octolilly [through the years]

Amber and I went to see The Passion of the Christ this afternoon. To be honest, my attitude while going into the movie was a fine balance between cynicism and wonder. I had heard so much varying discussion about the film that I was beginning to get frustrated that I couldn’t have my own opinion. When the manager of the theatre handed me my ticket stub, he asked if I had a box of tissues with me. You are going to be bawling your eyes out, he said. Hmmm. I just wasn’t so sure. And then while standing in line, I heard a comment that made me bite my lip very hard. Jesus, I’m so friggin’ nervous about this movie. It just has my stomach in knots. It took every bit of willpower I had to not turn around and share my thoughts with that irreverent college boy. We were standing in line to see a movie about the passion of Christ’s last hours on earth, and he had the audacity to use Christ’s name in such a caustic way.

So, as the movie began, I was struggling with two worlds of thought. I wanted to have an open mind and experience the movie, but I was also wondering if those around me were there to learn about the Christ or to just experience the latest fad. I really had to get past the fact that there were many children around me watching an R rated film and that I wasn’t the only one eating popcorn while watching Christ on a cross.

I’m not sure at what point that my heart turned, but there was certainly a moment when I sat my popcorn down and bit my lip as the tears began pouring. This was by no means the first time I had thought or imagined what His last hours must have been like. One of the most powerful sermons I have ever heard was on the crucifixion. I can still see Larry Winkler standing behind the pulpit as the tears poured down his face. I’ve spent many nights rereading The Darkness and the Dawn by Charles Swindoll. He paints a picture of the cross in such a way that I struggle with sleep each time I read it. Yet even though I have read the Scripture many times, actually seeing it enacted in such an intense way stirred something deep within.

I’ll be the first to tell you that I didn’t agree with every little thing in the movie, and I was very disappointed that Mel Gibson didn’t focus more on the resurrection, but even with those things said, I was touched in an unbelievable way by this film. I left the film wondering that if that was the best that Mel Gibson could do (and I wholeheartedly think he did a great job), what on earth must it have really been like? And then we drove home, turning at traffic lights, adjusting the a/c, changing the radio station, and life seemed to get normal, so quickly. But in the back of my mind, I feel as though there is a small part of me that has been changed.

Even though I simply cannot understand why, I am exceedingly grateful that Christ chose to die so that I would have life. Watching the portrayal of His anguish has stirred a burning desire to live as though I am constantly thinking of that beautiful, scandalous night that birthed such unimaginable hope three days later.

As the moon slid out of sight this morning, this side of the coast began their morning rituals. A bagel plus coffee at a nearby drive-thru. Traffic jams in that certain part of town. Dropping the kids off at the daycare. Sales meetings at 8:00. And so our day began. We each have those specific rituals that come rain or shine- we will adhere to. And yet even before our eyes opened, He knew the plan. He knew when our feet would hit the ground. When the coffee would spill and cause a hectic morning. He knew that tired looking girl would be standing at that corner again. The fact that we had a disappointing email waiting was no surprise to Him. He knew the path our feet would take throughout the day as our steps were simply following His plan.

With that thought in mind, I began my commute this morning. Bebo Norman and Leigh Nash were singing that powerful duet Beautiful Scandalous Night and I was busy scarfing breakfast-on-the-run. My mind was racing ahead to the Mortgage meeting, to the fact that our staff was short today, to the fact that I needed to do laundry tonight, to the fact that I needed to pay bills, etc.

Something caught my eye and I glanced down to see that my gaslight was still on. I have this habit of pressing the mileage meter whenever my light comes on so that I know exactly how many miles I have until I really need to freak out. My Camry manual says that I have 50 miles left when the light comes on and the closest I’ve been has been 44. That day, the car began choking on me at that point and I had to coast into the gas station. So, I swallowed hard when I saw 42 on the meter. I was about 10 miles from the nearest exit and even if I took that exit I had no idea where I’d be going. My mind began racing even more and I began thinking what if. I’m not strong enough to push the car by myself, my cell phone is dead in this stretch of the interstate, three rapes have taken place in this area in the past month (and the guy hasn’t been caught), and since we are short at work then it’s imperative that I arrive on time!

