Beautiful | Crazy

Can't sleep for thinking again.

I have concluded that I have a weak mind (Jedi mind tricks would work on me - after all, I'm not a Toydarian! There's a nice little Easter egg for you Star Wars punks out there).

Ahem. As I was saying, I have concluded that I have a weak mind. I think I am more easily overwhelmed than the average person. Having experienced clinical depression, I know I am biologically predisposed to mental illness. Also, I recognize that my coping mechanisms are often flimsier than others', and I reach what I call "crisis point" sooner than many. And yet, where this knowledge would've once discouraged me, it is now, by the grace of God, nothing more than a neutral set of facts.

For I know that my weak mind is not me. Look at it this way: if I were suddenly diagnosed with cancer, the cancer would be an outworking of an imperfect body born into a sinful world. You would not say it was a result of me, though, would you? Jaimie with cancer would still be...Jaimie. My skills, traits, quirks - they'd all still be there. My personality, soul and spirit would be in tact, too. In the same way, my weak and broken mind is an outworking of an imperfect body in a sinful world. Jaimie with a broken mind is still Jaimie. Therefore I have great hope.

One day, when Christ brings about the new heaven and the new earth, there will be neither physical sickness nor mental sickness. The infirmity of the mind as well as the body will be washed away in the perfection that comes in being fully immersed in Christ's presence.

That's not to say that our "true essence" is separate from our body. Accepting that would be bowing to Platonic dualism - a fallacy that can easily lead to the belief that the body isn't important. Indeed, we are both spiritual and physical creatures. The two cannot be separated without removing something that is inherently part of who God made us to be. Otherwise, why does the Bible say we will have actual, resurrected bodies one day? Why would we want or need them?

All this to say that I'm glad that the Lord has worked in my heart over so many years to show me that I am not the sum of my defects. Indeed, I am a child of God's image - no small thing! I just haven't seen just what that looks like, yet.

These thoughts pour from my heart after an evening when a thousand stresses crashed home, and my husband was there to catch me and hold me and listen to me, and my God was there to give me the light and joy and strength that comes from hope and truth. So, I overflow with thankfulness in all of this, because God is good, has been good to me, and will ever continue to be!

It is Finished.

I stand on a pedestal, like a slave being sold at the block, for all the world to see. I breathe shame. Despicable child that I am, I cannot but look at the faces surrounding me and wonder, “What do they see? What are they thinking?” The questions burn—they taste like vomit in my mouth!

Yet, who can I be, but this slave? I know nothing of the world that does not demand perfection.  All my life, my captors have tried to train me to be a model of perfection, but I have failed them! In my heart, I am sickened by the fact that I want to please them at all, enough to sacrifice my heart, mind and body to their deadly appetites. I want so badly for them to praise me that I let them keep me on the block longer and longer, just so people will know that I am of some worth to these men!

In the crowd, I see the beloved face of my husband and the faithful eyes of my best friends. They look at me now with a feeling much deeper than the simple concern they began with. They were once slaves, too, you see, but a man of light set them free long ago.

That same man once came to my cell to free me. I stepped out from behind bars only to jump back into the arms of the people I knew best.

Yet my dear ones cry for me here, today, especially my husband. Their eyes plead with me, begging me to believe that I am destroying myself, grinding myself into nothing. From the ground, they beg me with earnest voices to at least try to see what they see. But up here on the block, I see nothing but my ambition to be worth something to these slavers.

My husband reaches out his hand, telling me that I am worth his very life to him. I turn my head away. He who would take me home, nurse me to health, dress me in beautiful robes and hold me tenderly in his arms, does not count. The only people who count are these dealers in death. Why? Because they are the men who run the world, don’t you see? They are the ones who will launch us forward into fame and renown. They are the victorious army – everyone else fights with a glory that will not be seen until the very end. While I am on this earth, I want to be a part of the army that looks like it’s actually winning!

Sleep is my only respite from this deadly dance.

