To the Pheasant living at the corner of Linwood and Gladstone

5/4/2020

Dear Bird,

I confess that your family’s presence here in the city is more than a little shocking.

Last week, during an early morning walk with Becky, I saw what must be a cousin of yours in the side yard of a house two blocks down. A few weeks before that, I drove past another one on Woodrow Wilson St. right by the on-ramp to John C. Lodge Freeway. And then back before Christmas, one of your clan spent the better part of a day back in the weeds behind our duplex.

Yesterday, when I was taking a long Sunday afternoon stroll, I saw you. You were strolling too--through the houseless corner lot at Linwood and Gladstone. I can’t say it was an empty lot because a thriving dandelion empire occupied the space, and a good number of violet villages were in residence as well. Anyhow, you were promenading through the dandelion domain as though you rule it. Perhaps you do. You certainly look like royalty: dazzling in your deep burgundy and iridescent navy headdress. Your carriage is absolutely regal, and your tail feathers long and lordly. (A peacock’s got nothing on you, in my opinion.)

I was quite awed by you and wanted to approach you and offer my regards in person, but it seems that you were anxious to avoid me. I know you saw me because I watched as you dropped your imperial posture, flattened yourself into the grasses, and scurried behind a rotting stump, making sure to keep it between us as I walked past. I understand, of course, that a noble pheasant such as yourself can’t be associating with mere peasants like me. Still, I wanted to express my admiration of your beauty and gratitude for your presence here among us. I trust this letter will find its way to you and will sufficiently convey the sincerity of my praise and my best wishes for your health and well-being.

May you live long and may your tribe increase.

Humbly,

Miriam

The pheasant himself (and his tree stump)

Stay-at-Home Ponderings

I wrote these thoughts out the day the Michigan governor announced the stay-at-home order. Now 97% of Americans are under a stay-at-home protocol. While we're beginning to adjust to a new normal, we're also still reeling in many ways and grappling with our new reality.

Personally, I don't really know exactly what to think of it all (especially the swirling politics). What I do know is that this is a time for love, kindness, trust, and generosity. It's a time for prayer (if you're a person of faith) and grieving with the suffering, for creativity and patience. I'm seeking to lean into those things, and so are most of the people that I know personally. And if we lean toward kindness together--if we lean towards each other--this can be a time of hope and renewal for our planet.

Bloodroot in Maybury State Park, Spring 2020 (a solitary quarantine walk) 

Exposed

3/23/2020

We feel these days deeply and painfully.

As though we are relearning something about ourselves and our existence:

life is fragile.

We are fragile.

This time, it’s not 4 airplanes and 3 crash scenes that remind us

suddenly 

on a Tuesday morning

that we are fragile.

It’s not the news of the impending tsunami making landfall and claiming 230,000 lives.

It’s not an individual tragedy--a phone call with a diagnosis, discovery of an accidental overdose, a family disruption, a job loss--that we experience in isolation from those around us.

This.

This has come to all of us.

It is, at once, a sudden and a creeping thing.

It rose rapidly but lingers with uncertainty. 

We cannot wrap our minds around it, because it is always shifting, changing, evolving.

The narrative keeps unfolding.

This is a virus.

And it’s established a monopoly on our TVs, radios, internet sources, social media feeds, and even our private conversations.

It’s become a household name. A global terror.

A pandemic.

And we are exposed.

Exposed to change.

Exposed to harm.

Exposed, yes, to a virus,

but, oh, so much more.

We are exposed

to our mortality,

to the vulnerability of our lives that, God knows, we tried so hard to make safe, secure, and comfortable.

We are exposed

to raw emotions (our own and others’),

to needs we cannot fathom,

to suffering we cannot alleviate,

to information we cannot make sense of,

to disruption we cannot evade.

We are exposed to our fragility.

This violent virus, microbial menace.

Today, the governor announced a stay-at-home protocol for the state of Michigan.

Some feel this as governmental overstepping; others, as too little, too late.

The diverse perspectives reiterate our tensions, our loss of control, the invasiveness of the whole situation.

