I Blew It

I had the perfect chance, but I checked out instead.

I got the usual small talk questions as I sat across the table from my coworker while we supervised the adolescents on our unit.  "Are you married? Do you have kids (statements usually coupled with follow up phrases like, ‘Really?  You’re too pretty to be single,’ or, ‘Oh, usually when you meet young, Caucasian females who seem to have it all together, they’re married.’  Thankfully, this guy just let it go).

“So, are you planning on doing this job for a while?” he asked.

“Not forever,” I responded.  “I'll be leaving to go do missions overseas in a little less than a year.  I'm be going to Thailand with a team for 5 to 7 years, and we’ll be church planting.”

“Oh.  I don't really know what that means.”

“Basically, we’ll be talking to people and telling them about Jesus and how great He is, and then they’ll tell their friends, and then… churches will form.”

I said something else in Christianese that I can't recall now, something unintelligible to the untrained “churched” ear.

“Oh, that's interesting,” he replied.  “I'm not really religious, though.  I used to go to church…  But me and God, we have an understanding,” he said with a chuckle.  When I asked what he meant, he went on.  “When I was a kid, I was at church almost every night of the week.  But I didn't like it.  It just never really made sense to me.  So now I don’t really go anymore.”

“Yeah… It would make sense that it would be hard to enjoy church when… you didn't really… care about it.”

Conversation over.

I left work that night feeling like such a missionary failure. What happened? This guy set me up for the perfect opportunity to share Jesus with him, but I was too scared to ask more questions, to breach uncomfortable boundaries.  I had talked about Him with strangers before.  It's not like this was my first ballgame.  But for some reason, the right words just seemed to escape me.

It was that same defeated feeling times a thousand that had me in tears as I revealed my fears to my teammates a week later in Kansas City.  As we sat in our stuffed sofa and chairs, encircling a coffee table piled high with perhaps not-so-realistic expectations, I confessed.  I feel like I am going to fail in Thailand.  I have no idea what to do, and I'm afraid I won't be able to create any relationships with the people.

If I can't do it here, what makes me think I'm going to be able to do it there?





I'm sure Moses and I would've had a few good laughs, a couple of blubbering idiots trying to tell God we can't do anything right.

And then I picture God sitting back with sort of an amused smile, thinking, "Okay… so what?

Apart from me you can do nothing.”

Turns out, nearly every teammate in that circle had experienced some kind of spiritual attack that weekend.  Plaguing thoughts and fears about how there were a thousand people more qualified than them to go.  About how the team would be better off if they weren’t there.  About how they were just fooling everyone with a mere appearance of spirituality.  About how, really, they were just hypocrites.

It should be no surprise.  The greater God’s plan, the greater Satan’s attack.  The more affirmed the calling, the more prevalent the lies seeking to destroy it.

What I tend to forget is that the victory doesn’t depend on my sufficiency, but on the One who is already the Victor.

He is security.
He is relationship.
He is sufficiency.

The Art of Letting Go

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I walked past the open door, my travel mug refilled, ready to once again plug away at figuring out how the next few months of my life would look after leaving Echo Ranch Bible Camp.

But the outside beckoned me.  Maybe it was You.  I don’t know what it was, but something told me not to go back downstairs, isolated, a slave to the Internet’s grand and varied offers for what my future could look like.

So I went.

This summer, with all my intents and purposes of growing, improving, and letting go, was exactly not that kind of season.  It was a season of holding on.  Holding on to what if?s in a recently ended relationship, projected hopes of a new Christian community, expectations of my stunning performance as a leader, and above all, the confidence that I would know exactly what I would be doing with my life once it was all over.

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I walked past the Purple Bench.  I had originally intended on stopping there.  Maybe sitting down and enjoying the view of… the bath house?  Or maybe just the feeling of sitting in the sun.  But I kept walking.  I didn’t really know why.  Maybe I would go lie down in the middle of the sports field.  Soak up the rays that aren’t easy to come by during a summer in Southeast Alaska.  The path there was a little to the left.

God had called me here.  There haven’t been many times in my life when I could say that with confidence, but I knew it to be true now.  But as the weeks progressed, I watched my expectations crumble before my eyes.  I was a seasoned professional at this.  If any experience should have hammered that truth into my brain, it would have been the Race.  But I thought these were more realistic.  Instead, loneliness seeped in when quality time and vulnerability were scarce.  Feelings of failure abounded when my attempts to fulfill my role fell short. Uncertainty, anxiety, and depression crept up on me as I considered the possibilities and unknowns of my future again… and again… and again.  And, to top it all off, nobody liked feedback. 

I spent the summer being everywhere but here, and I knew it.  I felt like I had already thrown away opportunities to make the most of it, and nothing had even come out of all my fretting about what to do next.  I tossed, turned, and lay in a miserable heap of pity party in my bed one afternoon during the final few weeks, mulling it all over.  I listened to Jesus music and asked Him what heck I was supposed to do next.

