Thank God that He's not fair!

"Its no big deal...I can handle it. No one else needs to know."

That's what I kept telling myself.

Of all the lies we tell, aren't the ones we tell ourselves, the ones born out of pure emotion, aren't those the most convincing?

I was sitting in my counselor's office two days before Valentine's Day, and we were discussing the everyday things surrounding the direction of my life. I could tell by the questions she was asking that this time, she was digging a little deeper than usual. During our last few meetings, conversations had focused on most of the superficial struggles I was having, or on the struggles of my kids and how I'm sometimes at such an incredible loss to know how to help them. One particular question - I can't even remember what it was at this point - that question finally triggered the response she was after.

"I watched her die."

While most people who know me understand that I was there and saw it happen, since the night that my wife died I've never been able to be completely honest about how it happened. That single response smashed the dam that had been holding all of this toxic emotion inside of me for so long, and it all came out in a flood. Over the next few minutes, I sobbed and heaved and retched and recounted in minute-by-minute detail the suffering that I witnessed.

I had to perform CPR to try to revive her, and its incredible what an effect that's had on me. That act created such a feeling of responsibility for her life, and regardless of what people tell me or how many words I read in the autopsy report telling me there was nothing I could have done, that feeling is hard to shake loose.

Right now most of the people reading this blog are friends of mine. Some I've known for many years and others, like the folks in my widow and widower group, I've only known for a short time. Since most of my friends are creative people, and since creative people tend to be incredibly visual I'm purposely leaving out most of the detail here out of respect for their feelings. I need to paint a few broad strokes though so that you can understand where I'm going with this. She suffocated. A blood clot cut off the ability for her lungs to transfer oxygen to her bloodstream, and over the next few minutes she fought to stay alive.

I remember sitting in the waiting room of the hospital after the ambulance had transported her body there. I was surrounded by an incredible group of men, and for whatever reason, the words to Chris Tomlin's How Great Is Our God just kept singing out in my head. I was so torn because I believed it in my heart but just didn't understand why God had taken her.

It's not fair.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. - James 1:2-4

You know how when we're falling in love with someone, after awhile little physical imperfections start to become incredibly endearing to us? Maybe it's a crooked tooth or a freckle in a certain spot, but after awhile those things become the beautiful, unique fingerprints of God on the person we love.

My wife was incredibly sick with heart disease for several years, and was fortunate enough to have her life extended by a heart transplant. During those years she went through countless hospitalizations and several surgeries. Her weight more than doubled because she was retaining so much fluid. Every time I'd bring her home from the hospital she'd have another scar either from a procedure, an errant needle stick, or surgery, and her skin was stretched and misshapen from the pressure that all of the fluid created.

It's not fair.

When we'd return home from the hospital I'd look at those scars and stretch marks and find myself falling more and more deeply in love with her, because every scar, every mark, had a story behind it and I had had been a witness to most of them. Sharing in her suffering brought us closer together in five short years than most people experience in decades of marriage.

Since the night that she died I've often felt that it was all so unfair, and that's been a common theme in many of the conversations I've had with others about the whole experience. As I sat there in my counselor's office detailing all of my emotions that day, those words came out once again.

"It's not fair."

Then from out of nowhere a question hit me. Did Jesus think life was fair?

Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him. - James 1:12

This experience has changed the way I look at my Lord forever. Imagine what it must have been like for Mary to watch her own Son beaten and crucified. Did her love for her Son grow because she knew the story behind each of His scars? What about the disciples? Did each of them sacrifice their own lives because sharing in the suffering of Jesus brought them so close to Him? Both Mary and the disciples were witnesses to the scars of Jesus, and saw God glorified through His death and resurrection.

Thank God that He's not fair!

I was standing in church yesterday, and the worship leader started singing How Great Is Our God. I stood there with tears flowing down my face, singing at the top of my lungs one moment, and completely unable to speak the next. I'm still messed up and healing and trying to overcome the emotional immaturity that spurs from this kind of trauma (that's a future blog post in itself), but I asked myself; how is it that God can take the worst experience of my life, and turn it into the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me next to salvation itself? How can I respond to that other than to simply fall down in front of Him in absolute awe of that kind of love?

Thank God that He's not fair!

Copyright 2008

God Is In My iPod

According to the information bar at the bottom of my iTunes window, the soundtrack of my life is currently four-thousand-sixteen songs and eleven point five days long. That's not huge by some standards, but since somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred of my CDs were stolen some years ago, it is what it is. I'm over it...most of the time.

Lately my iPod has been my lifeline. My wife passed away recently (she was only thirty), and I'll regularly plug in the earbuds and escape for a few minutes. Sometimes my goal is to stop feeling so rotten, but lately I've been listening more and more to songs that remind me of her. I was leaving work one day last week, and feeling down and dejected about more than a few things. I slid into the driver's seat of my truck, closed the door, and plugged my iPod into the stereo. Once I started down the road I scanned through the menus, set up song shuffle mode, and just hit the play button.

