Arms Too Far

 

Life is tough to figure out. So many forks in the road, so much self to discover through God’s plan – if you can pull aside the veil of self.

Several times God felt enough urgency to speak to me directly. I followed Him every time, and eventually most of those steps made sense. Others are on my list to ask Him about when I get to Heaven.

Every time has felt the same. In an instant, threads that previously hung on question marks merged into one beautifully woven thought.

God has told me to minister at churches that, for all their wonderfulness, were not a great fit for me. Only in hindsight do those make sense.

Once God stripped away all my earthly representations of Him. At age 49, after I had worked in music ministry for 41 years, God methodically stripped away my earthly church body, my pastor, and my spiritual-head husband. All of a sudden, it was “just” God in Heaven and me here on earth.

Looking back, that also now makes sense. As soon as the only view I had of Him was...well, Him...I began to learn who He really was. As I worked through grieving all I had lost, He showed me Hebrews 13:13-16. That passage tells us to go do good “outside the camp,” where the bodies are burned.

Outside the camp was a foreign place to me. One benefit of all those years of music ministry was protection from my painful insecurity. As pianist, you get regular reinforcement that you are special, and you have the Music Director and Pastor to take all the complaints and grief. Expressing your faith through music means you do not have to explain it in words, so you never have to face the possibility that you would say the wrong thing and cost someone their eternal life.

In my season of loss, God placed me where I could not hide in weakness. I had to be strong for my kids and for myself. By the time he told me to outside the church “camp,” I was terrified, but was also determined to step. I had to share this God that had done so much in my life.

Within a month of venturing out, I found myself standing at a portable keyboard under a bridge in Gainesville, GA, playing and singing worship songs with homeless folks with whom I would then share a meal and a Bible study lesson.

God led me to live part-time, then full-time, in midtown Atlanta to work with local ministries. There He broke my heart for vulnerable women. I worked with them in the Atlanta Transitional Center, on their way back to society from federal prison. I spent time with them in Seven Bridges Ministry’s shelter for homeless women and children. I taught and sang with women sent to a residential center instead of to jail for their (hopefully last) recovery from practicing their addiction.

My journey began to make sense. It was not until God led me through those tough years that I had a passion for sharing what He had done in my life. Instead of feeling like a failure because my life fell apart, I found that God went everywhere with me and worked His perfect plan through every single moment. All those verses really were true. He really did love me!

Then I met my second husband. Part of settling down with him took me to the suburbs a new church home; one with an outstanding music ministry and ministry leaders under which I felt comfortable ministering. For two years, it was home.

In June of 2023, out of the blue, God tugged at my heart again for those that never come through the doors of a church. I began feeling anew the cries and pain of women that do not know how much He loves them as they wander alone, lost and disconnected from Him.

As He always does, He pushed me to deal with this tug. My beloved Music Director retired from the church. Suddenly, the peace of being securely planted in a church fell away.

Standing at the edge of yet another fork in our path, I read of a 7-year-old girl who died in the closet of an abandoned apartment building not 30 minutes away from our house in the ‘burbs.

Suddenly, dangling threads wove together in that all-familiar way. My heart broke that my arms could not comfort that girl or her mom. Then it broke for all the little girls and moms out there who were not being hugged, or fed, or loved on by Christ through human arms and hands. My heart cried to my arms to reach out!

But my arms were too far away.

I knew it was time to leave the fold again and live outside the camp where the bones are burned.

So, as summer ended, I no longer sang in a church choir, rang handbells, led the youth bell choir with my then-husband, played pre-service piano, or wrote and directed skits. I said a wistful good-bye to the wonderful fold where God allowed me to rejoice for the past two years.

I know that there are plenty of people that will step into those roles, but far fewer that would or could go where He was leading me.

My arms could not remain too far. They had reach where my heart had already gone.

My Comfort, My Shelter

"The Comfort" by Michael Dudash

courtesy of Lysha Broad,

www.ARTsonality.com

copyright 2011

I go to church regularly, and I pray with people regularly. It is always interesting to hear what people pray. A lot of what I hear is prayers for God’s sheltering protection; from harm, from illness, from ruin of all sorts.

Those prayers come from people who profess to be Christians as well as those who don’t. It’s instinctively human to avoid pain.

We begin learning the value of being sheltered from Day 1. Human adults are wired to protect their babies, so most of us learn from parental protection the bliss of hiding from life’s storms, held safe from harm and pain. As we grow, we carry a deep-seated instinct to seek shelter from harm wherever we can find it…in someone’s arms, or words, or deeds.

Isaiah said God had been “a shelter from the storm” (Isaiah 25:4) That Scripture reference confirms what we’ve learned…this world brings things we should avoid. Why else would God need to shelter?