We each respond in a different way. But we all respond, think, feel, something. After all, our lives are being invaded. 

No one is immune

to this fragility,

our humanity.

We are reminded again.

By a microscopic organism.

Reminded that our precious lives are uncertain.

Reminded that we are fragile.

Reminded that we are human.

It is a good reminder:

we are all human.

Dear humans, let us love well.

A Night in Moscow

I recently visited my brother's family in Turkey. What follows is an account of the night I unexpectedly spent in Moscow.

Istanbul airport - photo creds: Tim Keesee

Saturday early afternoon, I flew out of the new Istanbul airport. It literally opened this week. Security checks went smoothly, and we boarded on time and then sat on the tarmac for an hour and a half. According to the captain's voice over the intercom, we were delayed "due to heavy airport traffic." This was not good news, since my layover in Moscow was only an hour and a half. We finally took off, landed in Moscow shortly after 7:00pm, and taxied for a long time. The minutes dwindled, and it became more certain I would miss my connecting flight. Sure enough, by the time we deplaned, the Aeroflot agent at the transfer desk said boarding for my 7:40pm flight was already closed. Of course, I wasn't the only one trying to make a connecting flight, so I wandered off, found a restroom, and then waited till the lines died down and those with a chance of making connections (“Shanghai! Shanghai! Shanghai!”) got through. When it was my turn to be helped, the lady was efficient and kind: rescheduled me for a 9:20am flight, gave me a 1000-ruble voucher for supper in the airport, and told me to go to the service desk in the terminal at 10:00pm for hotel shuttle arrangements. 

I went through passport control and into the terminal. Wandered around, located the service desk area, sat there for a bit, connected to the wifi, checked bus and train schedules from NYC to Boston, rearranged my bus tickets for the next day, texted the people who needed updates, and then went looking for food. I felt rich and at ease, me with my 1000 rubles wandering around and scoping out prices. Landed at an upstairs restaurant with decent food and a server who didn’t seem happy to see anyone. I ordered freshly squeezed grapefruit juice and a salmon and mango salad. I ate and texted and read, but, thanks to my grumpy waitress, didn’t feel free to hang out there till 10pm, so I ventured back downstairs, refilled my water bottle, found a sitting place, read till the appointed time, then made my way back to the service desk. 

Join the crowd. Turns out there were two flights that had issues. One from Istanbul, the other from Amsterdam. I was standing just outside the desk area next to a guy that I thought might be English-speaking. I made an offhand comment, and he responded. We small-talked. He was from Portland, traveling to India for work, stranded by the Amsterdam misconnection. We were temporarily joined by a third American, also headed to India for business and stranded by the Amsterdam flight. There was no movement at the desk, though, until two Aeroflot agents swept by us with a stack of papers, went behind the desk, and started processing people and paperwork. No small job. Portland guy and I joined the queue near the third guy from earlier, and the three of us kept chatting. The line moved slowly. Very. The key difficulties seemed two-fold: 1) Russia requires a visa for entry, which none of us had, of course, so red tape was everywhere and 2) the airline was understaffed. 

3rd guy got taken care of and moved off, and a 4th guy came up. “Are you guys Americans or Canadians? I heard you speaking English.” Portland and I responded that we were Americans. (Like good international travelers, none of us exchanged names.) 4th dude was from New Jersey: extroverted, shaved head, returning from vacation in Istanbul. He carried a violin case and his enthusiasm quite prominently. (I had observed him give up his seat to women and elderly travelers several times when I was in the service desk area earlier). New Jersey chatted affably, while Portland and I edged closer to the desk. Eventually, all us had our docs and waited together at the edge of the crowd outside the service area. It was pretty close to midnight, and we were assuming that the next step was to head to the shuttle. 

We were wrong. 

Since we didn't have visas, we had to go through passport control again. All 69 or 76 of us. By now, we stranded passengers seemed to have about five Aeroflot agents assigned to us. They literally walked around counting noses. Not really a fun night for them. The passport control person responsible to process us had also had better days. She was meticulous and curt, and the security process was excruciatingly slow. 

