I don’t cry that often. Never really have. Maybe it’s because of pride, maybe insecurity, maybe a little of both, but generally I’ll do anything I can to avoid spilling tears. A couple weeks ago the dam burst. Here’s how it went down.
Earlier in the day I watched a sermon where the pastor was trying to wake his congregation up from the sleepy complacency of suburbia. I know full well (and have written about) the fact that comfort and ease are not inherently wrong, but I do think they can be a dangerous distraction. And one of my biggest fears as a father is raising church kids who know all the right answers but could care less about Jesus. As I watched that sermon, some old feelings I hadn’t encountered in a few years (feelings I’m certain that sermon wasn’t intended to elicit) started rising to the surface again. Feelings of insufficiency. That I wasn’t doing all I could be doing. That I might be using my disability like a crutch (no pun intended), an excuse to lay down and get comfortable in complacency. That maybe, just maybe, we could still go overseas to the foreign missions field like we’d always planned and dreamed.
I was pumped. The fact that I couldn’t walk, talk, feed myself, use the bathroom independently, (etc, etc, etc) was beside the point. I was fired up and by golly I wasn’t going to let my family fall prey to the false security of the American dream on my watch. So I rolled out of my room and told Emily I wanted to talk and pray about family direction during Nyra’s nap.
Nyra and I always pray together before her rest time, and that day my prayer went something like this: “God, thank you that you are always in control and have our best in mind, even when life doesn’t make sense.”
I didn’t have time to process my thoughts and my emotions. Frankly I didn’t want to. I came out to Emily sitting in the living room looking like she could read my thoughts on my face.
“Can we pray Em? I’ll start.”
We bowed our heads.
“Daddy God, days like these I’m more aware of my disability than ever. I don’t understand why you gave me this passion and then took away my ability to do anything about it. I’m not sure why you have us here in Saint Johns with a wheelchair instead of the frontlines overseas. Please guide our family and help us to see you better every day and enjoy you wherever you put us.”
“Are you okay Lane?” she asked, her observant eyes gathering the answer on my face before I even knew how to formulate a response.
“Yeah I’m alright, don’t worry,” I replied in a voice that was shakier than I anticipated. I had to be strong for my wife. If I started venting to her, there was no telling where the conversation would go.
“Lane it’s alright to not be okay.”
I had locked my emotions in a closet for so long I had forgotten where I put the key. But my wife unlocked the door with those words and she was met with a flood.
“No,” I answered as my eyes welled with tears. “No I’m not okay. I know that God’s plan is best, and I know he has us here instead of overseas for a reason, but some days being in a wheelchair sucks.”
I don’t throw that word around lightly, and Emily knows that when I use it I mean it.
“I just don’t get it! Ever since I was a little kid I dreamed of adventure. I never wanted to stay here in the States and live in a nice neighborhood until I died. I’m not saying I’m not thankful for this house, or for all these amazing things God’s given us. I just see so many of our friends going to the frontlines and I get this anxious jealousy that I can’t do anything about because of the injury.”
Her face became a picture of compassion as she climbed onto my lap and hugged me close. I buried my face in her shoulder and her tears fell on my wheelchair armrests while we silently wept together.
“I do know God didn’t call us here to get lazy and lay down. There’s no such thing as ‘off the hook’ for any Christian, wherever God has them.”
It was then that I realized that my angst did not stem from a “calling” unique to me. Rather, the yearning in my heart for adventure, the feeling of missing out, is a shared experience of all humans who don’t live wholeheartedly for Christ.
Christian, you don’t have to be a pastor or a full-time overseas missionary to experience the danger, the risk, the adventure, the ecstasy, the thrill of chasing after King Jesus with your whole heart. Your adventure might not look like a mountain range in Papua New Guinea or a secret house church in Southeast Asia (though you shouldn’t rule either of those out). But the more you align your heart with the heart of God through his Word, bold prayer and risky service, the more his passion will become yours.
1 Comment
Thank you for this very challenging and encouraging post. Your thoughts and life are a great inspiration. Just, thank you, and "thanks be to God for His unspeakable gift"!!