To be honest, my eyes began tearing up and I felt that flutter in my stomach that meant sobbing could occur at any moment. I was scared. Then I began the mental game of calming myself down. God knows where you are. This isn’t a surprise to you. He could add some extra gas in there if He wanted to. Wow. That’d be cool. I wonder if it’d be the same type. You think weird things when stressed.

I decided that I would stop watching the meter scroll higher and that I would just focus on getting to the next exit. Finally, I reached that exit. And when I crested the hill, I found no gas station. Not even a town. It was just an exit into a bunch of country roads. My heart sank, and I bit my lip and felt the tears start pouring. It was over fifteen miles to the next exit and I had no choice but to head off into the country roads and find a gas station. Five minutes later, (I still hadn’t got up the nerve to look at the meter) I found a road that listed a nearby city on it. So, I headed out to the city- not knowing where I was at all. No longer was I just praying please let me make it to a station but I was also praying please let me find my way back to the interstate.

Each wind of the road showed me an old mill, run down houses, car lots, grocery stores, but no gas stations. I was crossing some railroad tracks when a thought crossed my mind. I wonder if there would be a gas station behind the railroad tracks. I craned my neck around to see the most beautiful towering sign that read Phillips 66. I whipped my car around and flew up the road. Not only did I practically squeal when I got out of my car, I almost hugged the clerk as well.

When I got back into my car, my meter read 58.

So, He knew the plan. His reason for stretching my faith might have been simply so I would remember that He is in control. Maybe it was to remind me that when the days ahead hold looming clouds of darkness and my fear is for more than an empty gas tank- that if He cares when the small things frighten me, He most certainly will hold me in the storm.

All in all, I must say that my heart rests easier when I remember that there is a plan.

It’s been an overwhelming day.

While on the drive to work this morning, I grappled with the silence that filled the car. Silence meant I had to think. Ponder. Realize. Admit. This week has been a struggle against everything good and holy. So, I put in the first cd that my fingers found. I was half-asleep and coffee-less and the music was just a nice background noise to muffle the uneasiness. Until I listened to the words.

You see, the past two months have been a desperate struggle against bitterness. I’ve really tried to keep a smile on my face and those who know me constantly say, you are handling all of this so well. My masque has been worn so well. I’ve fought with why. Why did a 19-year long friendship end without even a goodbye? Why did the love I had end in such a bitter way? Why didn’t I see the signs? Why did God choose this path?

And so as Mac Powell sang those beautiful words, I let the tears fall. It’s not as though I am in a new place. I’ve been here before. I know what’s right. My questions of why still linger nearby but I’m reminding myself that I can be content without understanding. Nothing compares is a reaffirming of the solid truth that has echoed in my soul for many years. Nothing compares. The friendship I had is nothing compared to divine, sweet fellowship with my Lord. The love I shared is nothing compared to the never-ending love my Father has for me. He’ll never leave me. All the things I’ve been grasping to fill that ache- are empty and only temporarily satisfying. The God-shaped vacuum will always remain. To fill it with anything and anyone but Him is to live empty.

So, the overwhelming day has been a blessing in disguise. I was reminded to guard my heart. And for those of you who know of Tad Hamilton, I also learned to guard my carnal treasure.

Poised at the brink of new beginnings, I’ve discovered that I either find a ladder to climb, or learn to fly.

– Simple Wisdom

While talking with an old friend the other day, I realized that I wasn’t the only one feeling the struggle of perspective. He shared a few of his troubles and then said, “When you are in the middle of the story it is hard to retain your perspective. Elijah complained of being alone but God showed him there were still some thousands in Israel who had not yet bowed their knee to Baal.” Do you ever find yourself kicking against life in general and then suddenly being reminded that the story is not finished?

The past few months have brought their fair share of pain, grief, and frustration. I realize that we all have hard times and that this too shall pass, but realizing that doesn’t make the everyday struggle any easier. Watching a best friend give up on God is immensely painful. Watching some of my family break apart as death has shocked them to the point of bitterness is so hard. It’s somewhat easy to sit around and ponder the present darkness.

But the story is not finished. The Author is still writing in many, many lives and I know His pen has much in store for me. Being woven into a story of Redemption has never promised beautiful days of happiness in which dark clouds feared to come. But He did promise that when the storms arrive, He’ll be there for the ride.

This year might be rocky. This year might be grand. No matter the circumstances, I really want to find a ladder to climb on, or learn to fly.