Portland, 3rd guy, New Jersey, and I were basically an identifiable foursome by this point. We talked about places we’d traveled, travel experiences, vocations, cultures, the effects of communism, and much more. A Russian guy, who spoke decent English, lives in Germany, has dual citizenship and a great sense of humor phased in and out of our conversation. Being tri-lingual, he could talk with everyone around him and usually evoked smiles. He reminded me of my old Bulgarian manager, Stan: physically a little, but even more, his ironic wit and cross-cultural humor.

After the four of us made it through passport control (we were roughly in the middle of the line), we waited in the waiting area together and continued to chat. 3rd guy and Portland discovered that they’d be returning from India on the same flight as well. I joked that they were basically travel buddies now, even though they didn’t know each other’s names yet, and I observed our careful allegiance to the no-name traveler code. That’s when we finally exchanged names. New Jersey introduced himself as Mark; I, of course, am Miriam. Portland was Mitch, and 3rd guy, without missing a beat, said, “and I’m from Minnesota.”  We laughed. His name is Frank. 

By this point, we had stood in lines for hours. Stan’s look-alike joined our square. He markets gambling machines, and the conversation drifted to some of his experiences. Eventually, Mitch bowed out and went to sit down in the hallway. I followed suit shortly. 

The meleé of Russian, German, Chinese, Turkish, Korean, and French, continued to swirl around us. A Chinese family, led by their patriarch started to become testy, hassling the already-harried Aeroflot agents. Two elementary-aged children played Marco Polo up and down the tile hall lined with luggage, legs, and one lanky teenager unapologetically stretched full length on the floor. Some people attempted sleep. Others sat with their devices. Most huddled in small groups with sporadic conversations. 

(It’s hard to convey the surreal and yet incredibly mundane and human texture of circumstances like these. The surreal feeling comes, in part, from the weariness and displacement of traveling, coupled with the stress of undesired changes and uncertainty. The mundaneness of it comes from people showing respect and kindness and taking things in stride. We all know no one likes this, and everyone is put out by it, to a greater or lesser extent. But here we are adjusting, making arrangements, and working towards a communal making-the-best-of-things. Hence, the jokes and the smiles, the understanding nods, the periodic eye-rolls, and the sympathy for those a little more bent out of shape. We get it. Sometimes life stinks; even normal everyday life requires lots of patience and flexibility. You gotta roll with the punches. And that's what we're doing. We’re practicing our life-skills in a slightly different context, under a little more pressure and uncertainty. That’s all. In a very real sense, it feels normal. Even deja vu sometimes.)

As the process wore on, some of the travelers with early morning flights decided it would be a waste of time to go to the hotel, and opted to just stay at the airport. Mark was one of those. We were down to three. Choosing to stay at the airport was all well and good except for the fact that apparently Passport Control Lady had to accompany us to the bus, so when people decided they wanted to go back into the terminal, she had to re-process them to allow them back in, thus delaying our departure even more. Finally, a little after 1:00am, we headed downstairs with our Aeroflot-assigned babysitters counting noses all the way. (I think that, since we didn’t have visas, Aeroflot legally had to keep tabs on us at all times.) We got downstairs and waited again. This time for the bus. 

A bus came. 

It took all but eight of the passengers. Mitch, Frank, “Stan,” me, and four others. We stood in the entryway with good ol’ Passport Control herself (we were almost growing fond of her; Mitch and I had created a narrative for her) and two other agents, waiting for a second bus. The door was propped open, and the cold Russian night air found us easy prey. We consoled ourselves by saying that, at least by the time we got to the hotel, the others would have received their room assignments already, and we wouldn’t have to stand in line there as well. 

A second bus came, and we and our escorts boarded and drove the 15-20 minutes to the Novotel hotel. The bus pulled past the main entrance, circling around to a seedy back entrance. Our agents got off the bus first and stood as we filed past them into the building. No joke, a security officer met us at the door, muttering into his earpiece. He crowded us all into an elevator, closed the doors, and pushed a button. The elevator began to rise, and Stan hummed a tune. He would. “Elevator music?” I said to him. He chuckled; we relaxed. The worst was over, we felt. The doors opened, and a second security guard was waiting for us. They led us through doors that said things like “staff only” and “do not enter” in both Russian and English. “They’re taking us to their maximum security rooms,” I muttered to Mitch. “I’m wondering how we get out of here in the morning,” he replied. My eyes fell on the security guard’s name-tag: Maxim. It seemed appropriate. 

