is not only a gift, it is evidence that your grief journey has worked it's way in and through you.  When you can see the purpose for the pain not only can you be grateful for it, but you can hunker down differently when the next wave of grief comes, for it will come.  Hebrews 12:28 is right, after all that can be shaken is shaken, we can come with gratitude and awe for we know that the consuming fire of our God has burned away that which is worthless and left the pure gold in its wake.

One more note: I love that C.S. Lewis says to Vanauken that he only speaks this truth to him because he loves and believes in him.  It is not an easy thing to hear that in God's severity there is somehow mercy.  When your heart aches you want to punch the person who tells you it's all for a reason.  As tears stream down your face and your grief is too much for you, you don't need to hear that someday you'll understand your loss.  Only the truest of friends, at the most God-ordained moments, should say these things to a grieving friend.  Most of the time the griever just needs someone to sit with them, cry with them, and grieve with them.  Someday, after the waves recede, there will be conversations of what God is and was doing.  But wait, wait for God to guide and move. Speak to a friend whose heart you know intimately.  And in the meanwhile, cry, for the severity in all of its goodness, hurts like hell.