When Life Goes Dark

What do you do when you find yourself suddenly in the dark? The lights go out and you're caught off guard. You're home alone, your phone is dead, and you're left to find your way around based on what you know about your home. Of course you rely on your memory of where things are: where they were in the light before it was dark. You rely on your knowledge of what was true when there was plenty of light to see by. 

So you stumble to your bedroom and feel for your bed, not worrying that maybe it's suddenly disappeared. And you lie down because it's safe and reliable, not afraid that it won't catch you this time even though it has every other time before. You also probably weren't worrying that it might have disappeared between the time you felt it and the moment you fell onto it simply because you can't see it.

You know that everything that was there in your home in the light—your clothes, your books, your prized possessions, everything—is still there even though you can't see them now. You have the proof of past experiences to boost your confidence, you know without even thinking about it that no one has broken in and taken your things since the lights went out, and you have faith that they have gone nowhere even though you can't see them right now.

You're also not wondering if, now that everything's dark, maybe you just imagined your clothes and books and prized possessions. You're not thinking that maybe you never even had a house to begin with. And you're definitely not thinking that maybe there never was this thing called "light."

We know better. We know nothing has really changed and that all darkness is temporary.

So why do we fear the worst about God when we come to a place of darkness? 

We have the knowledge that He was there in the light, we have the proof of past experiences of Him to boost our confidence, and we know no one and nothing is capable of hiding Him or much less taking Him away from us. And yet when life reaches a dark valley, our human instinct is fear and worry. Fear and worry that God has forsaken us, that He's mad at us, that He's preoccupied with other more important people or better Christians, or maybe that He simply doesn't care. That He has abandoned us in this place of suffering. Or maybe that He was never there at all.

And we find ourselves in this position of fear because darkness leaves us without simple proof of what we once knew so easily; it's easy to assume the best and trust what you cannot see with your own eyes when there's plenty of light to see everything else by. But darkness brings us face-to-face with the one supremely vital key for overcoming that fear: faith—believing in what you cannot see but what you know to be true. Even if at this point the darkness is so deep and the pain and suffering is so loud that you can neither feel nor hear the God you knew in the light.

Why do we do this? Why do we never doubt our beds' or possessions' continuing, unchanging existence when we cannot see them but err on the side of doubt when it comes to God? I think it's, simply, we all know that the value of possessions cannot be compared with the value of relationship with our God. And in the dark, we fear the loss of the most important thing in the world the most. We are mere humans with a tie to the God of the universe, and at the slightest hint that that tie could be threatened, we lose all sense of what we know is true out of fear of what is not.

And, as we are but human, that is understandable, in theory. But the theory is obliterated with one darkness-shrinking, fear-conquering, worry-soothing promise: 

"I will never leave you nor forsake you."

And "never" has only the one meaning.

A Break in the Clouds: Encouragement When Trials Keep Coming

{This post originally appeared as a guest post at Elizabeth Loves.}

I remember back in college hearing a preacher say that everyone is either going into a trial, in a trial, or just coming out of one. I was just a little freshman at the time and kind of thought, Huh, I’m not really…

I can say that I didn’t really have any trials up until that point. But ever since my junior year when I started getting sick all the time, and then my diagnosis of fibromyalgia just six months after graduating, it really feels like the trials haven’t let up, now about four years later.

In contrast to seemingly never-ending trials, something I know I’m not alone in, I feel like we very often hear encouragement along the lines of “God will always be with you, even when things get hard sometimes. Life won’t always be easy, but when it’s not, He’ll never leave you.” We are warned that hard times will come and that God will be with us then too. And that is true.

But I feel like there are many people, like me, who don’t so much need to be told God will still be there “if times get hard.” We rather need to be encouraged that times will not always be hard. Not warned that hard times will come but rather encouraged that rest will come.

We know God is there through it all, helping us make it every single day. And just like anyone else, we do need to be reminded that He’s not going anywhere. But we also need to be reminded that there will be peace eventually. When one thing after another is going wrong—I don’t mean just losing your car keys, spilling food on your clothes, and your dog peeing on the carpet; I mean a diagnosis, inability to find a job, one medical test after another, a sudden death, an accident: events that can shake you to your core and turn life upside down permanently—we need to be comforted with the hope that things won’t always be this way. 

And while as Christians we know at least in the next life we’ll have such relief that these trials will all fade away, we also know that God knows what He’s doing, that He sees every tear we cry, and that He’s not out to get us. Every trial has a reason, whether our human minds can see it or not. But as they say, “This too shall pass.” When one storm after another keeps coming, there has to be a break somewhere.

For me, the storms just kept coming over the past four years as my health only got worse, and then my husband and I planned to move to another state for a new job that ultimately fell through, but not until we had moved out of our apartment and were staying with my parents for just a couple of months in anticipation of the move. That temporary stay last summer turned into a year—something we never expected—and finding a new job just would not happen.

I finally felt a break start to come last fall when we found a new doctor who could actually help. I felt like I had a new life again, just knowing how much I could possibly improve. Then as the months went on and I didn’t improve as much as we were all expecting, the storms rolled back in.