After all the lines and waiting, the official rush and crispness of the last few minutes was making us hopeful for hot showers and beds soon. We blew through a set of double swinging doors, and Frank let his breath out suddenly. We were at the back of a long line again. The hotel hallway was filled with our traveling companions. All of them. Still. 

Maxim moved through the crowd to the check-in desk. There, he and another hotel official began photocopying passports and assigning rooms one by one. 

We fell in behind a young Korean couple. 

Stan joked that there wouldn’t be enough rooms, so we’d still be sleeping in the halls or sharing rooms. (I wish you could hear the mix of accents in these dialogues.) 
The Korean wife, who didn’t know him as well as we did by now, turned around. “Are you serious?” 
“Yes,” said Stan. “Four to a room. Four Chinese. Four Germans. Four Americans...” 
She hesitated, not sure if he was joking or serious. “I don’t think so...”
“This is how they do it in Russia,” he insisted. 
We suppressed grins. She looked at her husband for support. 
“We were here three years ago and that’s not how it was.”
“But you had a visa then.”
He started smiling, and she realized he was teasing, and turned back around, unsure of how to take his humor. 

“Wonder how New Jersey’s making out at the airport,” Frank commented. “You’ll have to let him know about this in the morning.”
I rolled my eyes and nodded. 

The sturdy old-fashioned copier took its time documenting our presence, and slowly but surely the line dwindled. Eventually, it was our turn: the end of the line. Mitch and Frank and Stan motioned me forward, “Go ahead.” 
“Thanks, guys.”
“Passport, please,” said Maxim.
He copied it while the lady at the desk signed me in. “Breakfast will be delivered to your room at 6 o’clock; come back here at 6:30 for your shuttle. Your room is 1177, down the hall on the right” (remember to read that in a Russian accent). 
It was after 2:30am. Maxim handed me back my passport.
I nodded to the guys. “Goodnight, y’all.”  
“Goodnight. Sleep fast.”

And the encounter was over. Just like that. Four hours of making the world a better place for each other, and we’ll probably never see each other again. I liked those guys and prayed for them as I settled into my room.

A long hot shower and 2.5 hours of real sleep. Worth it.

At 6:30, one other passenger, I, and two Aeroflot escorts were at the desk. Maxim checked us out and led us through the back passageways again to where the shuttle was waiting to take us back to the airport.

Once inside the airport, our agents released us back into general circulation. I wonder how many shuttle trips they made that day: taking us back to the airport and turning us loose in groups of twos, threes, and fours. Bless their hearts.

This time the flight left on time: 9:20am, and I landed at JFK in New York 9.5 hours later.

A Prayer in Dark Times

Psalm 66

For You, O God, have tested us;

You have tried us as silver is tried.

You brought us into the net;

You laid a crushing burden on our backs;

You let men ride over our heads;

we went through fire and through water....

There are places that none of us would choose for ourselves;

yet God chooses them for us at times. 

This prayer is from one of those times and those places.