God grabbed my iPod and hit me smack dab in the center of my knucklehead with...

You Found Me - FFH - God seeks us out in our times of fear and loneliness. (Gen 3:9)

On Our Side - Chris Tomlin - Nothing can separate us from God's love in Christ Jesus. (Rom 8:28-39)

Through The Fire - The Crabb Famliy - God's promise in times of trial. (Isa 41:1-3)

Our God Reigns - Brandon Heath - We will all see God on the throne. (Rev 19:5-7)

To say it was just what I needed is an understatement. Anyway, it was at that point that God let go of my iPod. At least I hope so, because the next song was...

Sweet Home Alabama

Please Lord; don't tell me I'm moving again. I like Minnesota. Besides, it's hot down there.

In Alabama...I mean...

Copyright 2008

The Name Game

Like most people, I tend to identify people by their names, faces, and voices. My eyes and my ears gather information and send signals upstream to my brain (which is housed in the knucklehead). Once inside my brain those signals get interpreted, cross-referenced with information in my memory bank, and presto, the recognition arrives that someone is either known or unknown to me. Sounds simple right?

The minnow of a company which has employed me for the last seven years was recently gobbled up by a whale-sized conglomerate. One of the first changes the new management team put into place was to give each of us a new ID badge which, along with each person's picture and name, also displays the company's name and logo. The local office manager dropped in one day to say hi and give me my new badge, but before handing it over she told me that there was a document I needed to sign. I quickly scanned the words on the page and was surprised by what I saw. One of the items read something like this:

You hereby agree that you will not display this identification while off company property.

That statement made me laugh. Do I somehow stop being Steve as soon I walk outside the door? Is my identity stripped away once the badge comes off? What about my last name; does generation upon generation of history and lineage cease to exist because a plastic card no longer hangs from a lanyard around my neck?

Isn't that my identity?

Paul puts that idea to rest this way:

And you also were included in Christ when you heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation. Having believed, you were marked in him with a seal, the promised Holy Spirit, who is a deposit guaranteeing our inheritance until the redemption of those who are God's possession — to the praise of his glory. - Ephesians 1:13-14

When we make the decision to accept Christ as Savior, the new person, or new creation that results from that transformation is also given a new identity. While not a physical mark, that Holy Spirit seal that Paul talks about is essentially our new name tag.

Don't get me wrong, that name tag isn't a badge of courage, after all, most of us originally came to Christ for selfish reasons. Oh and one other thing, we shouldn't display our new identity like a like a gold watch or a certificate of appreciation because it isn't a posession or an accomplishment. We should wear it with gratitude, and most of all humility, so that when when someone notices and says, "hey, nice name tag", we can tell them about a Savior who changed our lives forever.

Unfortunately most of us will cover it up once in awhile, or even worse, take it off altogether. Still others will keep it in their back pocket until Sunday morning, when they'll display it with pride, then as soon as they start the drive home the tag gets peeled off and hidden. The challenge for all of us is to leave that name tag on everywhere we go.

So don't take off your name tag. It is after all, your best conversation starter.

Copyright 2008

Jedi Knitting

Today I had occasion to travel down to the temple of consumption, otherwise known as the Mall of America, because my best friend's daughter was in town and I haven't seen her in two years. I've always considered her to be one of my own kids, and I was excited at the chance to see her again. The drive down was nothing special, that is until I pulled into the east parking ramp and participated in an event that can only be experienced at the Mega-Mall.


That event? Full-combat parking.


We've all been to that rock concert, sporting event, or black Friday sale where parking is tough, but those of you who know can attest, there is nothing quite like trying to park at MOA when an "event" is going on inside. I took my usual route, which is to head straight for the roof, then to the corner furthest away from the doors. In the end it saves time because you're not waiting in line for someone to back up, or stalking people walking out the doors hoping that you can snag their parking space. Wondering what in the world all the fuss was about, I walked through the doors and saw a banner hanging just inside. Printed on that banner in giant letters were the following words:


WELCOME TO KNIT-OFF 2008!


My eyes immediately began scanning the horizon hoping I hadn't walked into the bizarro mall, then went wide when I saw the scene stretched out in front of me in full glory. Booth after booth, table after table of needles and yarn and patterns, all being attended to by mostly polite blue-haired ladies. The entire mall had been taken over by a knitting convention.


Not one to miss an opportunity to party with the masses, I headed toward the rotunda, because as the locals will tell you, thats where to find the action. What I saw is a sight I will never forget. It was like watching an AARP version of the 4-H fair, only on a national scale with huge TV screens, cameras, lights, and a Miss America-style master of ceremonies. All of this hubub was surrounding what I came to find out was the National Knitting Awards, The "Oscars" of knitting.


I could tell right away that the ceremony was almost over, and watched as the emcee called up the presenters for the last award. The nominees were announced, and finally the envelope opened. "And the winner is"...


I'm not even sure that the presenter got the first syllable out before the whole crowd of knitting-faithful erupted with applause and stood to their feet. I couldn't hear the name of the winner over the applause, but watched in amazement as she ran onto the stage, grabbed the silver cup, held it over her head, then pulled it down an kissed it as though this was some sort of million-dollar golf tournament. Then it hit me...


