17. From Here, Hope

It’s been well over a month since I have written anything, let alone a post on this blog. The past weeks haven’t exactly inspired my creative juices: the continuing and worsening pandemic, the virus claiming loved ones of people I know, illness within my own family, the US elections, my ominously sick dog, Charle.

In the grand scheme of the world’s current story, a sick dog is low on the List of Sorrows. On the other hand, it’s the gift of pets that keep us laughing and centered. Any loving pet owner will say their pet is part of the family, which indeed they are. The illness or loss of a pet is emotionally staggering. Charlie’s illness is hidden, silent in its effects on his sweet body. His liver is malfunctioning to a dangerous level. But Charlie is a-symptomatic; if he hadn’t had an unexplained and mysterious seizure in October, which was determined not to have been a seizure at all, we would have never known he was internally attacked. Over the past 2 and a half months, Charlie has been through 8 vet visits and 3 blood panels. Each blood test tells us his liver condition is getting worse. We’ve doubled his liver medication, and I freak out at any odd thing he might do. He’s always done odd things, so my constant observation of his behavior isn’t proving beneficial for my peace of mind. January 7th will bring yet one more blood test, and if the results are not good, we move to Biopsy Zone. I have shed Tears of Fear. Tears of Doubt. 

Many years ago, I decided to follow the Christian faith. It seemed natural for me to take this spiritual road. Rampant insecurities marked my childhood. My early adulthood was equally as confused. I found no other healing roads to travel. For the pure Christian ethic is psychologically sound. One may not believe the miracles, or the resurrection of the world’s most famous revolutionary, or his divinity. Yet the concepts of treating others as you would be like to be treated, caring for the sick and lonely, charity for others, and forgiveness are not easily dismissed as unworthy of our attention. The Christian Bible is filled with the promise of eternal life but not with the guarantee that life will be easy and painless and that somehow all my prayers would be answered in the way I want them to be. God doesn’t seem to work the way I would prefer. Like Santa Claus or a magician, maybe. I’ve been on this faith path for nearly 30 years, and one would think I would have a better handle on things. Like belief. Like Hope. Like Faith. 

When I started my Christian journey, I was immediately placed in leadership roles, which I executed well. I studied the Bible extensively, authored Bible Study curriculum, spoke at women retreats. I was the Director of Women’s Ministry in a megachurch. I was on a “spiritual roll,” even to the point of entertaining the possibility of becoming a national Christian speaker. Nothing could stop my upward track to spiritual success – except the Christian community. Despite my skills in public speaking the script already written in the Bible, I was continually stunned by how happy so many Christians were, almost to the point of giddiness. I found the behavior disconcerting, for surely, as a Christian leader espousing scripture, my behavior would echo that of others. Yet, life wasn’t giddy and happy. There were happy and giddy experiences, but everyday life, the ups, the downs, the sorrows, the struggles weren’t resolved by my simply having said certain words and regarding myself as re-born. Looking back, I think I may have been a bit like Charlie. On the outside, I was all that people wanted me to be. I demonstrated no symptoms of what was “eating” me on the inside. Community is important for all of us. It gives a place to be authentically ourselves, warts, sorrow, joys, disappointments, and successes. I indeed had a Christian community, but there’s an odd dynamic surrounding Christian leaders. A certain perfection is required. I was to attend to the struggles of others; I felt alone with my own.

My role as a Christian leader was fenced within the community itself. I have never been evangelistic. I’ve never rammed my faith, such as it is, down anyone’s throat. I was publicly silent about my spirituality and remain quiet still. Flipping someone off in traffic is not proper Christian etiquette, so I felt it hypocritical to claim an upper hand on life simply because I believed in God and Jesus. Anyway, the Christian life is much like living “down here” while thinking “up there,” and rarely do the two mix well. It’s a tough road being an authentic believer, rougher than not being one. There’s always some voice that speaks deep within when you’d rather not listen. Like why should I forgive a person who has hurt me, why should I return the grocery cart instead of leaving it loose in the parking lot, or why do I feel like I should apologize to my husband when I think he was at fault and I was in the right? The Christian ethic can be highly annoying. It determines how I view others. It determines how I view myself. It asks me to forgive, to stay strong when things are falling apart around me. It asks me to have faith that God, of Whom I know little even after all these years, will save the people I love. And that he will save Charlie.

