Sunday, December 14, 2008

I wish I could work myself back into the nightly habit of journaling. So much has come and gone in a week. So much has happened.

Yesterday I sat tensely in a pew as Becki entered a packed auditorium and took her last steps down the aisle as a Miss. I strained to hear their words as she and Zach Hall took vows to love, honor and cherish—and always to love Jesus more. The whole week had built up to that one point, like each story—rising to a climax then slowly falling away as I served cake and hot drinks at the reception, running here and there, alternately fielding the compliments that are as common as flowers at weddings and trying to shake hair out of my eyes without using chocolate cake covered fingers.

I find myself wrapped in a straight-jacket of intense weariness every time someone quizzes me about marriage. As we walked toward the reception hall, Sue asked me, “So have you decided that you want one?” “One what?” I asked, typically evasive. “Wedding,” she smiled, indulgently. “To get married.” “Oh, I don’t know,” I answered. “I’m awfully picky.”

Such a bald-faced lie. Not picky. Just stupid. Stubborn. And scared.

Marriage is contagious, they say, and the most contaminated locations for contracting the virus seem to be weddings. I shouldn’t find that surprising. They stack the bride and groom’s best friends up on stage like a criminal line-up. Dressed their best, awaiting inspection. Here, just pick one. And if that’s not enough choices, we’ll call all the single ladies out into the middle of the room to catch these flowers. See, guys? You want to watch for the most aggressive, athletic girl—the one who can snag those flowers and wrestle down any dangerous contenders. That one will make the next perfect, blushing bride. What could be better advertisement for all the single persons present? And the darling, old married couples stand around and make guesses or drop hints and smile knowingly as to who will be next. I’m always glad to have something to do. I’d a million times rather be cutting cake or filling glasses since it keeps me from socializing. Rumors start circulating if you so much as talk to one of those nicely dressed young men present.

I’m not cynical at all.

Truly, though, I love watching a godly couple stand before God and witnesses and take the vows that will sanction their marriage. The pure joy that radiates from their faces as they stand before each other, finally able to join as man and wife sends my heart racing heavenward. Rejoice with those who rejoice! What a blessed day for those who are joining their lives in service of the King! I just wish the wedding guests would focus a little more on the couple of honor and leave the unmarried among us to do the same.

Lauren asked on the way home from the wedding last night if anyone would want to go with her to the party at Nina’s. “No,” I answered softly. “I’m tired.” Instead we cuddled up in the enormous recliner for a chat. We being defined as Lauren, me and baby Scott. Earlier that morning as we stood in the guest room, my eyes had fallen on a baggie filled with cheerios. “Lauren,” I said, softly, “Cheerios? Cheerios work wonderfully for staving off morning sickness. Are you having morning sickness?” She’d turned her back to me to change her shirt and I heard her muffled voice as she desperately tried to be evasive. “You’re not supposed to ask questions like that.” Inside I was grinning from ear to ear. “May I ask?” She looked completely defeated but finally assented. Six weeks pregnant, she is, and I’m to keep the secret. I bounced up and down because I’ll finally be a spinster aunt! So we cuddled up and talked about all sorts of things, but mostly about theology. I don’t remember how it began, but she wanted to talk about Reformed Theology--she thinks she agrees with it but will back-pedal on each point, if pressed. Each word she said sent barbs into my heart though I know she never meant to. Papa’s been terribly burned by some friends who have called themselves “Reformed.” Friends who seemed so determined to pursue godly fellowship, then abandoned him or drifted away when they became impulsively wrapped up in systematic theology. Those wounds run so deeply, though he bravely says little and still offers his friendship and fellowship to those with differing theology. So I find myself wanting to fight against anything that smells remotely of Reformation theology, even though I know I lean slightly that direction in my understanding. I understand the five points of Calvinism and the arguments from both sides, though I pretend oblivion to avoid dissension. The points are founded on truth but, it seems to me, when chased to logical completion, go beyond what I can confidently assert from scripture. However, those who subscribe to the "doctrines of grace" seem to have a greater value for Biblical roles, for the family and also a clearer understanding of God's glory and certainly His sovereignty. I admire Glenn, who leans that direction as well, while refusing the take a man's name and has proven himself to be a faithful friend to my father. I've enjoyed wonderful relationships with girls who have grown up in reformed families. I've learned from Reformed teachers and been encouraged by the biographies of Reformers. And also those who would argue against all things Calvin. I'm no theologian. I can't put truth in a neat package or a 500 page book and be satisfied. The wearying truth is that I don’t know the answer to the Calvinism debate and it doesn’t seem of great importance to me. Why is it even a debate among believers? Aren't we supposed to encourage one another and build each other up? The purpose of theology is not to answer all our questions, but to cause us to fall on our knees in worship of Yahweh!

