"I want God more than all the old stories."
Not the old, old, stories, the ones we hear about when we read scripture, but the old stories we tell ourselves about life, about who we've been and think we still are. The friend who said, "I want God more than these," had come to a place I've come to many times before. And, although she was on her knees in church, plunked down into her desire like a cat caught by the scruff of its neck into a carrier, I have more often than not crawled there through the muddy yard of disappointment, doubt and debilitating exhaustion--which means I was collapsed in bed. Fortunately, God the Great Reviser can take whatever our stories are or have been and rework them according to his own aesthetic. Think, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." A month from now, I'll be celebrating (if you can call it that) my father's 46th death anniversary. I can't say "observing his anniversary" because I'm already observing it--both consciously and unconsciously, interiorly and on the outside--even though the day is well in the distance, still a long way off. Every year, this vigil month of March erupts with surprising somatic symptoms: a spate of headaches, a back sprain, a manic swell which leads inevitably to embarrassment. It takes perhaps a week of trouble before I recognize where I am. I'm back in the thorny landscape of grief, wandering the same forty years or so which kept the Israelites busy starving and straying, returning to God with rejoicing and then going off the rails again. God promised them a land of release if they would only set their priorities straight, if they would just choose him and stop seeking security from knowing who they had been. Their old life was slavery, yet there had been food to eat and flesh pots to eat from. The confines of imprisonment defined them. . . and they knew who they were. The people of God? Who's that? Surely, not us. When I think of being liberated from my perplexing show of annual grief, I find I can't. I can't imagine it, can't imagine being myself without the subconscious fits of mourning which counter the more readily apparent and healthier ones. Being beset by crippling grief is my old story. I've been defined by that narrative so long, I figure I can't live without it. Which is true. Which is where God comes in. Once I've chosen to follow God the Deliverer through the waters of rebirth, I can't survive--the "me" that's a slave to a time long gone, even if the grief will never entirely go away. Just because God can and does bring me safely to a better land, a better identity fattened with fresh milk and honey, doesn't mean I lose my memory. No, my Mother doesn't prevent me from remembering the wilderness, my doubt and pain, the stress of my journey. These keep me grateful, faithful, willing to learn a new story of myself as one of God's people, firmly rooted and ready to thrive in rich soil. God wants me to remember so that, when difficult memories arise as they certainly will, my desire for her will flare and keep me crawling in the right direction. When I make it to her lap, whether it's on my knees or lying flat, I will discover my life has a new meaning born of Promise. From then on, more than anything, I'll be defined as hers. Iris Reid
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"Martha, Martha!"
---Luke 10:41 I've been assured more than once---more than twice, even thrice---that God knows my name and wants to use it. He calls to me like a shepherd calls his sheep, and I can hear him because I know his voice. He leads me into green pastures, knows what's good for me, knit me together in my mother's womb, and sent me out to preach peace to the nations. I'm known as surely as Adam was in the garden when God hollered his name, calling him out of hiding. "All-ee-all-ee-in-come-free!" God has always wanted us nearby, like a mother, and a mother knows her children's names. But who anticipates God calling out our names so we'll snap to attention? "Iris! You get down here this minute!" Maybe you do. I confess to being sentimental, listening only for God to call me like a lover whispering tender mercies. "Stop that right now!" is NOT a phrase I imagine issuing forth from God's mouth to my ears. But what do I expect? It makes sense, especially when I'm ignoring him by being completely distracted. Evidently, a curt call is one way we are ushered to God's side for some loving. I think: Who hasn't collapsed from frustration working too hard, from worrying too hard? Who hasn't despaired fearing that needed help will never arrive? Who hasn't dreaded being crushed in their collapse? "Iris, Iris! You worry about so many things." It's true. I'm upset. My family is demanding, one friend might have cancer and another's son seems to be headed for jail. "Jesus!" I say. "What's the hold up? Set things right!" His answer comes in a name---my name---insisting he is near, always near, and the house is full of friends who have the answer. No matter what grief I bear, no matter the anger, no matter what frustrations I have with people, with circumstances, even with God himself---I was given a name. God speaks it with love. God calls us and calls us out, each of us, by name. We are known by the Mother who bore us. Even so, it's a surprise when she shouts up the stairs. And, there's no mistaking the message: "Snap to it, you! I'm waiting for you!" Iris Reid |
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