And then I saw myself, scrambling around and trying to devise all these plans for what I would do.  But I wasn’t scrambling on the ground.  I was in the palm of a very large hand, and I didn’t even realize it.  I ran from one side of the palm to another, never noticing the fruitlessness of my efforts to do what I thought was best.  Because the hand was attached to Someone.  A wrist, to an arm, to a chest, to a neck to the head… of my Father.  My Father who was watching me run to and fro and sort of smiling knowingly.  As I looked in at myself, my scrambly little body, I thought, “If I were God, I would think that was so ridiculous. Why wouldn't I just trust Him, that He sees everything, and He's holding me, and He's in control? Why wouldn't I just rest, secure in His hand?"

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I turned right.  Why, I really didn’t know, but I didn’t really think about it.  Until I saw it and remembered.  The tiny little camp house referred to as the Love Shack. 

I had frequented this little home during my previous summer here because that is where my “camp mom”, Lyn, had lived.  We had talked together of things that mattered as she mixed together our favorite lemon drink concoction.  She told me her story.  And I marveled at how a woman so formerly broken could now be so full of love, grace, and joy.  

  

So often, my spirit’s response to a gentle Truth that sets it reeling is a simple, “Oh.”

I felt awakened.  Affirmed.  But not yet satisfied.  I knew there was more to trusting Him than just knowing I should do it.  It had to do with knowing Him.  Loving Him.  But what did that really mean, truly loving God with all my heart and soul and mind and strength?  I had seen others live that way.  I had been reading about it recently in one of the many books hailed by my World Race leaders.  I knew God was trustworthy, and I knew I loved Him.  But did I love Him like that?

          

I smiled as I walked up the porch steps and opened the door.  After making sure it was actually vacant, I settled into the couch where Lyn had shared her life with me four years ago.  Glancing around me, I noticed a book on the side table.  The Art of Loving God.  

I read the whole thing.  I cried.  I thanked.  I prayed.

I released.

I'm still processing through these kinds of things.  Intimacy.  Trust.  Love.  But in those still, sweet moments, I knew my Father was reaching down to me -- for me -- and saying, "Here, let Me help you understand a little better."  Maybe the point isn't me knowing all the things or being enough or getting it right or, you know, in control.  Just give. it. up.   (And haven't I already written like 56 blogs about this?)

What about you?  What kinds of things has God helped you understand in the midst of your own Crazy Land?

Fear Addicts Anonymous

I am a believer in Jesus Christ who struggles with fear, and my name is Reagan.

Sometimes it’s hard not to let my fear shape my decisions.  My beliefs.  My perception of God, His will, everything.

When it comes to any decision more life-changing than do I want Chick-fil-A or City Bites for lunch? here's how the process normally goes:  I want to explore/make a decision, but I don’t feel total certainty or peace about it, and I’m not really sure if that’s what God wants anyway, and then I start believing He must not want that, because where’s the peace? but the thing really seems to make sense, and the door is wide open, and I know it would bring about good, glorifying-to-God things, and everyone who also loves Jesus is affirming it, and really all signs are a go except that peace, but I can’t pursue it because I’m not quite sure what the will of God is, so I wait and wait and the fear of making the wrong decision builds and builds until I feel sick to my stomach thinking about it and become convinced that I’m walking in disobedience by not choosing to walk away from it and I’m now inviting the discipline of the Divine.

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I made a decision once.

I had been wrestling with this particular choice for months, primarily for those reasons.  But I was ready to put my foot down and make a decision.  I wasn’t sure it was where God was leading me.  I sort of stopped asking Him (and other people) because I didn’t want to analyze it all anymore (or be told I was wrong).  I wanted to dive in “in faith”, hoping God would reward it if it was right and make it pretty clear if it was wrong.

I kept coming across things talking about how we let our past sabotage our future, define ourselves by our patterns, and those things weren’t okay.  Yeah!  That’s what I’ve been doing!  No more of this.  It’s a new day.  I want to start new and fresh.  I’m ready.  This must be a sign from the Lord.

I still wasn’t sure sure.  I feared that my feelings and confidence would falter once the decision was made.  That all the same junk would resurface, and that I was just having a particularly good day before.  But I still wanted to try.

So I made a decision.

The result?

No.  Not now.

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That’s the funny thing about making decisions.  Sometimes, the thing you choose after months and months of praying and over-analyzing doesn’t work out.

And that sucks.  A lot.

I wasn’t sure what to do with the pseudo-confidence I had before.  Or with the suffocating fear that had been prevalent for months, that fear I so often confused with the voice of God.  What was the truth?  Had He been saying no the whole time?  Did He say no this time to prepare me for a yes later?  Was that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach His voice?  Or was I creating that for myself out of a false belief about who He is?

But don’t forget, there’s always the Donald Miller approach of living a great story and "breaking down the door".  Was that the answer here?  Was the door being slammed in my face the will of God, or was it just a plain old closed door that could be opened a different way?  Was it supposed to present me with the opportunity to know what I actually wanted instead of floating around in la-la-I-don’t-know-anything land and motivate me to actually pursue it?

So there I stood, staring at the empty palms of my hands, thinking, What now?