In the night, I curl up in my cell and forget about my captors’ presenting me until the next day. Someone shakes me awake. For a moment, I hang on the edge of a dream, clinging onto the doorframe that leads into a land where my value is secure and my eyes are made new. Then, the wind of reality sucks me out, out, out, with black and hellish pain I cannot fully describe.

What is this? A man has come to rescue me in the night. He reaches out his hand, as my husband did, and in his skin is the light that illumined the dream. In his being is the essence of value, security and newness, made real before my eyes.

But I cannot accept. Oh, who could accept something so good? Something so good could not be true. And I cannot ever be free.

“I will free you.”

No.

“Dear one, I will free you.”

No, Lord, NO!

“I have adopted you, and you are my child. I have loved you, and you are able to love and be loved. I have become your righteousness, and you are sanctified forever with me.”

I can’t.

“No matter what you say, beautiful one, no matter what you do, these things will not change.”

I bare my teeth. Anger erupts in my heart and scratches up my throat like a scream too loud and bitter to swallow down. I scream, and scream, and scream.

His face never changes, except for a slight tightening of the eyes that might be sadness. His face is all love and compassion. He is not unsure of himself, even in his emotion. He is surety incarnate as he looks at me, spreads out his hands and says, “Did I not tell you it is finished?”

I swallow every word I have ever spoken when I see those hands with those holes gaping in them, wounds that pierce from front to back with indiscriminate hatred and rejection. In my mind’s eye, an image of blood and storm clouds and tears and death flashes like lightning.

“NO, LORD!”

Noise like a hurricane explodes in my ears. I cannot hold on any longer! I cannot, I cannot, I--!

All at once, the world goes still.

I am not in my cell.

I panic, groping the floor, trying to figure out what this strange world is. I collapse—I am too exhausted to go on.

In a haze, I feel strong arms lift me. They hold me securely and carry me as their owner walks forward.

I look up, dizzy and squinting against the mist, to see a smile more warm and definite and unchanging and sincere and full and holy than could belong on anyone but the Son of God himself. He brushes a tear from my cheek with his finger—I didn’t know I was crying. I need to turn my face away. I cannot face him like this; I can never face him again!

I cannot stop crying. He cradles my head, lets me bury it against his chest. When I look up, he is still smiling with even more love than before, if that were possible. I try to return the smile, weakly.

He nods, and holding me close, whispers, “Did I not tell you? It is finished.”

A Fictional Character's Favorite Question

I'm really bad about asking "why?" I mean, I do it way too often, and always expect an answer. Case in point: twice, I inadvertently wrote this aspect of me into the main character of my short story "House Divided..."

Nothing was more frustrating than confusion.

Not really knowing why things were the way they were infuriated her. Now that she had come to this milestone, her education seemed glaringly incomplete.

As of late I've been convinced that God is using the lack of answers to my "whys" to show me what trust really looks like.

It's particularly hard to trust God's goodness and sovereignty in areas I feel like I can and should have control over. One of these areas is the state of my own heart. My misinformed view--though I know better, on an intellectual level--is that God wants our hearts right before him, meaning I need to make that happen myself. Whether assiduously reading my Bible, memorizing x number of verses or helping x number of people, I use my Christian checklist to try to force myself to grow.

Once again, the Word shines light on falsehood and gives me yet another reason to have hope and joy in the God of my salvation:

Philippians 1:6 - "And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you [ie. not you own self] will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ."

Then there's Paul, who, in the context of a discussion in Philippians 3 about pressing onward to gain a righteousness by faith, says, "Let those of us who are mature think this way, and if in anything you think otherwise, God will reveal that also to you. Only let us hold true to what we have attained."

What a comfort! As we pursue God, we may "think otherwise." Though our mind may hold fast to a viewpoint, God has the power to break through the most stubborn barrier and show us reality. Only he can do it, and he will.

