I went for a short walk this afternoon, just down the hill and around the corner from my house. The air had that bright clarity that often comes with fall and winter, the sun had decided to shine enthusiastically, and it was temptingly warm for late November.
I bundled up well: hooded wool sweater, jacket, scarf. Then, in a fit of impatience, I threw on some sandals.
(It was a brief stroll, remember?)
I crossed a small bridge and admired tree-reflections in the quiet stream. I strolled through a narrow avenue between tall pines, its floor well carpeted with amber-bright needles. The grass was bright green and dusted ever-so-lightly, in sheltered spots, with snow. And yet my feet were fine.
My hands were cold, but my feet were fine, dear friends…until I hit some soggy spots in the grass. And then they went quite numb, and with visions of frostbite, I hurried home at once.
Why am I tattling about my moments of utter rashness? Because it’s a perfect illustration of the way I sometimes treat my emotions.
It’s cold outside? No big deal; I’ll think warm thoughts, and be just fine.
What is this “fine” that tempts me to flout plain fact? I mean, emotions are very real. And like the snowy grass and November weather, they do actually have an effect on my life.
It’s like this: Along with blue eyes, dark hair, and a beautiful case of jaundice, I was born with a deep-seated desire to be calm and even-keeled. And actually, I am often calm and even-keeled. Thanks to birth order, perhaps, or temperament, or upbringing (who knows?) I can usually say “I’m fine.”
But lately I’ve been noticing something a little disturbing about this need.
Yes, it is well with my soul. Yes, God is good, and to be trusted. No, I’m not Pollyanna, but I do see a whale of a lot of things to be thankful for.
That’s not what I’m talking about.
Sometimes “I’m fine” is actually a stiff outstretched arm that shoves God — and people — right out of my life. I may be fine (in the sense that I’ve avoided frostbite), but my feet still need warm socks and shoes. I may be fine (in the sense that I’m headed to heaven), but believe me, I need me some people — and I really need God!
Peace of mind that comes solely from logic and self-control? That’s stoicism, and it’s an ancient, pagan philosophy. Stubbornly refusing to get all fussed up is not the same as the “peace that passes understanding.” You know, the peace that’s promised to those who bring their troubles to Jesus.
I went to court this week with a friend. I was there, just to be there with her. The situation was not pretty, and things did not go as she hoped for folks she loves well, and fiercely. It was hard; it was broken — she was broken by the day. And yet what spilled out of her heart was tenderness, not stiffness. She was not bitter, but trusting. She was strong, and she allowed herself to show need. She needed to pray aloud. She needed to hear us praying for her. She was not embarrassed to seek a hand to hold or a shoulder to cry on, or to let us hear the jagged things that fell out of that shattering heart.
She was not fine. And yet all was well with her.
God gave her iron shoes, and we, her friends, were honored to stand close enough to see and be part of His inexplicable work.
So. Am I fine? No, not this week. No. I’m undone by the process of saying goodbye; of shifting from one side of the earth to the other. I’m wobbling under bad news piled on bad news, amazed at the compliments God is paying our generation, as He asks us to trust Him yet more.
And yet I’m dishing out hope with my mouth, and making room for it in my heart, and I’m craning my neck for the joy that’s ahead…and above…and within. The hellos on the other side of the ocean. The redemption planned for this broken earth. And His always-presence in every joy and sorrow, every altitude and latitude, every going out, and every coming in.
Elisabeth Adams 