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From what I’ve gathered from being alive, I’m not the only one who wrestles with this.

And that’s a really, really important truth to grasp.  Because way too often, I act as if I am.

No one else struggles with this the way I do.  I’m just being dumb and need to make up my mind.  Jesus will eventually make it clear; I don’t need to ask anyone else’s opinion.  Besides, everyone is sick of listening to me process through all this junk anyway.

The lies and the fear frolic around, hand in hand, and my paranoia of both disobedience and insignificance envelopes me in a toxic, lonely fog.

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It’s no wonder the most frequently given command in the Bible is “Do not fear.”  I mean, besides fearing God (not just the reverent kind) and anacondas, what good does freaking out really do?

But how do you give it up?

What the heck does it look like to trust in the Lord with all my heart? 

To not be anxious about anything?

To take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ?

I don’t have the formula for this.  I wish I did.  For myself, and for those that find themselves in the oscillating, never-ending cycle of fear and decision making.

But in the middle of my personal Crazy Land, I’ve been hearing God say things like this: Reagan!  Look!  See how I am in control and you are not.  See how much you can trust Me.  I’m taking care of you.  You are not lost.  You are not a failure.  And this is only the beginning.  I have so much for you.  I’ve got you.

What I know is that God is trustworthy.

What I know is that He is capable of accomplishing His purpose outside of our intentions.

What I know is that we were made to thrive in a community where we can be encouraged to keep fighting the good fight, finish the race, and keep the faith.

At the end of the day, that’s what it really comes down to.

I don’t have all the answers for my fellow fear addicts.  But I can extend the hand of someone who gets it.  You are not alone.  And together -- guided by the all-surpassing grace of the God who is our Shepherd -- we can probably work through some of that junk that would otherwise keep us from doing anything at all.

Because who can stay out of Crazy Land all by themselves?  Really?

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Lies and Fear Go Hand in Hand

So, I have to be honest. I really don't enjoy blogging. Actually, I really don't enjoy writing. I enjoy the action of copying and pasting all of my wisdom and insight into the blog box and then clicking the button at the bottom that says 'Publish Post.' I don't particularly enjoy editing that particular post 16 times before submitting the final draft, but it does give me a small sense of accomplishment to know that I have just exposed another part of my life and soul to the rest of the world. It's a little freeing, in a way. Being able to be held accountable for the things you say and think. Getting feedback, knowing other people are thinking the same things, or just the fact that other readers now know you a little better than they did 5 minutes ago... These are the things that make writing worth it. At least that's how I convince myself to keep it up.

Lately, I've been thinking about fear. It was the topic of Pastor Dave's sermon on Sunday, and we talked about it again at the college group gathering last night. Fear is something that, when embraced excessively (or obsessively?), leads to a lot of false perceptions and beliefs. These can be delusions about yourself, the danger, or God Himself. I've never really considered myself a 'fearful' person. I'm just realistic. Right?

Over the past few months, I've started to become afraid of more things. Some of this downward spiral has to do with graduating college and desperately searching for the next step. Some of it has to do with unfulfilled dreams and expectations. And some of it has to do with the rose-colored glasses I am slowly but surely learning to remove. One of my biggest fears right is that my life won't be meaningful. That I will be a wallflower forever. That the world will be no different after I am gone. That God will look at me and say, in the words of Francis Chan, "Wow, well done. Well done. You lived the safest life possible. You didn't slip. You didn't fall" (see the clip here). I don't want to live a life completely void of risk. I want to take chances and make mistakes. I want to witness the seemingly impossible. I don't want to bury my talents. I want to be sent out into the harvest field.

On the other hand, I'm fearful of failure. I don't want to try anything too crazy because I don't want to fail. I don't want to put my heart on the line because I don't want to get hurt. I don't want to say what I really think because I don't want to be criticized. When I want to make myself feel better about being wildly mediocre, I just compare myself to other people who are even more boring than I am. As if I'm trying to justify my wasted breath.

Sometimes I'm afraid of my ability to hear and understand God - that I'll misinterpret what He says to me. Other times, I'm just afraid I'll disappoint Him. Which isn't unusual, really. At other times, still, I'm afraid that God will ask me to do something I don't want to do. Like be homeless. Or eternally celibate. Or a customer service representative. Now, I know God isn't a big, mean bully who just loves to watch us squirm. But this fear is somewhat legitimate. Just think about Moses, when God asked him to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. Or Jesus, when God told him to give up his life. At the same time, though, it's key to remember that God will never move you out of your comfort zone without a greater purpose. He doesn't delight in our misery.

It's a vicious thing, fear. In a way, though, it compels us to flee stagnation. It keeps us from making careless choices. It makes us think about things like meaning and purpose and the character of God. The key is to find the balance. Clearly, I don't know exactly how that's done... But I can take comfort in the fact that God is bigger than my fears. My life is a small and seemingly insignificant blip in the span of eternity, and people have had bigger problems before I came along. And really, even if I screw up, God can work through that too. He won't waste an opportunity to teach me, even if it's in a little less comfortable of a way than I would have preferred.