These days are so long and painful. The hours drag. Even the minutes do. I want to quit. I want out. But You’re not going to let me out, are You? And that’s good of You. I believe that. But there’s no end in sight to all of the hardest things. I can’t keep doing this. And You’re just progressively upping the ante. It’s getting harder and more expensive. You’re playing to win big. I want to tell You that You’ve chosen the wrong teammate. But I know You’ve already won – the victory is not dependent on Your “teammates.” I want to tell You that I don’t care to play, that I’ll just pass until it’s game over, but I know that You want me to play with You. You’re not forcing me to play; You’re inviting me to be with You. You don’t force Yourself on us; that’s not how You work. You actually love us and want us to be with You (and who can resist being actually wanted by You?). I want to tell You that it’s too much, that I can’t bear up under this crushing load. But You give strength for what You put on us. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels crushing. And sometimes You do crush people. You crushed Your Son, and it brought salvation for the world. What will You bring through my crushing? How will You bring salvation and for whom? Will You intervene in answer to my prayers for my people? I hurt. I want to scream or to cry. But I can’t do either. There’s no outlet for the pain. Just the silent imploding inside…and the darkness. You’ve been there too. I know. So You’re not afraid of it, and You’re not going to abandon me to it. You’ve been through it and have come out the other side. And somehow when You walked through all this, You tapped into the joy that was waiting on the other side. I’m afraid of wanting to want joy. I’m afraid of joy. I’m afraid it would break me. Like pouring warm water on a frozen windshield – that I would shatter. But You didn’t. You were going through the absolute worst, and You kept Your eyes on joy, and it helped You endure. Help me open my eyes and look through the darkness toward the light. And in this suffering, give me Yourself. 

And at the risk of being trite at the end of a serious post, I'll share this bit of humor from a sign in a local coffee shop restroom. The final line seemed very appropriate on the particular day that I read it. He knows how to provoke a smile even in the dark times. 

Tropism

Do you remember learning about "tropism" in the plant section of your 4th grade science book? You know, phototropism, hydrotropism, and thigmotropism? I remember being intrigued and looking for examples of tropisms in the plants around me.

The Biology Online dictionary defines "tropism" as "A movement or growth response of a cell or an organism to a stimulus, which may either be positive or negative depending on the source and kind of stimulation." The entry goes on to differentiate "tropism" from similar phenomena such as "kinesis" or "taxis" and then offers examples of various kinds of "tropism."

You wanted to know all of that, right? (But really, it's pretty cool.)

Over the years, the idea of tropism has grown deeper roots in my life. According to the Bible, the God who made the world, crafts each human individually, and orders every day with personal attention and care is continually calling people to come to Him and to know Him. He's always pursuing relationship with people. There's a very real sense in which He intends for every single facet of your life in every single stage of your life to act as a stimulus in your relationship with Him. The Christian's interaction with life should be "theotropic."

That being said, I wanted to share two tropism parables with you.

1). Thigmotropism (response to touch stimuli).

I wrote this little poem-prayer back when I was in school (and when I thought that writing poetry in Elizabethan English was a thing. I've since learned differently. Don't judge.).

Thigmotropy

As vining plant, when touched by stick,

In glad dependence graspeth quick,

Let me, dear Lord, when touched by Thee,

Display a like thigmotropy.

2). Heliotropism (response to the sun).

When I took a walk a few evenings ago, I noticed these field clovers craning their necks west, turning full face toward the setting sun. The responsiveness of the plants to the sun echoed in my own heart as a prayer for myself and the people I love: "May our hearts always turn toward You like that."

What have you seen recently that has helped your heart grow toward God?

Oasis

From the time I was 13 years old, Psalm 119 has been an oasis for my soul. I remember the first time I read it: riding in our family van on a weekend roadtrip, my large-print child's Bible spread out on my lap. 

I couldn't believe how much the person who was writing the psalm loved the words of God. I didn't know you could love the words of God like that. But the psalmist showed me that you could. And through the work of the Spirit, the psalmist's love for God and His Word ignited mine, and I began to love the Bible and devote myself to it. I memorized Psalm 119 a few months later.

In the years since then, Psalm 119 has never been far from my heart. It's one of my most listened-to tracks in my playlist. I've turned to it when I'm full of delight in God and looking for words to express my gladness and worship. I've spread it open before God when I'm mute with weariness or grief and needed words for my mourning. I've dragged my soul to its pages kicking and screaming in rebellion, dry and cracked with thirst, shell-shocked from the fight with sin, and sullen with indifference. And I have found life in its words. 

Tonight was no different. My soul was dull, spent from a full day of people and half a dozen to-dos still tugging at me. But when I walked in the door of my house, I felt the inexorable pull of Psalm 119. Life. Water. Repentance. Hope. Communion. Petition. Longing. The words of life beckoned. 