This morning began with another piece of news. Tabitha called for me. Early. Before church. “I have something to tell you,” and I knew what it would be. “Cliff and I are engaged. We got engaged last night.” So there’s a culmination to that. Zach and Becki are finally married, Lauren is finally going to have a baby and Tabby is finally engaged.

Nathaniel shared today his fears and doubts concerning the truth of Christ’s claim to be Messiah. Does the Old Testament truly foretell the King we worship? In two places he found answers that reveal much of Jesus. My heart and soul and mind agonized as I listened to him. If Jesus is not the answer, then there is no hope. Are we waiting forever for a Messiah? Are we lost without a redeemer? Are our sins laid on us still? Inside I wept, outwardly I sat silently, listening. I can’t imagine living without the hope of someday being perfect. Without knowing that Jesus has come and has been the perfect sacrifice once for all. I cling to His promises. I cling to Him. I must. Otherwise I perish.

Sometimes I think of a helpless kitten, imprisoned in a burlap sack and thrown like garbage into a river. How miserable it must be, how utterly hopeless that kitten as it claws uselessly at the unforgiving fabric and gasps for breath. I thought I had passed by the pit of despair—I thought I had caught the life-line and clambered out of it. But the same baggage presses me down, pulls me under, weighs my spirit. I choked out the first confession to Josiah as I cleaned the Ware’s Monday. Since then I’ve improvised the most terrible-sweet-miserable things on the piano. Can that instrument feel the fear, the despair the desperate cry for hope as I set my heart loose in wordless song? My soul voices itself in music—and my intellect stops to listen in breathless wonder, sucked into the melancholy of my own creation. I only play like that when my heart is breaking.

I can’t count the many times it has broken.

Tonight it broke again.

For every person in the world who has ever felt the ragged pain of a broken heart, I wept and played and prayed. Because sin destroys what God created good. Because division, strife, argument, anger, bitterness and hatred are rife. Because every person I know is broken and battered and bleeding.

Wounded. And like wounded animals, we strike out and wound others.

With my whole heart and my whole being I want to heal the wounds. God in heaven, my heart is heavy. My heart is broken. My heart is bleeding. I can only hold it in my two small, cold hands and weep and watch it quiver and tremble. How can I heal the pain and anguish of a wounded world? I can’t! Entirely helpless, I claw at my burlap sack, desperate, pleading not to drown in the overwhelming sorrow.

This world longs for a Savior. It groans for recreation. It weeps for truth and joy. It must cling to hope! It must embrace faith. It must pursue love.

“Go, and consider what this means—I desire compassion and not sacrifice.”

God allows pain. He allows heartache. Because only He can heal the wounds. Only He can mend hearts. Only through Jesus. We must have a Savior. We need Him. Desperately. Helplessly. Hopelessly. There is no joy apart from Him. Only when we yield ourselves as living sacrifices, renewed in mind by His truth, do we find purpose. Hope. Stability.

Always, always, always. God must drive us to Himself. Through Jesus.

Because without Him we are entirely lost.

My hopeless soul can’t even plead
That Thou would fill my every need
Because my words cannot express
The horror of my helplessness.

My sin so starkly separates
And yet Thy own Son mediates
That I might by Thy Spirit plead
For Thou to fill my every need.