Trial or Triumph, You Choose

A single missionary friend of mine, is single no more. As a seasoned traveler to orphanages in Mexico, Argentina, and Bolivia, she was equipped for most adventures, but are any of us really prepared for the metamorphosis when two start to become one?! 

In her recent state of confusion, she sent me this note, "How do I know that my relationship with God is in good balance while at the same time, having Joe in my life? What have you learned about both (having your spouse AND God) being priorities, but keeping God number one?"

At first glance, it was my instinct to remember how strapped I was for time when I brought another person into my world, first Angie, and then Jon. It was easy to focus on the balancing act of making time to be alone with God, when you can't even find time to go to the bathroom with the door closed. Scheduling was a very real challenge, but then I remembered that the closest I've ever been to God may have been in the first few months of doing life with Angie. And that's when I noticed this line a bit later in my friend's message, "I am enjoying the added peace, love, and support Joe has brought to my life..."

Maybe it's not so impossible to make room for God when life get's full, as it is difficult to seek Him with the same passion in the absence of desperation. Why don't the words pour out of us as freely in praise of all His wonders, as they do in cries for His comfort and rescue? Why do we find ourselves on our knees so much more in the desert than in abundance?

One year ago, I was navigating the fresh waters of matrimony, while Angie was drowning in a sea of unwanted change, as she wrestled with leaving her native land and losing the exclusive rights to her mom. She acted out mostly with words, albeit words who's marks were sometimes hard to erase, even with the understanding that she didn't mean most of them. 

Two years ago, she hadn't quite honed the art of self control, and she dealt with the ongoing changes of being part of a family by busting holes in her door, leaving claw marks on my arms and chunks of my hair on the floor, cutting the walls, and slicing gaping holes in my window screens. 

This year, you could almost call her reasonable. She makes mistakes, says things she shouldn't, thrashes about sometimes, but you can talk her down now, her fits are shorter, fewer, and farther between. She's learning what it means to live with people who love her.

Guess, in which of these times I was closest to God. In which year did I shed more tears, each one like incense rising to the Lord? Of course, when my knees were the most raw from the time spent pleading for a reprieve from the wildness and violence.

“You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and His rule. You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you." -Matthew 5:3-4 TM

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; He rescues those whose spirits are crushed." 

-Psalm 34:18 NLT

"My ears had heard of You, but now my eyes have seen You." -Job 42:5 NIV

A couple weeks ago, I spoke at a Christian Camp about the rubbish we fill up our lives with. Like the child who can't hold the next gift you have for her, because her hands are already full with what she thinks is the good stuff.

"...everything I once thought I had going for me is insignificant—dog dung. I’ve dumped it all in the trash so that I could embrace Christ and be embraced by Him." Phil 3:10 TM

I shared about emptying ourselves of all the credentials we wear so proudly, and the possessions we cling to so tightly, to have room to embrace Christ and be embraced by Him. And at the end, a missionary to India asked, "so what's it like when you've let it all go?"

I think I spouted off something about greater intimacy with God, but I'd been about as transparent as one can be with strangers in this workshop, so why put on airs now, "I don't really know," I admitted, "I tend to fill up my arms again as soon as God helps me empty them." 

After all, the humility/pride I get from freeing myself up to embrace Christ is accolade enough to keep Him at arms length. The feeling of significance found in the praise of men, the security in the riches of this world, and the lightness of companionship are enough to convince anyone to seek worldly prosperity over the deprivation that draws us into His lap. 

Job had heard of God when his cup was brimming over with treasures, but he didn't truly see God until he had lost everything. 

Would I choose the closeness with God I had when I wept in my bed alone while my child raged against me, or the relative peace and happiness I cherish now with my dear supportive husband and the more docile daughter? Would I ever take a season with the Lord alone on my knees, when I could be frolicking and laughing with my family?

Am I strong enough to wish for more adversity? Am I capable of coming to the end of my rope, without tragedy taking me there? Would you ever trade a day of ease and pleasure for one marked with trials and suffering that lead you to Jesus? 

Until we're there, may we at least, appreciate the closeness we have when we're allowed  pain, and "when troubles come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy." -James 1:2.