God invited me to come drink.

Notebook paper, pencil, open Bible.

Oasis.

And slowly my soul revived.

Sandra McCracken has an album on the Psalms, and her Psalm 119 song is titled "Flourishing." My good friend Sallie shared the song with me about three weeks ago, and I've listened to it nearly every day since then. I hope you'll listen to it...and that you'll go spread your roots into oasis of Psalm 119 and be filled with its life-giving water. 

P.S. More to come on the topic of "flourishing."

Peace

Peace

Peace is what happens when the burden of life is borne by someone greater than us, so that, although we are small, we are sure of being cared for. Like being under a truly good, benevolent government. "Of the increase of His government and of peace there will be no end." Peace happens when everything shifts into perspective in relation to You, remembering that You are in control and that You are full of love and grace, very strong, and for us. The heaviness may not go away, but it doesn't crush in quite the same way because we realize that You take complete responsibility for the world and for our lives and that we are precious to you. We can rest because everything is being taken care of. This is peace for tortured minds and hurting hearts. We don't have to figure it out. We don't have to manufacture the strength to make it through all by ourselves. We don't have to perform to get Your attention. You are already present, already gracious, already strong, already good, already in control, and already at work to bring about Your wise purposes. In the end, You have promised that the whole world will experience peace. Until then, let the lives of Your children be filled with peace and act as signposts pointing to You, the Prince of Peace. Teach us to enter into Your rest and peace, to take full advantage of it. You are the God of peace: i.e., You know who You are and what exactly it is that You are doing, and You are pleased with that. You invite us to share in Your peace by faith, putting our trust in You and Your constant, caring control. Help us accept Your invitation, aka, give us peace. 

(This post is #6 of 6 personal meditations on God's names and character. Here are the links to Great Physician, Inscrutable, Immanuel, Steadfast and Grace.)

Grace

Grace

Grace. It's how You are. It's Your posture toward people. The way You treat them. By nature, You are inclined to be kind to undeserving people: that is grace. Grace is the way You relate to us. We are going to chronically fall short, and You know that and are inclined in the deepest part of Your being to be generous towards us. Beyond that, You always remember that we are dust, and You know that life falls heavy on us, and You offer help to us. As our God, You are constantly calling us to impossible things and putting us into situations that are too complex, too painful, too overwhelming, and too big for us (You Yourself are too big for us.). But every time You call us to the impossible, You offer us grace: the supernatural enabling to follow through on every good endeavor that You have purposed for us. It is supernatural help though it often comes in the most ordinary of ways. And at the end of the day, it is going to be You Yourself who comes to us and is Enough for us at every turn: that is grace. And it is how You are toward Your own. 

(This post is #5 of 6 personal meditations on God's names and character. Here are the links to Great Physician, Inscrutable, Immanuel, and Steadfast.)

Steadfast in Love

Steadfast in Love

Steadfast in Your love. Covenant faithfulness. Sworn loyalty. Not subject to circumstance or whim. Unrelenting care. We human beings are so fickle. We don't have a natural metric for steadfastness, and it's hard for us to register the implications of Your being the God of steadfast love: the sheer goodness and safety and security of it. But this is who You are and You treat Your people with steadfast love. We will never experience cruelty, neglect, manipulation, injustice, coldness, stereotyping, impatience, betrayal, lies, or unkindness at Your hands. "All the paths of I Am are steadfast love and faithfulness." Thank You. As I experience Your love, cause me to know and to trust it. Let me in turn be steadied and secured by it. You are for me: now and forever. Nothing can change that: it is a steadfast, unshakable, unchangeable reality. It is as sure as Your own existence and power. 

(This post is #4 of 6 personal meditations on God's names and character. Here are the links to Great Physician, Inscrutable, and Immanuel.)

