I’ve always loved mornings. I think it began when I started walking to school in the sixth grade, and then, like Forrest Gump, I just kept walking all the way to graduation. And who could blame me? Experiencing the freshness of a new day along the coast of Southern California—well, what can I say? I love mornings!
In high school, it also didn’t hurt that I could hear the Beatles’ song “Here Comes the Sun” blaring from our school’s loudspeakers every morning, long before I ever reached the campus. How could I not have a smile a mile wide plastered across my face by the time I got there?
But it was much more than that. And the skeptics were vocal.
“You just can’t be happy all the time,” my friends told me.
But I was, and they didn’t understand it. I almost didn’t understand it. The contradictions were glaring. The dysfunctional and abusive family I grew up in also attended church regularly—fourth row from the front, rain or shine. The hypocrisy alone should have squelched any goodness in my heart. Yet there it was: joy. It didn’t make any sense. And there was only one explanation.
God.
Sitting in those Sunday School classes and later, in that pew week after week, I was offered something so much bigger than what was happening at home. I was offered a goodness more powerful than all the badness around me. And at 12 years old, I chose to accept it. I chose to rest my bruised and battered little life on God and His Word. I decided it was all true—even the parts I didn’t understand, and even when the adults in my life who professed to abide by it, didn’t.
I remember thinking, “Adults aren’t perfect either. They can still make bad choices. But I can make choices too.”
And I decided that hypocrites don’t make the truth any less true. Their poor example doesn’t change anything about Who He is or what He did for us. And though I’m sure the enemy fought hard to make me believe it, his schemes were no match for a well-informed, idealistic child. Nothing and no one could shrink the goodness of the HUGE, wonderful God I was choosing to put my hope and trust in. Faults, flaws, imperfections and all, whether mine or the adults I had to live with, I was “all in.”
God was perfect enough for all of us.
And that’s when the joy came. A joy I was so unprepared for, the memory of how it happened still makes me emotional. It was the joy of Him coming in. And I was too small to hold it all!
As I sat at my closet that morning, putting on my shoes for school, I could hear my mother yelling in the background. And hitting. Always hitting. And in the heartache and hopelessness of it all, I just stopped, shoes half on and half off, and began to cry. I couldn’t do this anymore—at least not alone. I knew I needed help. And I would have to go over my mother’s head to get it. So I looked up at the ceiling through the tears, and reached out for all the goodness I had heard about at church.
“God? … I believe in You … I believe it all. I believe that You sent Your Son, Jesus, to die for me on the cross … to pay for my sins, so I can go to heaven when I die. But God? … I can’t wait for heaven. I really can’t, God. I need you right now done here …”
And suddenly, there He was. He came rushing in as if He had been waiting breathlessly for this very moment, and couldn’t wait another instant before wrapping me up in all the love and goodness that was Him. He poured into my hurting heart till I thought I would pop. And He never left. He followed me right out that door and down the road to school—and on every road since.
Now, many years later, as I walk my dog down yet another morning road, that joy makes even less sense. The past couple of years have been marked by more pain and loss in our family than I ever could have imagined—short of losing a loved one. It’s been the excruciating kind of emotional pain I thought I had left in the rearview mirror the day I drove off to college. A depth of hurt I never dreamed my family ever could, or would, experience. I never even realized human beings were capable of such acute ache, until I experienced it with my loved ones. And perhaps the worst pain of all for me personally, was recognizing and admitting my own contribution to the heartache.
So what do we do with that? How do we live through the immense heartaches of our lives and make sense of them? How do we survive the debilitating weakness, helplessness and loss of control that threatens to crush our soul? When the wounding is so deep, how do we escape the ever encroaching bitterness and paralysis and move forward? What do we do when life hurts so much is feels like death?
Would joy ever even be possible again?
A popular song says, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” But I realize now it’s so much bigger than that. God is dearly interested in something far beyond improving our strength. He’s interested in infusing us with Himself. And that doesn’t involve our strength; it involves our weakness. And I knew now, as I had truly never known before, the depth of weakness I had to offer Him.
When Paul pleaded with God to take away an ongoing infirmity, God’s answer was:
“My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NLT)
Weakness is God’s workshop. Weakness shows His power. Both for Paul and for us, God is looking for our acknowledgment and acceptance of His plan for showing His power through our weakness, whether or not He ever chooses to relieve us of it. And that involves surrender of everything we are and hold so dear. Everything we often confuse with strength.
Surrender of our plans and projects, our talents and abilities, our goals and ambitions, our titles and positions, our families and relationships, in exchange for all that He is. And yes, it often does feel like death. But it’s the kind of dying that brings even more life than if the death had never occurred. Like the death of Jesus Christ Himself.
Deep down, I knew that’s what He wanted from me too. His gentle, whispered question reverberated in my soul.
“Will you surrender, trust Me and My hand in this process, and cooperate—even if it hurts?”
It’s the question that forces you to reexamine every inch of what you believe and decide if it’s all still true. Could I still rest my life on God and His Word—even in this? Or would I shake my fist and yell, “Where were You? How could You let this happen?” I felt like I was being asked the same question Jesus posed to His disciples 2000 years ago.
So Jesus asked the Twelve, “Do you want to leave too?” Simon Peter replied, “Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words of eternal life.” John 6:67-68 (NLT)
Like Peter, I knew I had no where else to go either. And I didn’t want to. Without God, life wouldn’t make any sense. I had no desire to shake an ineffectual fist at Him. I wanted to admit my complete helplessness without Him—just like I did at 12-years-old.
I wanted to elbow my way through the crowd of others who also needed things, drop to my knees before Him and ask Him to please help me to see, understand and acknowledge anything I needed to and the wisdom and courage to do whatever I needed to moving forward. Yes, I absolutely wanted to surrender, trust Him and cooperate.
And when I stopped just for a moment in all the devastation to tell Him so, suddenly, there He was again—just like so many years ago. His presence flooded every part of my being once again. I was not alone in my family’s heartache and never would be.
The truth is, what doesn’t kill you—or grind your beliefs into non-existence—allows you to experience the unfathomable depth and richness of God’s love and forgiveness and grace in ways you wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. It’s like the difference between young honeymoon love when everything is going good and right and lovely, to years later when that same spouse holds your head as you vomit from chemo and whispers, “I still love you.” It’s deep-water love. And the source of inexplicable joy.
God wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was I.
And it turns out, neither was our family. We are so grateful for each and every family member willing to be on this bumpy, loving road toward healing with us. It is so treasured it can hardly be expressed.
My high school friends were dead wrong. Because they didn’t understand real and lasting joy or where it comes from, they didn’t believe it could possibly exist. Well, it does. Because joy is an eternal Person and not contingent upon or the result of mere circumstances, joy can become as permanent as the breath you breathe—even if temporarily knocked away—no matter what or who slams mercilessly into your purview, hoping for a kill.
No death here—except for the good kind.
And as I walked along this morning, that incomprehensible joy surrounded me yet again. It was in the sunshine on my face, the gentle breeze in the trees, the birds singing, the squirrels chasing, and yes, even in the much-loved little dog prancing by my side. It was everywhere. It was the perfect, unending joy of Him. And the smile? It was still there and still just as big and genuine as it was all those years ago. So sue me! And for better or for worse, the Person of that joy and all the love that He is, would even follow me home.
“Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” —Psalm 30:5b (ESV)
And that’s a good thing. 🖤
Putting In a Good Word 