Elisabeth Adams

I know I just got done saying that I tend toward stoicism. But when it comes to new challenges that seem too big for me, I can do drama queen. Now, the Bible says that there’s a time for every purpose, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t mean either of these extremes. I think there’s a time to mourn, to voice fear, to seek sympathy and help. And there’s also a time to be done with all that.

There’s a time to ask audaciously for relief. And there’s a time to accept that this is life. (“Why yes, you have to go to the dentist.” Or “No, you didn’t win the spelling bee.” Or “The baby is crying in the middle of the night and — oh right, I’m the mom.”)

Know that nagging feeling that maybe this is the time to stop panicking and grow up, already? Well, it caught up with me this week.

In The Christian’s Secret to a Happy Life, Hannah Whitall Smith painted a picture of our will and our emotions as a mother and her cranky children. Perhaps you’ve seen how overwrought an overtired toddler can become. He is not at all hesitant about venting his emotions, no, but until he has a nap, they’ll go right on escalating. So his hand is taken by a great big daddy hand (or he’s picked up in gentle mama arms) and next thing he knows, he’s tucked into bed. An hour or two later, his emotional equilibrium has returned.

Perhaps it’s not so simple for us grownups. But we do have enough experience to realize that when our own feelings are only escalating, then something needs to change.

Amy Carmichael writes challenging words, words that show my need for more maturity.

If I make much of anything appointed [for me to do], magnify it secretly to myself or insidiously to others; if I let them think it “hard”… then I know nothing of Calvary love.

If I myself dominate myself, if my thoughts revolve round myself, if I am so occupied with myself I rarely have “a heart at leisure from itself,” then I know nothing of Calvary love.

Hard words, perhaps, but healing. Because oh! What a relief to see Jesus bigger than any task He asks of me. And what a relief to vacation from thoughts about myself.

Now, it’s one thing to realize I need to grow up in yet another way. Better still when I begin to want to. But how in the world do I do it?

Accept the fact that there may be no understanding words from earthly friends, or even my heavenly Father. Like the toddler who is swept off to his bed, I may feel deserted by the very Parent who carries me safely where I most need to go.

I can panic. I do have that option. I can wrestle, complain, demand.

I can (untruthfully) deny that I have emotions.

I can fixate on myself at the expense of others.

But unlike the toddler, I know the long history of my Father’s faithfulness. Unlike the stoic, I know He hears, remembers, sees, and knows His children’s pain. Unlike skimpy-hearted me, He truly knows and freely gives out Calvary love, because of the joy it will set before us all.

And so I rest. I come to the end of my talking (for now). And I find my joy in an unexpected place: making someone (and Someone!) else joyful.

That, I suppose, is growing up.

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.