I departed the Christian community long ago. Not because I didn’t love them but because of my sense of self-hypocrisy. When I was in my Christian hey-days, I constantly asked myself, “are you in this public arena for you or God?” I’m not sure it was “wrong” that the answer might have been “both,” yet behind my persona’s exterior was an underlying doubt. I did not doubt that God exists or that he was not actively working in the world, despite what may appear to the contrary. I doubted my faith. I began to think God was cranky, unreliable, and unpredictable. Could he be trusted? I admit that many of my prayers have not been answered in the way I had hoped. During the last years of my mother’s life, she suffered from unbearable pain. It seemed that the more I prayed for even the smallest relief, the worse she became. After a while, I stopped praying as though I had the power to make things worse, not better. I lost hope.

It must be understood that my impression of God had been formed from living with my father’s turbulent behavior. My father was unpredictable and easy to displease. God is not our biological father, but our biological fathers often determine how we view God. God is also not the God of the Sistine Chapel. He doesn’t have a beard; he’s not a grumpy old man. He is neither male nor female. He is pure spirit.  He is not the dad I grew up with. God is a mystery, and even after all my years of studying him, I really don’t have a solid handle on who he is.

The other day, with tears rolling down my face over Charlie, I muttered to myself that I knew God would take him to steal my joy. The question I then asked was, why would I believe in a harsh, nasty God? Why spend my time with Him if I believed such a thing? I put on Christmas music – not Mariah Carey, but hymns of old, the hymns of Handel, the words that exalted the coming of a Birth. I permitted the music to enter the secret places of my doubt and lack of understanding of why life is the way it is, especially now as so many across the world are suffering. As the magnificence of music surrounded me, Hope began to take hold of my heart.

Hope can be hard to grasp, sometimes. Hope can either work out or not. But Hope has a steady and successful track record of goodness and promise. And it is on this record I can build and renew my faltering faith. I don’t know why God answers our prayers the way he does, but I know God is good. I cannot explain sorrow, sadness, loss, disaster, or Covid. I can’t explain Charlie’s illness, this small wondrous gift I might lose. But I have decided to hold firm to the Hope of my faith. I may wonder about many things but here before me is The Birth of 2000 years ago. God made into Man. A mystery of love, of hope, of permissible doubt and questions. It’s grand and wondrous that I can say to God, “Help me in my unbelief,” and not get struck down by lightning. He would rather hear my voice than not.

I wrote down a list of 2020 Blessings yesterday. It took a while to think of any. But soon, the list grew of the goodness and hope that have graced my days. From my garden that flourished, to the health of my family, to the joy of tromping through sparkling knee-deep snow in the blazing post-storm sunshine. Nature has worn no mask this year and has failed to keep a distance. I wrote the names of 5 women I met through the writing community on Twitter. I have no idea what they believe when it comes to God, but we, the 6 of us, believe in one another. With humor, commitment, devotion, and support, these 5 women have accepted me in my authenticity. They have permitted me to be real, to be myself. They have believed more in my writing abilities than I. They keep me going, and they keep me honest. They have crushed me by their love. And yes, even Charlie made the list. A sweet gift who has no idea he’s sick, and believes that every good thing in life comes from chasing a ball. It was to these most simple of blessings I uttered my thanks, and perhaps, just perhaps, God uttered in return, “You’re welcome.”

He would rather hear our voice than not.

I don’t know what you, dear Reader, believe. You may be a fellow Christian who chaffs at my words, or you might not believe at all, reading my words only to think me a fool. It’s all okay. For this day, the words I write belong to me, and through them, I will renew my hope and my strength in Him who I cannot see but He who whispers in my soul: 

You are loved.
I have not forsaken you.
I am with you in your doubt and unbelief.
I am with all those who hurt and worry.
I am with Charlie, too.
I am with you to the ends of the earth.
You need to know these things so that you will say about yourself,  “I’m okay. I’m okay.” 

Keep safe, stay well, and may you find a sweet blessing this Christmas week. 

Hope.