Immanuel

Immanuel

Immanuel. Here. The Present God, the God who has always chosen to live in the midst of His people. Our Immanuel. All that it means to have You here with us. All that it means to have You here with me. O God - my God - thank You. Your omnipresence is one of my favorite things about You. Despite my own finiteness and my sinful bids for independence that often draw me away from savoring Your presence and being present with You in every moment of my daily life, I can truly say that I'm delighted by Your ubiquitousness that allows us to have constant interaction with You. Beyond Your companionship (which is the jewel of life), Your strength, authority, wealth, gladness, wisdom, love, and grace are such treasures that You have generously given me access to at every point. All that You are, You are here and now with me. This is amazing and praise-inducing. You are Immanuel, the God who incarnates, the One who draws near. I love You, and here and now I come to rest under the shadow of Your wings. 

(This is #3 of 6 personal meditations on God's names and character. Here are the links to Great Physician and Inscrutable.)

Inscrutable Ways

Inscrutable Ways

You do so many many things that leave us wondering. We don't understand Your actions; they baffle us. And we hurt. But You are God: the infinite, glorious, almighty, good God. And of course we, with our finite and darkened minds, can't understand You. Forgive me for resenting and resisting Your inscrutable ways. You told us from the beginning that You are inscrutable and Your ways are beyond our ability to sort out. And You said from the outset that Your people live by faith and that faith is what allows us to draw near to You. Ah, Lord, I humble myself under Your mighty hand. "Lord, I am willing to receive what You give, to lack what You withhold, to relinquish what You take, to suffer what You inflict, to be what You desire." I don't need to understand, but I can, and by Your grace I will, trust. 

(This is #2 of several brief meditations on God's titles and character. Here's the first one, if you missed it and you're interested.)

Great Physician

The next several posts will be short meditations on one particular title (who He is) or character trait (how He is/what He's like) of God. In answer to a text requesting prayer, one of my friends sent back a list of names/attributes of God. Over the next several days, I used that text as a prompt to help me focus on facets of God's nature and to ground me in truth/reality. Sharing some of those short, personal meditations here.

Great Physician 

You are the Great Physician: the I Am who heals us (Ex.15, Ps.103, Hos.6). You know everything there is to know about our bodies, our brains, our emotions, our social aspect, our souls, and the complex interworkings of each of these parts that make us human beings. You made us, and You know us. You were there when we took that terrible Fall that broke us so badly, and You are perfectly aware of the exact impact that the brokenness, pain, sin, and darkness has for each one of us. You have diagnosed our condition with absolute accuracy, and You have prescribed a course of treatment that will sustain us through even the hardest of days and lead us to final healing. You have the cure. And You are the Cure. You are my attending Physician. You are overseeing every detail of my case; You know my entire history thoroughly. You are inherently trustworthy, and You have prescribed a regimen that takes everything into account and will take me in the right direction. Great Physician, thank You. I believe that You know what You are doing. I am confident in Your wisdom and ability. 

A Love Story: Told in Two Parts

 Part One

Sappy post alert!

I know they say that no guy is perfect, but mine is. He is literally everything I dream about and long for. I’m trying to come up with a way to put into words how amazing he is. He’s this incredible balance of gentle and rugged – like, really make-your-heart-pound fierce and dissolve-your-insides understanding and intuitive. He’s a good listener and a good communicator. He knows how to say things to me in a way that shows that he “gets me” perfectly. It’s like he’s memorized me from the inside out and knows exactly how to connect with me, no matter what the situation is. 

It doesn’t hurt that he’s attractive. Strong. Energetic. Smart. (Don’t even get me started on how smart he is! I admire his perspective and grasp on life, people, work, science, history, literature, politics, etc. He. Is. Smart.) Witty. Confident. I respect him more than anyone else I know; I absolutely adore him. He’s one of those people who could have had anyone they wanted, and he chose me. Sometimes I feel like I am living a fairy tale life: I got the prince. He is the epitome of everything good and desirable in a lover. My needs – all of them – are completely met. (Like, think through your life and everything that you wish your significant other would be/do/know for/about you, and then hear me when I tell you that he is there in all of those ways for me.) I love his hands…and his voice. (I told you this was a sappy post!) He tells me/makes me feel like I’m enough for him and that I bring him pleasure too (though I know that, hands down, I’m the lucky one in this relationship). I can’t tell you what it’s like to lay down with him at night and wake up beside him every morning. It’s heaven. 

