I was skirting along the fringe of Portland, Maine’s shore when I saw my first lighthouse. Buttressed against the shouldered cliff of the ocean, it poised at attention, fixated towards the water. As I stood in awe of the rounded structure before me, I noticed an old woman nestled in a cove some distance off shore. Her only companions were her easel and painting tools. She and I were the only people around. Like me, she seemed to be thankful for the tranquility, solitude. I could hear the cawing of the seagulls and the crashing of the waves in the distance, the salty residue of the sea blowing on my face. Naturally, I edged closer to the cove, vying for a glimpse of her canvas. I found a bench and settled to watch the old woman paint the lighthouse—a subject that seemed too monstrous to capture realistically. I gathered that she had been here a while, as her worn linen chair sunk with the weight of her body. She seemed private at first, seeing me eye her work. But I smiled and cast my gaze at the lighthouse, hoping to respect her privacy. Her shoulders relaxed and she continued. With each stroke of her brush, the artist recreated the lighthouse and the scene before us. Her delicate lines on the canvas captured the white-capped waves that crept near the coast, seduced by the tower. Back and forth, my eyes went from the lighthouse to the artist until the two forged in my mind. Erect and queenly, the tower manifested her power as her soft light pierced the pastel horizon, ready to guide the beasts who ride the sea. Humming to herself, the artist patiently turned her canvas of muddled acrylic dabs into a dazzling replica of the lighthouse. The gray and white strokes formed into the rounded brick exterior of the lighthouse; she even included the shadows cast by the descending sun, giving the bricks realistic depth. With every sweep of her brush, she became more focused, her brows furrowing in contemplation. Her eyes narrowed into concentrated slivers as she agonized over the tiniest detail. As she studied the lighthouse, the woman’s iridescent blue eyes reflected the golden crown suspended above the tower. As I glanced from her canvas to the lighthouse, I began to better understand why she chose the structure as her model. The artist seemed to pay careful attention to the cracks in the brick of the lighthouse, sweeping over again and again until the missing pieces became small black caves, offset by the creamy white whole bricks.
Though I am no artist, I have an eye for seeing beauty out of seemingly ordinary things. Perhaps it is because I love to write and appreciate the opportunity to capture life realistically. It is often the most ordinary of things that bring me inspiration. A lighthouse is only ordinary if you live near the sea. The woman, though, was of the ordinary type, not strikingly beautiful or unnaturally homely. She had thin white hair that bent with the tease of the wind. She had a dark mole near her right eye that, as a child, she probably had to come to terms with. Her hands were not even graceful or delicate, as one may assume a painter’s might be. As I examined her person, I noticed that she was missing a leg. The remaining portion of her leg was positioned upon a sturdy wooden stool. I suppose it would be easy to characterize her as disabled or not “whole.” But, to me, she was beautiful. I could see the reflection of her gaze in her blue eyes. She scrutinized the lighthouse not as a critic might, but as a mother examines her newborn’s face—lovingly. The cracks, the mold, and the discolored surface of the structure only quickened her hand to capture its realness. As I stood there, careful to not disturb her momentum, I realized that she understood the concept of beauty. Beauty can exist even where there are imperfections.
I have come to appreciate the uniqueness, the realness of people who are labeled as imperfect. Perhaps, my perspective was formed from having a close friend who is wheel-chair bound. Perhaps, it is because I have always loved the bright personality that children with Down syndrome so often have. Perhaps it is because I struggled with being self-conscious about my looks as a young girl. Either way, when I pass a person on the street with a missing limb or a damaged facial feature, I can’t help but see the work of God. The band Gungor sings a song with the line “You make beautiful things, You make beautiful things out of the dust.” Man’s life came from dust. Man’s beauty comes not from what he is made up of, but because of who made him.