Isaiah was right. God does sometimes stand directly between us and life’s storms. When He does, we just don’t feel the pain. Either we get through the intersection 20 seconds before someone runs a red light, or cells we didn’t even know we had don’t mutate into cancer, or the spouse that thought of straying doesn’t. Shelter means protection, and I’m sure God shelters us a lot more than we realize.

What does get our attention quickly is when He does not totally shelter us; the times when pain reaches us. Think about the last time you hurt….really hurt. Everyone who has ever walked this earth has felt that feeling. I have felt that pain, too. When it hits, I instinctively ask God for protection.

But many times protection does not come.

During those times of un-sheltered pain, I have often read stories of protection; both in the Bible and in motivational magazines like Guideposts. I remember thinking, “Well, God, where are MY angels? Why won’t you send some to protect me? I feel like I’ve been thrown to the wolves!”

But God plays another role in the midst of un-sheltered pain. In the New Testament, Paul calls God “the God of all comforts” (2 Corinthians 1:3 ASV) That’s a very different role from being a shelter.

God as shelter means there is pain, but God shields me from it. God as comfort means sometimes I will hurt. The mere fact that He is “the God of all comforts” makes that inevitable.

When I cry out to God in the midst of pain, my words are seldom thankful or tender. But God’s merciful answer is the next best thing to not feeling the pain. He comforts me. Whether it’s a hug, a kind word, or a pot of hot soup, comfort in tough times just can’t be beat.

Looking back at the times I’ve “talked back” to God, I now realize that was the key. Sound strange? Well, maybe my choice of words wasn’t the best…but continuing to talk to Him no matter what happened was critical. I’ve spoken to God through tears more times than I can count. I’ve spoken to Him in angry tones, in defeated tones, and in shattered tones.

Without fail, every time I pour out my unraveled emotions and reactions to the pain, He brings comfort. The pain lessens. The simple, natural act of pouring all of my raw emotions and reactions and weaknesses at His feet opens up room within me to let Him in further. As the warmth of His love spreads into the space left by everything that the brokenness drained away, I lift my head to face another day. Somehow, calmed by His comfort, I have the strength to move on.

I think He just wants me to be ME with Him. He’s a big God; he can handle me being angry with Him, or hurt with Him, or even petulant with Him. He would rather hear me tell Him that I think He’s failed me than to not speak to Him at all. He knows that’s not true; He knows that His plan in that time is just to comfort instead of to shelter.

So…sometimes He shelters and pain never comes. Other times, pain breaks through and He comforts me. In all times, there is one constant: If the pain makes it through, He is there to act as my comfort. I just have to remember that taking Him up on His offer is as easy as letting go.

In the Midst of the Mist

Here we are again; Daddy and I in a hospital room. He is 89 now, so this is not our first rodeo. Emergency room last night, not so great news, then up to the 5^th floor we came.  We got to the room at about 3:00 AM, which means I’ve had enough sleep to sit here and knock out some work before exhaustion sets in this afternoon. As I was setting up my work laptop, I glanced at the window and did an immediate double-take. I might as well have been looking into one big grey cotton ball. The storms of yesterday evening had turned into the fog of this morning, and there was no view to be had from the hospital tower this morning….not even from the 5^th floor.

It struck me as I gazed out into seeming nothingness that I might as well just accept it. Nothing I could do would show me what was on the other side of that pea soup.  Suddenly I realized that God was gently reminding me that sometimes life’s path is just a big grey blob with only question marks in sight.

It’s not my first foggy rodeo, either. I’ve walked paths cloaked in uncertainty before. In fact, most of my life over the past year has been shrouded in fog and question marks. I’ve gone through three major life changes in that year, and there have certainly been tough moments. However, I did not curl up into an emotional fetal position as I had so many times before. During one of the scariest times in my life I had the strength and courage to hear what God had to say, close my eyes, take a deep breath, and step out into the fog.

Almost a year into life being a moving target, I am beginning to see the fruit of that faith. God has led me, step by step, through building many stones along this new path. They’re packed solidly in the soil of His direction and it feels good to walk on them. At this point I don’t have to keep looking down quite so much to put the stones into place, and can actually look out to see what lies ahead with a bit more hope and happy anticipation.

As I finished setting everything up to work and sat back down, I looked out the window again. The fog had just barely begun to lift, and I could see bits of trees and signs and roads. I smiled, because the view out that window looked just like my life. For the first time in a long time, what I see lying ahead is a bit more clearly defined. It’s not crystal clear, but I can see the outlines of good things ahead. It feels good to be at a place where God has once again lifted some of the fog.

I know that, just as God led me safely through the lingering fog of this last year, He will lead Daddy and me through the fog of this short bend in the path. He’s always there to faithfully strengthen and guide me. All I have to do is keep my eyes on Him…even in the midst of the mist.