But now, just a couple of months ago, my husband got an interview for a job in the same state we couldn’t wait to move to a year ago, and he got the job. We finally found an apartment in the area and are finally on our own—like a married couple is supposed to be!—in an area with all kinds of great doctors. This is all truly a dream come true for us—a break in the clouds we thought would never come.

After all this time, all the tears, the never ending trips to the ER, the new health issues, the disappointments, the uncertainties, it looks like we may have found a break from the storm. Another storm will probably be on the way, but the same God Who will be there “even if life gets hard” will be there if life seems to stay that way. And in His mercy, He’ll know when to tell the rain to stop. 

And for that promise, I am very grateful.

"For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. He delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will deliver us again.”

(2 Corinthians 1:8-10)

Read some of my thoughts on rain here:

 

Letting God Resurrect Your Dream

Do you remember when dreams were so exciting, absorbing, exhilarating? Did you ever have a time where that was the case?

I did. Now five years ago, I had my talent, my dreams, my vague plans. There were so many possibilities, and I was getting there.

Finally after three years of such planning and working, a fraction of my dream really fell into my lap. The distant dream got just a little closer, and real things seemed to finally be happening.

Then two things happened. My health plummeted--my mind was robbed of its clarity, my limbs of energy, and my lungs of oxygen. Something that was so natural to me became out of my capability to accomplish as I once could. And second, the one that had instigated the dream coming closer wasn’t okay with that and the things my disappearing health took from me, or rather, according to them, the fact that I was letting my health take these things from me. And as it turned out, that instigator had no more access to dream-fulfilling than I did on my own.

Let’s just say that dream was burned. So deeply, so painfully, unlike anything else I have ever experienced that was caused by another human being. To the point that everything associated with that dream was then associated with that dream-burner, and the heart of me, my deepest passion, was seemingly permanently singed. Singed with the fire of lies and hurt and the sick-stomach tension that always re-arises at the memory of any traumatic experience.

So the dream died, the fuel behind the dream died, and the only remnant of it was the sheer talent that drove me to it in the first place. But even that was unavoidably buried deep, deep down in an attempt to heal from the pain.

It seems like since then, through my illnesses, and then through the dying of the dream, I became so much older, life became so much more serious, and the excitement that dreams are made of—the all-encompassing thrill of that dream and my passion for it—became a thing of a child’s past that perhaps should remain there.

So what do you do then? When your highest goal in life, the thing you love and plan for and work on for years is suddenly so tainted, you feel sickened even thinking of it? The thing that you know God made you to do becomes the single most painful thing you’ve ever experienced, something you can’t even handle thinking about, much less do?

All I know: you wait. You try to breathe. You let yourself cry and be mad and hurt and cry. And you trust that this thing about time healing all wounds might possibly be true.

And you also realize two things: first, that wolves in sheep’s clothing, liars, and backstabbers are really out there. They are exactly how they’re described, in flesh and blood, seeming to be one wonderful thing and then finally proving that they are the absolute, hideous opposite. And second, you realize that life is far too short and gifts far too precious to let those wolves in sheep’s clothing keep you from doing what God put you on this earth to do.

Pain has a way of aging you—especially emotionally. And dampening the joy of gifts and the excitement of possibilities. But I can only assume that’s what the devil wants: the pain of life as a human and the hurt inflicted by those allowing themselves to be used by him to rob us of our joy—both everyday joy in life itself and the joy of fulfilling our God-given gifts and desires.

So we have to let God heal us from the deep wounds others have inflicted on us, let Him wash our minds and hearts of the memories of the lies and the hurt and the sick-stomach feeling blackening everything associated with our dream. Let Him enable us to accomplish His will for us even through our weakness. And let Him transform us back to where we were, when our passion was as constant as our heartbeat, our possibilities were beautiful, and our dream was very alive.

Because if He gave the dream to us, the last thing He's going to do is let the enemy win.

P.S. Linking up with Thinking Out Loud, Little Friday, the April Blog Challenge, Be.You.Tiful Link Party, and My Favorite Posts Link Up.

A Silver Lining

It seems like ever since about the fall of 2011, I really can't catch a break. I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, have been sick, been to the ER how many times, had tests done, and met with one new health problem after the other ever since.

The past month alone, I've discovered what seems to be a new allergy, been sick twice, and gotten six moles removed all over my body in the most inconvenient places (TMI?)--all of which have to be doctored and taken care of for two weeks. At that point I'm to go back to get the stitches removed and find out the results of the biopsies. All this while juggling the many changes and treatments that come of my bi-weekly doctor appointments and the attempt to heal--or anymore at least help--this sick body of mine.

And that's just me and my health (or lack thereof)--that's not to mention all the job and financial problems going on right now, or the serious health problems of so many of my family members.

I don't know why God seems to allow so much of the same kind of problem to happen to people--some people seem to have accident after accident, while some people, like me, never seem to reach the end of new health obstacles.

I wish life could be easy for once. Just to get up and live each day without a thought about how sick I feel, or what medicines I have to take when, or what bills won't get paid.

But I guess I didn't put myself here on this earth, and the One Who did probably has some pretty good reasons for all this, huh?

If nothing else...