I remember once seeing a young woman who had the majority of both her arms missing. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt. I assumed she lost her arms in an accident as evidenced by the burn scares on her shoulders. I was in a coffee shop and she was refilling her tea. Her stature was straight, confident. She ignored wayward eyes that tried to steal a glance of what was left of her arms. She walked quietly, precisely, towards the refill station and politely refused the waitress’s offer to refill her cup for her. Instead, she balanced her tea cup between the two nubs of her arms and slowly positioned it on the counter, scooting it close to the tea kettle. Then, she lifted the tea kettle the same way and slowly poured the hot liquid into her tea cup, all the while being careful to keep the kettle erect between her two nubs. She was capable. She need not be coddled or pitied for her deformity. She was whole, useful. “There is God,” I thought. He is as much a part of her missing arms as He is a part of my whole ones.
Like the woman in the coffee shop, and like the woman near the lighthouse, I too have my imperfections. I have a scar through one of my eyebrows. I have terrible vision without corrective lenses. I had bowed legs when I was young. Though I have no permanent or obvious deformities, I have imperfections, faults, oddities. Life is made up of imperfections. Mistakes often lead to revelation, quirks make a person unique, imperfections allow for grace so that beauty is able to shine through. The lighthouse was not perfect. Evidence of decades of neglect and flooding and chips in the white-bricked exterior spoke of the lighthouse’s tumultuous life. Still, its golden head shone through the darkness. Though it was no longer physically in pristine condition, it still served its purpose. Like her subject, the artist was not young, or without imperfection. She too had evidence of life’s storms—white hair, wrinkles, missing leg. But, her hands expertly captured whatever image her sapphire eyes reflected. Her purpose was not lost in her circumstances. Her beauty was not scathed by her appearance.
The once smoldering sun tiptoed away as I watched. An hour had passed. As I was getting up, the old woman leaned her head my direction and nodded towards the canvas, then the lighthouse. Saying without words, “what do you think?” Surprised at her gesture, I stepped forward and eyed her work. I uttered my approval, taken aback by my own voice filling the silence. I bid a silent goodbye to the rounded palace and made my way back down the rocky path. I don’t know why the artist asked me what I thought about her painting of the lighthouse; she was certainly more familiar with the shore and the aesthetics of painting than I. Maybe it was because she understood that I too appreciated the beauty in seemingly imperfect things. Perhaps, she thought I would see it right.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The Art of Dying
Stroking her hands and fingers, I rubbed the cool lotion on grandma’s thin skin. Her wedding ring slipped into my hands, no longer tight against plump fingers. Seated on the bench next to her cot, we talked in the alcove by the living room window. Outside, the Georgia Mountains rose atop the fog. The moonlight seeped through the fog and sneaked into the room like a child postponing its bedtime. Our hands clasped, my grandmother and I chatted about my school, my feelings about teaching, and the absence of a man in my life. Her voice was slow, not calculated, struggling. I did most of the talking. I reminded her of past Christmases where she would spend hours shopping, wrapping, baking, and decorating the house for her four children and twelve grandchildren. I told her she made Christmas magical for me, as a child. She smiled a smile unlike the one I had been used to. Her face sagged, no longer rounded by the indulgences she ate. Her skin and teeth were yellow, evidence of the barter between her and the chemo. It promised a healthy future if she gave up her quality of life now. I saw that tonight. Chemo was a cheat and my grandmother was losing her life and her future. I watched her tiny body rise and fall. Her limp arms and legs lacked muscle definition, much like an infant’s. The heavy blankets spread over her spoke of her constant body temperature—freezing. To everyone else, the cabin was like a vacuum, sucking the wood-be cool winter air out and replacing it with hot, rotten air that often smelled fermented. Or, maybe it was just her. It is true that cancer rots a person from the inside out, but people don’t tell you about the stench that results from the slow physical decomposition that cancer induces at the end of the person’s battle. Now, as I sat by her side, I felt guilty for thinking those thoughts. I still wanted out. I remember wondering if this was what seeing a person die was supposed to be like. I wondered if it was normal to grow tired of the waiting process, miserably slow and inevitable.