I never imagined it could be this good. 

Part Two

Everything that I told you about him is true. It’s all true and more, way more, than I could tell. But our story is more complicated than that. At this point, I need to tell you that I’m an addict, a user. So even though I literally have it all with him, I have this relentless, destructive habit of cheating on him. 

He knows it too. He’s caught me making out on the park bench with a coworker. He’s come home in the middle of the day and found me in bed with a friend from church (I know; the irony isn’t lost on me). He knows that I got a hotel room with a college buddy when I was up north for my grandma’s funeral. And like I said, he knows me inside out, so he can tell when we’re at the restaurant, and I start scoping out the room. Or when we’re hanging out together, but I’m actually replaying memories of other men in my brain or slipping into the restroom to text. Or when we’re in the middle of a really meaningful conversation and I start planning my outfit for when I sneak out later. Sometimes he makes love to me and even though I know that if I responded to his advances he could make me deliriously happy, I just ignore him because I’m on Facebook or whatever, and the thought of being with him doesn’t appeal to me enough to make me put down my phone. 

I’m kinda saying this all really casually. It’s not that I don’t feel any shame. I do. But the reality is that this has all happened so many times that it’s almost old hat. I used to freak out whenever I acted out on my cravings for other lovers, but I’ve come to realize that it’s who I am. I wish I was a better wife to him (he deserves so much better!), but I’m just not the person I thought I was back when we got married. I’m a user. That’s the way it is. The plain old hat reality.

Here’s what’s not old hat, though, and here’s the reason I’m telling you our story: he takes me back. Every. Time. He takes me back. Do you know that nothing that I’ve done has changed who he is and his faithfulness to me? He knows everything about me, and he still takes me back. Still welcomes me into his arms. Still speaks the words he knows I need to hear. He truly loves me with his whole heart, and I see a hauntingly infinite grief in his eyes every time I walk away from him yet that hasn’t stopped me from walking away. But as he takes me back, time after time, something is starting to happen. It’s starting to sink in that he’s always known that I am this horrible person. He knew it when he chose me and married me. 

I was the oblivious one. I was so blind and deceived. I used to think that he was awesome, and I was almost as awesome. But it’s not that way at all. He’s so much more than I ever imagined back when we first met, and I first responded to his love, and I’m far worse than I ever knew in my moments of greatest clarity and honesty. I’ve begun to see that, and I’m beginning to be able to talk about it now. 

I’m realizing that I have nothing to lose: I don’t have to be proud and try to patch up my image. I don’t have to be in denial. I don’t have to hide or lie: to him, to myself, to anyone. I am who I am. And he is who he is. He’s faithful. He’s forgiving. He’s unchanging. He’s committed to me no matter what because he already knew me when he married me, and he determined to endure the worst of my betrayal and darkness and spite himself. So he takes me back. Every time. He loves me. 

And it’s this incredible heartbroken, unchanging love of his that’s starting to do something to do me. It’s starting to free me. To free me from using. From using life and everything in it to try to fill me up. I’m starting to realize that I can’t fill myself or fix myself or anything. I’m starting to realize how much I need him. I’m learning to see and to embrace that he decided to sacrifice himself for my good, my humbling, my cleansing, my healing, and my transformation, and that if I accept that – accept him – I can be satisfied. I can live out the satisfaction in him that he means for me to experience, but it won’t be all about my satisfaction and my needs being met; it will be all about him. He will be everything. 

It’s kinda like the sappy post that I started off with, except that was about what I got from him (and it’s true, I do get all that from him), but I’m learning now: it’s not about getting. It’s about all of me responding to all that he is – that’s what shows how magnificent he really is. When he can take someone like me and over time, by the sheer weight of his relentless love, transform her into an adoring, faithful wife who sees both herself and him as we both really are, that really displays his greatness. So, this is our love story. It’s actually the story of his love for me, and do know you? We will live happily ever after.

(Written by Kaycee Rider; shared with permission.)