The Flannery Factor

“Ever since there have been such things as novels, the world has been flooded with bad fiction for which the religious impulse has been responsible. The sorry religious novel comes about when the writer supposes that because of his belief, he is somehow dispensed from the obligation to penetrate concrete reality. He will think that the eyes of the Church or of the Bible or of his particular theology have already done the seeing for him, and that his business is to rearrange this essential vision into satisfying patterns, getting himself as little dirty in the process as possible. His feeling about this may have been made more definite by one of those Manichean-type theologies which sees the natural world as unworthy of penetration. But the real novelist, the one with an instinct for what he is about, knows that he cannot approach the infinite directly, that he must penetrate the natural human world as it is.”

-Flannery O’Connor, Mystery and Manners

I don't pretend to be a top-notch novelist who's got it all down--not even close. However, I whole heartedly agree with Ms. O'Connor. In the few short stories I've written, I've found that it is impossible to accurately portray real life without "getting your hands dirty."

I have standards about how far I will cross the line. It's inappropriate to spell some things out in detail for the reader, and not to detriment of the novel. Gratuitous anything is not how I roll (Some call this pusillanimity. Man, you really can't make everyone happy, huh?).

The moment I embraced this as my writing philosophy: I was plugging away at a short story about a young married couple torn between a life-and-death decision. Their views conflict. Both are convinced their side is right.

Since the story deals with two very difficult topics--abortion and cancer--I didn't want to water down the couple's emotions. As I composed the dialogue of their definitive, all-out fight, I came across a line in which my character would inevitably curse. I mean, really. It was big-time stuff, and my characters aren't southern baptist. Puzzled, I looked up at Chris and said, "Uh, my character needs to cuss, but I'm not sure if I should put it in there. I don't want to make anyone mad." Chris said something simple, along the lines of, "Well, that's real life, isn't it?"

It dawned on me, why, yes, it is. When people sugarcoat life and tell someone everything's going to be hunky-dory, and the truth is that it probably won't be, they become disillusioned, disappointed and bitter.

This real-life approach does not preclude purposeful and hopeful endings, no matter what Thomas Hobbes says. ;) I strive to close all my stories with hope, because I believe that hope always exists in reality.

So, there you have it: my potentially controversial writing philosophy. I'm not a fan of offending people, so I hope no one is offended. However, you can tell I've lived with Chris for eight months because I will not rescind even if someone is.

Anyhoo, dear reader, let me know what you think. If you don't want to leave a comment here, you may send it to me telepathically.

In fact, that might be a lot more fun...

Fists

I must begin by saying that I don't recall many self-perpetuating cylces that weren't somewhow negative.

There's Eggerich's "Crazy Cycle" from Love and Respect, McClung's "Saul Cycle" from The Father Heart of God, and many more cycles of blame, depression, pride or anger, with or without cute appelatives.

Why, dear reader, is it so much harder to establish good cycles in our lives than bad?

I think it goes back to our congenital sin nature. Unknowingly, we build our entire existence on a foundation of falsehoods that we hold to be true; this only changes when Christ gives us a new life.

Let me illustrate. A wise friend of mine, Karen, likes to use this:

Make a fist. From the time you are born, you are "building" this fist foundation: your original concept of truth and reality. Your home, parents, friends and school all contribute to what you believe about everything from religion to relationships. What it means to be a sibling. What it means to have goals. Everything.

Now, fold your other hand over your fist. This represents the actual, true truths you accept when you are saved and growing strong in Christ. Theoretically, they accumulate and bring us much joy!

Finally, shake your hands in a earthquake-y way so your second hand falls away from your fist. When you're shaken by difficult times, the true truths of Christ fall away to reveal the underlying, self-created truths from the past. They may be sinful, or they may not. They may simply be wrong. Either way, you can't just cover them back over with your "truth" hand; they'll still be there every time the earthquake comes.

The answer?

We have to call out to God to root them out completely; not only that, to replace them with true truths! It's painful. It's wonderful. And we can't do it ourselves. I know!

There's a reason this blog is titled what it is. The old stuff in me has to go away, burn away. If I want the things of Christ, I want them for good, and I know He's working that now.

So much in my life is burning away. I want to be focused and thankful in the midst of it; only by the grace of God am I able!
God, help me to live like I know this for true.