I would imagine that authors approach the subject of death timidly, having an idea in mind but not certain as to how to convey it. Authors grapple for the right words, pictures, symbols, or metaphors to unmask the guise death wears, often to no avail. It seems as though such representations of death is like the desire to describe the Gradn Canyon. It is like the chasm between seeing the Grand Canyon and reading about it. No matter how many times you read or look at pictures of the natural wonder, you can never fully appreciate its grandeur until you are at its precipice, blinking into its rugged abyss. Reading, seeing pictures of, and hearing about death are completely different from witnessing it. Perhaps we do not hold enough value of death. It is easy to gather that our society does not consider death as a part of life, but as the robber in the night that breaks in and steals our futures without warning.
Romeo and Juliet sacrificed their lives in romantic desperation to be reunited in death. Suicidal lovers make death look sentimental and sweet. Sylvia Plath wrote about death because she thought it a beautiful experience. She longed to die. Plath writes “…death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.” Plath ended her life through suicide. For her, the process of dying and death itself was more intriguing than living life. Surely, Plath was disappointed in finding that there were no grasses waving above her head, or the ability to discern today from tomorrow. Death is a mystery sought to be explained through different lenses.
I have seen paintings of aged men or women sunk into a bed, looking lifeless, surrounded by loved ones whose cheeks glisten with tears. Paintings of Christ on the cross range from simple to gruesome representations. Some artist paint him as defeated, head bowed. Others arrange his features to show pain, blood coming from his body, and angry red skies. If one were to try and understand death simply by looking at art, conflicting images and ideas would result in confusion. Is it serene and peaceful or horrific? Most artwork and movies are content in showing only certain parts of the dying process, either focusing on the pain and suffering or saturating the audience with feelings of remorse and sadness through different images. Because of these conflicting images of death, I didn’t know what to expect to see or feel or hear when I saw a person die. Would I burst into tears? Would the skies darken? I wondered what a normal reaction and situation would look like. Like a taboo subject only appropriate behind closed doors, the truth of how witnessing death feels was left unmentioned.
While grandma lay there, the atmosphere in the living room was quiet and expectant, patient. Her attitude about death spoke volumes about who she was. In essence, her death was her last opportunity to show her personhood. At one time, grandma’s stubborn nature was a subject of aggravation for her family, but as she laid there, her children praised her strength and endurance. She hated that she was dying and verbalized it no matter who was in the room. Knowing she wasn’t ready to die made it difficult to sit by her side chatting about my future when I knew her thoughts were on how she wouldn’t be there. Her words would turn from angry and stubborn to sentimental. Whenever she drifted between the chasm of consciousness to the space between life and death, she would start to cry. She didn’t realize that we were with her, watching. Her body would grow still and the only sound was the ominous hum of the fluid moniter. Gently, we took turns wiping her wet face, wondering what she was seeing or thinking about that would cause her tears. In these moments, she was unreachable, trapped inside the alluring darkness.
Seeing a woman who once had more energy than a five year old slumped in a cot, waiting to die was neither solemn nor horrific. It was unusual and strange. I hadn’t expected it to be so anti-climactic. We knew that cancer would eventually take her life, so her dying wasn’t a surprise. Still, we envisioned her death as something of the future, not the present. As her family we were weary of wondering if she would die today or tomorrow, we were constantly waiting to hear a change in her breathing. Perhaps ironically, we would try and do things like cook, clean, or watch a movie in the living room. At one moment, we all played scrabble and words like “pain” “struggle” and “die” were avoided. Nobody wanted to be insensitive. But, more than that, we didn’t know how to behave. We weren’t trying to escape or disrespect my grandmother’s dying, but we didn’t know how to sit and wait for days. When my cousin’s young children came, their naivety about the situation felt harsh. The laughter that echoed in the quiet cabin juxtaposed my aunt’s and uncle’s hushed tones. Despite their ages, my parents were just as confused as I was about what to do, my grandfather perhaps the most confused of all. How to watch a person die while maintaining some sense of normalcy throughout our day had not been something that we were taught.
