Fear is a focus on phantoms of the theoretical future. But the future is God’s, not mine; mine is only the present moment. I am fearful because I’m thinking I have to live the rest of my life. But I don’t. I only have to live the next five minutes. To me belongs obedience; to Him belongs outcomes.
— from “The Next Thing,” Won’t Let You Go Unless You Bless Me, Andree Seu, 2006
I find it encouraging to know that I only have to do the next thing. I don’t have to conquer my fears, fix my marriage, instill a lifetime of knowledge into my children, be good… I only have to do the next thing in obedience. I am posting this post in an effort to remember this!
Andree Seu (with an accent on the first e; I don’t know how to type that) is a writer in WORLD magazine. Actually, if I read WORLD, I usually only read her article. I like her. I found a book of her essays at the thrift store for 25 cents. I don’t understand everything, but I like how she thinks things out on paper.
The Christian really has a double task. He has to practice both God’s holiness and God’s love. . . Not his holiness without his love: that is only harshness. Not his love without his holiness: that is only compromise. Anything that an individual Christian or Christian group does that fails to show the simultaneous balance of the holiness of God and the love of God presents to a watching world not a demonstration of the God who exists but a caricature of the God who exists.
— from The Mark of the Christian by Francis A. Schaeffer, 1970
This concept of holiness and love entwined is behind all the mistakes Christians make. One of the double strand gets loose and my son is in his bed crying because of hurt feelings. Another of the double strand gets loose and we do something on Sunday that is not worshipful. Well, those are just two small examples. Christians make big mistakes, too, and a lot of bitterness and bad feeling builds up because of them. Or an ignorance of the true God grows in people’s hearts.
So we move past the unkindnesses. We strive to be loving.
So we strive toward true holiness. We move beyond the neglect toward God.
Slowly and imperfectly the double strand twines together to form what a Christian looks like, and this is what the Holy Spirit does in us.
But Jacob said, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” Genesis 32:26b
I’ve heard a lot of things said about this passage, and certainly there’s something there. A wrestle with God. At night. A demand for a blessing. A name-change. A blessing granted.
It’s very strange. What would it look like for me to wrestle with God? My thoughts tumbling against words of Scripture. My personal prayers punching through the devout holiness of a church service. My depression spiraling holes through the hope and joy God has always provided.
Or is this wrestling with God only something that happens before the blessing of justification, the beginning of sanctification? Maybe fighting with God now is just rebellion. Or getting out of bounds.
I’m back to my post now after helping herd large calves back into their pen. Good thing there was a full moon. They were on the road and had strayed a long way. They had been eating grass for awhile and were not in the mood to move, which tried my husband’s patience to no end (that was a direct quote). So maybe God also likes it better when we’re feisty and willing to move. Maybe He’s more likely to bless us then, even if we’re not exactly where we belong, and we need a lot of herding. Moral of the story: don’t get fat on the neighbor’s forbidden grass when there’s a pile of nutritious corn silage dumped right into your pen. Another moral: if you do find yourself out of the pen, get up and cross a road a few times, moo really loud (i.e. let God know that you know where you are). God doesn’t want you out of the pen, and He won’t ignore you.
Marriage is a joining: Mr and Mrs, man and wife, flesh of my flesh. But the minds still operate apart. As close as we get together, touching forehead to forehead, there’s still that bony skull in the way. The Mrs. Krohn part of me says “I am you; why are you saying these things I would never say?” The Amy part of me draws my forehead away from his as a little rebellion against the whole marriage deal. Sometimes I’ve found myself in the same room as my husband, but not touching, not connecting one bit. Bone of my bone, but the bones don’t fit.
And then there are times, even when bone of my bone is walking a different way across life than I am, tenderness applies a little surgery, and my forehead is resting against his shoulder. It doesn’t matter that he is still mostly stranger after eleven and a half years. It doesn’t matter that he can’t remember much at all about me or things that happened after we were married.
There’s a voice that God uses to draw us together. It lisps. It starts talking about my mind, or his mind, and it drops the d at the end. So it says “mine” and means both of us. I don’t know how this works, and sometimes I like to deny it, but then, I find myself resting my head against his, and I’m curled up in our joined world again, a refuge that takes me by surprise when I find it.
Here is the first verse of one of my favorite hymns:
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount, I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.
There are days when it is entirely necessary that God puts the tunes in my heart, constantly streams mercy into me, calls the songs out of me (loudly), teaches me pretty angelic poetry, and fixes me in one spot so I can’t run away from it all.
I just finished reading a new book written by Sally Clarkson and her son Nathan (c. 2016). It is called Different and tells a non-chronological story of Nathan’s life and how Sally loved him. Nathan was different from his siblings and most of the other people he knew. In his teens he was diagnosed as OCD, ADHD and ODD.
I like the hope and realism and raw truth in this book. They had strong faith in God, but it wasn’t their faith that pulled them through difficulties. They homeschooled, but this isn’t really a homeschool success story. They talked to each other and were honest to each other, but even that didn’t solve problems. This book is about the way they lived. It isn’t really about what they did or how anything was fixed. It’s simply a story of God working in a life, a difficult life. We can all live, right? That’s the hope. Keep living, keep looking to see what God will do next.
Here’s a quote I like from a section where Sally is speaking, “I also realized that each of my children, especially Nathan, needed to feel that the foundation of our relationship was unconditional love and respect for his or her essential self. Home was my primary tool for conveying that truth to them. For Nathan, I wanted it to be a place where he could breathe out the pressure to perform, to conform, to always be ‘good’ when what was defined as good was almost impossible for him, as God made him, to conform to” (141).
Isn’t that what God does for us? He makes us a haven where we can just breathe and be the person He made us. The world has this idea of how I should act, but God knows me best. He has this unconditional love for me that I can just fall back on. The falling back part is difficult, I know. It’s difficult to become different from the world, even from family members who know me well, but being different from the way I am made is even more difficult, almost impossible.
Most of the time I know my limitations of what I can do, and I make sure I don’t cross over that boundary (for instance, I know I don’t like fire, so I’ve never even tried to grill food). But when it comes to driving places, I sometimes cast a blind eye to my limitations. An art museum in Oshkosh? Yes, of course, I can do anything to get there! Well, I did try that today. I made it to Oshkosh, but my computer printouts didn’t seem to have directions that made sense, the roundabouts were not fun at all, and my foggy sense of direction ran a great risk of evaporating altogether. Plus, the upcoming roundabout looked very formidable and highway-ish from far down the road. So I turned around. Went back home. The children, who had been looking forward to the little field trip as much as I was, were quiet. (That’s unusual, by the way.) I got honked at twice during my foray into the big city. That was the most troubling thing of all, to me. I don’t think I did anything wrong except act like I’ve never driven in Oshkosh before. Why do people expect everyone else to be a savvy driver? For that matter, why does it seem like everyone else is a savvy driver?
The moral of the story is to know my limitations as a driver. I simply can’t go many places, even to fun field trip places. That is how God made me, and so that is how He wants my life and my homeschool to be. As much as I might want to explore different places, I am to be a homebody. And I need to accept that.