I'm looking at the Tiger Woods of knitting.


As soon as that thought was born, my twisted brain began imagining what it must be like in the knitting universe. I wondered if young apprentice knitters had to call their teacher Sensei or Master. I imagined ladies in ninja suits and hair nets locked in combat with knitting needle nunchucks. I scanned the crowd, trying to figure out which one of these yarn-artists was the Master Yoda of knitting (cue that amazing Frank Oz voice - "knit one pearl two you will").


Of course then my mind wandered back to sports, and I contemplated the effects of a performance-enhancing drug scandal on the knitting world. Imagine ladies in their best hand-knit pullovers, sitting side by side at a long table testifying before congress. The pundits on the knitting network would have to compare all of the before and after stats and photos, and medical "experts" would line up in droves for a chance to come on the air and tell us that Esther's hands couldn't have grown that big naturally. Official-sounding people would tell us that Geritol was considered a banned substance, and whole forests would be leveled to make enough paper to print the reams of reports detailing the matter.

One of the ladies standing just in front of me was carrying a bag with an official-looking crest. It was a picture of a lion, and the embroidered text that surrounded it read "Lion Brand Yarn". It made yarn look so incredibly noble, and I wondered if there could really be that much of a difference between one yarn and another. I came to the realization that if there were huge quality differences in cola or car parts or guitar strings, that the same was probably true of yarn. Then the knucklehead in me woke up and thought of these verses...

There are different kinds of gifts, but the same Spirit. There are different kinds of service, but the same Lord. 1 Corinthians 12:3-4

Most people would agree that poking a little fun at each other from time to time is fine, as long as its done with honest intentions. I know that I do plenty of things that deserve the kind of ribbing that I dished out in the few paragraphs above. After I walked away from the ceremony I saw some pretty amazing things, and I figure that if someone's talent glorifies God than who am I to judge? After all there are plenty of people out there who think that a guy who sings and fixes computers and writes about God is about weird as they come, and I'm ok with that.

Copyright 2008

Defining Grace

Like most knuckleheads out there, I do a pretty good job of understanding things in my Paul Bunyan sized head, but getting that through to my heart is an entirely different matter. Take the idea of God's grace. For years I could read about it, talk about it and thoroughly understand it from a conceptual standpoint, after all, that's an area where knuckleheads excel. As for that whole heart thing...

Here is how Webster defines grace:

Unmerited device assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification.

Ok, my brain gets it. I don't deserve it and it makes me all new and squeaky clean. Like I said, understanding the concept is pretty easy right? Then why don't I get it? I mean really get it, where my heart is completely filled with it?

I've been with my kids at my brother's house tonight. My brother and sister-in-law are out to dinner, and I've had a great time watching their kids while they're out. Now that their little one is asleep and the other kids are winding down and watching a movie, I've got some time to myself.

One of the tasks I had to check off of my list while getting the youngest one off to bed was to make sure that she took her medicine. It's that thick, pink, liquid stuff that we all remember taking when we were kids. Seeing that bottle of medicine reminded me of a perfect analogy in a sermon I once heard, only the lightbulb didn't go off then because of course that item is suspended directly above my knuckle-shaped head. Instead my heart leapt, because it finally understood what my head had known for so long. I thought I'd share it here.

When a doctor writes a prescription to give a child an antibiotic, the usual course of events has us taking that slip of paper and handing it to a pharmacist, who then sets about doing their work. They'll measure out some pink powder, which is the real medicine, and drop it into an empty bottle. Then they'll measure and add some water, twist on the cap, and shake it until it becomes the iridescent goop that most of us have had to take at one time or another. Chemists call the contents of that bottle a suspension, because the medicine is floating, or suspended in the water. As a parent we take the bottle home, pour the right amount into a spoon or a small cup, and ask our child to "drink up". Once inside the body the water and medicine separate, and the medicine can do its work cleaning out whichever bug is making them sick. The water only serves to deliver the medicine that the child so desperately needs.

All of humanity suffers from the sickness of sin, and there is only one medicine that offers a cure. The forgiveness that God offers through the acknowledgement of our sin and acceptance that Jesus Christ died as a sacrifice for that sin, well, thats the medicine. Grace is the undeserved delivery system. Without grace, forgiveness couldn't to do its work washing us clean (sanctification) and making us new creations (regeneration). God suspends forgiveness within grace and together, the cure is our redemption.

The analogy of water as a delivery system is especially meaningful to me. Later this year I'm privileged to be able to join several members of my local church on a missions trip to Peru, where part of our mission will likely be drilling wells and building towers to supply small villages with clean drinking water. Here in America water is in such plentiful supply that we take it for granted. I wonder how the people I meet in Peru will react when the water begins to flow in their village for the first time? Am I as grateful for grace as I know they will be for another such basic necessity?

After all, we really can't live without either. Drink up!

Copyright 2008