Three days before her death, I sat by my grandmother’s side, reading to her from the Bible, and giving her water out of a straw. It was only the two of us. The house was quiet and the glow of the lamp near her bed cast a shadow on her white face, outlining her hallow cheeks. Her dry, bald head rested against her fluffed pillows, occasionally dropping to one side because of her weakening muscles. Near her bed, red, green, and gold trimmed church baskets lay discarded on an unsteady card table, aching to be carried out to the trash. The only other sign of Christmas was the tiny nativity window cling placed on the picture window at the head of grandma’s hospital bed. When the sun hit it right, the Star of David suspended above the angel would illuminate and cast a rainbow of colors in a corner of the window seat. But, it was dark now, and the rainbow had faded away with the sun. As I sat there, rubbing her arms with her “dream angels” scented lotion and looking at the Star of David, I realized that I was experiencing death in reality, not the way it was shown in books or art. It was slow and the atmosphere in the room was wearily expectant of what was to come. It was lonely. I was very aware that time hadn’t stopped just for me and my family to be with my grandmother or grieve over her death. I knew that for my friends back home, this was a normal Christmas. It wasn’t going to be like I saw in movies, where the characters and scenery freeze during the climax. Voices weren’t amplified, there would be no doctors yelling “stat!” or nurses peeking sympathetically into the room, asking if we needed more time. We were in my grandparent’s cabin in their living room—the hospice cot set up in front of a window and her iPod turned on to her favorite gospel songs. It was expectant, as if we were waiting for a life to start, not end.
After grandma died and the funeral home came to get her body, the image of her being carried out would become a recurrent theme in my dreams. The funeral director bent down over her body, felt her neck for a pulse, and used his stethoscope at her chest. His eyes avoided hers as he confirmed she was gone. Her yellow form sagged as they rolled her onto a stretcher, her head lolled to the side, as if her neck weren’t attached to her body. She was wheeled out of the house, eyes still open, one last look at the life she had lived and the people she had loved. It was silent. Looking back, I think we were all stunned at how carnal it all seemed. Our mother, wife, and grandmother was flopped onto a stretcher and wheeled out like a piece of furniture. The door closed and we were one person less. We stood for a bit, waiting to see who would make the first suggestion to move from the room.
After grandma died and I again encountered portions of literature describing death or saw art or movies depicting a death scene, I was dissatisfied with the portrayal. I analyzed the scenes or description and responded with reasons as to why it was wrong. My grandmother’s death wasn’t anything like I had seen or been warned about. However, just like I had experienced with literary and visual arts, her death was juxtaposed with conflicting images. It was unique and private but felt very wrong. It was peaceful and painful. It was beautiful and scary. Having only been removed from that experience for two years now, I have come to the slow conclusion that maybe literature, the arts, or people aren’t intentionally trying to mislead about the truth of death. Maybe the producers, like me, struggle to put into words or pictures what the experience is like. I too wrested with relaying the intimate details of seeing her die. I would describe one thing, but then decide that wasn’t quite right and end up starting over. My aim was to keep trying to write or create a masterpiece that represented death’s reality. For me, I found that perhaps the point of writing about my grandmother’s death wasn’t “to get it right, but simply to get it written” (Thurber). I am relieved that I am not supposed to get it right. Perhaps this is why authors write about life experiences, it is cathartic and helps them have a clearer understanding of the experience. If I keep producing things that though not quiet exact, have some truth in them, then one day I will have written it all. The account of my grandmother’s death may one day be fully and accurately written, but until then, I just keep writing.
I would imagine that authors approach the subject of death timidly, having an idea in mind but not certain as to how to convey it. Authors grapple for the right words, pictures, symbols, or metaphors to unmask the guise death wears, often to no avail. It seems as though such representations of death is like the desire to describe the Gradn Canyon. It is like the chasm between seeing the Grand Canyon and reading about it. No matter how many times you read or look at pictures of the natural wonder, you can never fully appreciate its grandeur until you are at its precipice, blinking into its rugged abyss. Reading, seeing pictures of, and hearing about death are completely different from witnessing it. Perhaps we do not hold enough value of death. It is easy to gather that our society does not consider death as a part of life, but as the robber in the night that breaks in and steals our futures without warning.
Romeo and Juliet sacrificed their lives in romantic desperation to be reunited in death. Suicidal lovers make death look sentimental and sweet. Sylvia Plath wrote about death because she thought it a beautiful experience. She longed to die. Plath writes “…death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.” Plath ended her life through suicide. For her, the process of dying and death itself was more intriguing than living life. Surely, Plath was disappointed in finding that there were no grasses waving above her head, or the ability to discern today from tomorrow. Death is a mystery sought to be explained through different lenses.
I have seen paintings of aged men or women sunk into a bed, looking lifeless, surrounded by loved ones whose cheeks glisten with tears. Paintings of Christ on the cross range from simple to gruesome representations. Some artist paint him as defeated, head bowed. Others arrange his features to show pain, blood coming from his body, and angry red skies. If one were to try and understand death simply by looking at art, conflicting images and ideas would result in confusion. Is it serene and peaceful or horrific? Most artwork and movies are content in showing only certain parts of the dying process, either focusing on the pain and suffering or saturating the audience with feelings of remorse and sadness through different images. Because of these conflicting images of death, I didn’t know what to expect to see or feel or hear when I saw a person die. Would I burst into tears? Would the skies darken? I wondered what a normal reaction and situation would look like. Like a taboo subject only appropriate behind closed doors, the truth of how witnessing death feels was left unmentioned.
While grandma lay there, the atmosphere in the living room was quiet and expectant, patient. Her attitude about death spoke volumes about who she was. In essence, her death was her last opportunity to show her personhood. At one time, grandma’s stubborn nature was a subject of aggravation for her family, but as she laid there, her children praised her strength and endurance. She hated that she was dying and verbalized it no matter who was in the room. Knowing she wasn’t ready to die made it difficult to sit by her side chatting about my future when I knew her thoughts were on how she wouldn’t be there. Her words would turn from angry and stubborn to sentimental. Whenever she drifted between the chasm of consciousness to the space between life and death, she would start to cry. She didn’t realize that we were with her, watching. Her body would grow still and the only sound was the ominous hum of the fluid moniter. Gently, we took turns wiping her wet face, wondering what she was seeing or thinking about that would cause her tears. In these moments, she was unreachable, trapped inside the alluring darkness.
Seeing a woman who once had more energy than a five year old slumped in a cot, waiting to die was neither solemn nor horrific. It was unusual and strange. I hadn’t expected it to be so anti-climactic. We knew that cancer would eventually take her life, so her dying wasn’t a surprise. Still, we envisioned her death as something of the future, not the present. As her family we were weary of wondering if she would die today or tomorrow, we were constantly waiting to hear a change in her breathing. Perhaps ironically, we would try and do things like cook, clean, or watch a movie in the living room. At one moment, we all played scrabble and words like “pain” “struggle” and “die” were avoided. Nobody wanted to be insensitive. But, more than that, we didn’t know how to behave. We weren’t trying to escape or disrespect my grandmother’s dying, but we didn’t know how to sit and wait for days. When my cousin’s young children came, their naivety about the situation felt harsh. The laughter that echoed in the quiet cabin juxtaposed my aunt’s and uncle’s hushed tones. Despite their ages, my parents were just as confused as I was about what to do, my grandfather perhaps the most confused of all. How to watch a person die while maintaining some sense of normalcy throughout our day had not been something that we were taught.
Three days before her death, I sat by my grandmother’s side, reading to her from the Bible, and giving her water out of a straw. It was only the two of us. The house was quiet and the glow of the lamp near her bed cast a shadow on her white face, outlining her hallow cheeks. Her dry, bald head rested against her fluffed pillows, occasionally dropping to one side because of her weakening muscles. Near her bed, red, green, and gold trimmed church baskets lay discarded on an unsteady card table, aching to be carried out to the trash. The only other sign of Christmas was the tiny nativity window cling placed on the picture window at the head of grandma’s hospital bed. When the sun hit it right, the Star of David suspended above the angel would illuminate and cast a rainbow of colors in a corner of the window seat. But, it was dark now, and the rainbow had faded away with the sun. As I sat there, rubbing her arms with her “dream angels” scented lotion and looking at the Star of David, I realized that I was experiencing death in reality, not the way it was shown in books or art. It was slow and the atmosphere in the room was wearily expectant of what was to come. It was lonely. I was very aware that time hadn’t stopped just for me and my family to be with my grandmother or grieve over her death. I knew that for my friends back home, this was a normal Christmas. It wasn’t going to be like I saw in movies, where the characters and scenery freeze during the climax. Voices weren’t amplified, there would be no doctors yelling “stat!” or nurses peeking sympathetically into the room, asking if we needed more time. We were in my grandparent’s cabin in their living room—the hospice cot set up in front of a window and her iPod turned on to her favorite gospel songs. It was expectant, as if we were waiting for a life to start, not end.
After grandma died and the funeral home came to get her body, the image of her being carried out would become a recurrent theme in my dreams. The funeral director bent down over her body, felt her neck for a pulse, and used his stethoscope at her chest. His eyes avoided hers as he confirmed she was gone. Her yellow form sagged as they rolled her onto a stretcher, her head lolled to the side, as if her neck weren’t attached to her body. She was wheeled out of the house, eyes still open, one last look at the life she had lived and the people she had loved. It was silent. Looking back, I think we were all stunned at how carnal it all seemed. Our mother, wife, and grandmother was flopped onto a stretcher and wheeled out like a piece of furniture. The door closed and we were one person less. We stood for a bit, waiting to see who would make the first suggestion to move from the room.
After grandma died and I again encountered portions of literature describing death or saw art or movies depicting a death scene, I was dissatisfied with the portrayal. I analyzed the scenes or description and responded with reasons as to why it was wrong. My grandmother’s death wasn’t anything like I had seen or been warned about. However, just like I had experienced with literary and visual arts, her death was juxtaposed with conflicting images. It was unique and private but felt very wrong. It was peaceful and painful. It was beautiful and scary. Having only been removed from that experience for two years now, I have come to the slow conclusion that maybe literature, the arts, or people aren’t intentionally trying to mislead about the truth of death. Maybe the producers, like me, struggle to put into words or pictures what the experience is like. I too wrested with relaying the intimate details of seeing her die. I would describe one thing, but then decide that wasn’t quite right and end up starting over. My aim was to keep trying to write or create a masterpiece that represented death’s reality. For me, I found that perhaps the point of writing about my grandmother’s death wasn’t “to get it right, but simply to get it written” (Thurber). I am relieved that I am not supposed to get it right. Perhaps this is why authors write about life experiences, it is cathartic and helps them have a clearer understanding of the experience. If I keep producing things that though not quiet exact, have some truth in them, then one day I will have written it all. The account of my grandmother’s death may one day be fully and accurately written, but until then, I just keep writing.
Is God Really Good?
A couple of days ago, I was reading in Mark. Typically, my prayer has been that God would reveal to me scripture that speaks to my present season of life (student teaching, future plans, singleness, etc). Instead, He revealed to me a deeper issue that applies to every facet of my entire life, not just this current season. I had just finished reading the account of God feeding the five thousand men* and the account of Him walking on water. Mark 4:40
Then I read Mark 6: 50-52
They had not gained any insight from witnessing God's miracle with the food or by His walking on water. They did not see God as the same good God that performed miracles. They had little faith, a small concept of God's goodness. They just wanted to feel secure and at peace. They forgot about God's miracles. They forgot about God's goodness to them.
I forget in the moment too. Sure, ask me over a cup of coffee how God has been good to me in my life and I can detail specific accounts of His goodness. I love to talk about what He has done in my life. I love to hear about what He has done in other people's lives. I remember specific prayers answered so clearly it makes me smile. God knew my heart and He answered my prayer. I remember circumstances that brought my spirit low until He reigned over the issue and smoothed out the problem. Sophomore year, I remember sitting with a friend and wishing I had the ability to make her see how great and present God was in our lives, but could only let my tears of happiness be the testimony.
But, ask me when my soul feels on fire and my heart beats with uncertaintity and I have trouble feeling sure of God's goodness. I may robotically answer back with examples. But, I gurantee my heart will not be as willing to remember. Because of this, I wonder if I have gained any insight? Am I like Jesus's disciples who let the fear of the moment overcome the ability to recognize God as the same one who performed previous miracles in my life?
God must have known that His disciples would be surprised at His ability to walk on water and calm the sea. He knew they had learned nothing from watching Him feed five thousand men on five loaves and two fish. Their present preoccupation blinded them to who God was. They were afraid of the storm. All they could think about was cap-sizing and losing their lives. They thought about their wives and children. They thought about their livelihood and all the money they had invested in their boat and nets. They had resolved to death before they recalled God's ability to save them - God's goodness.
Why don't I believe God is good when times are tough? Why, all of the sudden, is my present situation bigger than the God of the Old Testament, who performed miracle after miracle?
Maybe it is because I am narrow-minded and the only perspecitive I am able to see from is my own. Maybe it is because I think I know what is best for my life, and my drive for attaining that squelches the freedom I have to live each day in submission to His plan.
There have been lots of books written on the topic of God's goodness; there have been sermons, Bible studies, and late night chats about believing He is good even during tough times. But I want something more. I want to start at the beginning. What is "good?"
In human terms, good is something positive, helpful, rewarding, pleasant, and happy, right, proper, excellant. Examples:
That is a good movie. I feel good today. That was a good slice of pie. Charlie Sheen is not good.
To God, good seems to carry a weighter implication. First of all, He is described as the good Shepherd. Good is a result of moral uprightness. Also, good requires discipline, acction, consciously choosing it over evil.
Amos 5:14 "Seek good and not evil, that you may live; And thus may the Lord God of hosts be with you, just as you have said!"
Luke 18:"...No one is good except God alone."
Romans 2:7-8"...To those who by perseverance in doing good seek for glory and honor and immportality, eternal life; but to those who are selfishly ambitious and do not obey the truth, but obey unrighteousness, wrath, and indignation.
Romans 12:21 "Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good."
1 Timothy 6:12 "Fight the good fight of faith; take hold of the eternal life to which you were called, and you made the good confession in the presence of many witnesses."
From scripture, it seems as though God's concept of goodness has little to do with feeling secure, happy, or at peace. This is not to say that those things will not come if we follow Him. Of course, He promises us rewards if we seek after Him. What I am talking about is the actual definition of good. According to scripture, good requires action, a choice to refuse evil, a conscious decision to follow after Christ.
If, to God, good requires action, choice, and the ability to resist evil, then, as promised in His word, we will someday reap the benefits of choosing Him over evil. Someday we will be rewarded. Our hearts will be happy because we have chosen Him, our outlook on life will be positive because our reliance is on Him, not our circumstances.
All this has led me think about my desire for God to "reward" me before I have made the active choice to follow Him. I want the goodness of Him as proof that if I make the conscious decision to trust Him, that it will be worth it. I want the treasure before the hunt. I want the safety net before the jump.
Is God really good? Yes.
Is my concept of goodness aligned with His? I think this is the more important question. Is my idea of good founded on scripture, or is it impacted by man's concept of good?
And now I think I will re-read Mark 4 and 6 in light of God's goodness. No matter what my present situation, our present situation, we can bank on the fact that God is good and that if we desire to follow Him, we must actively choose to resist evil. God help us to fight the good fight in following you and believing you are good.
*interesting tid-bit! When Jesus fed the five thousand, it was actually more than five thousand. That number refers to the number of men who were there; it doesn't include the women and children. So, really, God is pretty much a baller at feeding a large crowd. Take that Paula Deen.
And He said to them, Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?
Then I read Mark 6: 50-52
...For they saw Him and were terrified. But immediately He spoke with them and said to them, 'Take courage, it is I, do not be afraid.' Then He got into the boat with them, and the wind stopped; and they were utterly astonished, for they had not gained any insight from the incident of the loaves, but their heart was hardened.
They had not gained any insight from witnessing God's miracle with the food or by His walking on water. They did not see God as the same good God that performed miracles. They had little faith, a small concept of God's goodness. They just wanted to feel secure and at peace. They forgot about God's miracles. They forgot about God's goodness to them.
I forget in the moment too. Sure, ask me over a cup of coffee how God has been good to me in my life and I can detail specific accounts of His goodness. I love to talk about what He has done in my life. I love to hear about what He has done in other people's lives. I remember specific prayers answered so clearly it makes me smile. God knew my heart and He answered my prayer. I remember circumstances that brought my spirit low until He reigned over the issue and smoothed out the problem. Sophomore year, I remember sitting with a friend and wishing I had the ability to make her see how great and present God was in our lives, but could only let my tears of happiness be the testimony.
But, ask me when my soul feels on fire and my heart beats with uncertaintity and I have trouble feeling sure of God's goodness. I may robotically answer back with examples. But, I gurantee my heart will not be as willing to remember. Because of this, I wonder if I have gained any insight? Am I like Jesus's disciples who let the fear of the moment overcome the ability to recognize God as the same one who performed previous miracles in my life?
God must have known that His disciples would be surprised at His ability to walk on water and calm the sea. He knew they had learned nothing from watching Him feed five thousand men on five loaves and two fish. Their present preoccupation blinded them to who God was. They were afraid of the storm. All they could think about was cap-sizing and losing their lives. They thought about their wives and children. They thought about their livelihood and all the money they had invested in their boat and nets. They had resolved to death before they recalled God's ability to save them - God's goodness.
Why don't I believe God is good when times are tough? Why, all of the sudden, is my present situation bigger than the God of the Old Testament, who performed miracle after miracle?
Maybe it is because I am narrow-minded and the only perspecitive I am able to see from is my own. Maybe it is because I think I know what is best for my life, and my drive for attaining that squelches the freedom I have to live each day in submission to His plan.
There have been lots of books written on the topic of God's goodness; there have been sermons, Bible studies, and late night chats about believing He is good even during tough times. But I want something more. I want to start at the beginning. What is "good?"
In human terms, good is something positive, helpful, rewarding, pleasant, and happy, right, proper, excellant. Examples:
That is a good movie. I feel good today. That was a good slice of pie. Charlie Sheen is not good.
To God, good seems to carry a weighter implication. First of all, He is described as the good Shepherd. Good is a result of moral uprightness. Also, good requires discipline, acction, consciously choosing it over evil.
Amos 5:14 "Seek good and not evil, that you may live; And thus may the Lord God of hosts be with you, just as you have said!"
Luke 18:"...No one is good except God alone."
Romans 2:7-8"...To those who by perseverance in doing good seek for glory and honor and immportality, eternal life; but to those who are selfishly ambitious and do not obey the truth, but obey unrighteousness, wrath, and indignation.
Romans 12:21 "Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good."
1 Timothy 6:12 "Fight the good fight of faith; take hold of the eternal life to which you were called, and you made the good confession in the presence of many witnesses."
From scripture, it seems as though God's concept of goodness has little to do with feeling secure, happy, or at peace. This is not to say that those things will not come if we follow Him. Of course, He promises us rewards if we seek after Him. What I am talking about is the actual definition of good. According to scripture, good requires action, a choice to refuse evil, a conscious decision to follow after Christ.
If, to God, good requires action, choice, and the ability to resist evil, then, as promised in His word, we will someday reap the benefits of choosing Him over evil. Someday we will be rewarded. Our hearts will be happy because we have chosen Him, our outlook on life will be positive because our reliance is on Him, not our circumstances.
All this has led me think about my desire for God to "reward" me before I have made the active choice to follow Him. I want the goodness of Him as proof that if I make the conscious decision to trust Him, that it will be worth it. I want the treasure before the hunt. I want the safety net before the jump.
Is God really good? Yes.
Is my concept of goodness aligned with His? I think this is the more important question. Is my idea of good founded on scripture, or is it impacted by man's concept of good?
And now I think I will re-read Mark 4 and 6 in light of God's goodness. No matter what my present situation, our present situation, we can bank on the fact that God is good and that if we desire to follow Him, we must actively choose to resist evil. God help us to fight the good fight in following you and believing you are good.
*interesting tid-bit! When Jesus fed the five thousand, it was actually more than five thousand. That number refers to the number of men who were there; it doesn't include the women and children. So, really, God is pretty much a baller at feeding a large crowd. Take that Paula Deen.
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