PART 3 - THE MYSTERY OF GOD
I don’t typically plan what I’m going to write to you. I have a very active brain, one that is constantly processing (OK, OVER-processing) the world around me. The upside is that it makes me ripe with things to write about. Mostly, what you see here are reflections or a very real-time look into what I am meditating on.
This series is uncharted territory for me. The thought of committing to something for a few months had me feeling boxed in. Looking back on August, I wondered if I would be ready to take the lead of Psalm 77 and turn the corner from lament to something resembling hope. With the risk of showing you all of my cards, these sorts of questions were invading my mind. What would the world look like in October? Would I be ready to embrace the light of day, the little bit that is forever cracking through? Would these last two letters be a total flop, leaving me questioning my ability to communicate? Is this topic that of lament, too sad, too unedited, too much? They have been hard to write, but in many ways, they have been healing. Part of the human experience is sitting in grief and pain and questions that may never get answered.
Hitting send on my last letter left me feeling vulnerable. I want to cover up the hard with a pretty box and bow. I was immediately nervous about the need to do that in this letter. And then I remembered that I’m just not that important. No, really, I’m not. I put a lot of time, thought, and energy into writing these pieces. A lot of it is therapy for me. Hopefully, some of it is helpful for you. Maybe one day, my kids will read this and understand me more. But even with all of that, it’s really not that big of a deal. Your future isn’t hinging on my ability to communicate anything, to wrap something up, or even if another letter ever hits your inbox.
That’s a freeing thought.
And with that, here we go.
On to embracing the mystery of God.
Well, here we are in October. A war has broken out in the Middle East, many of my friends are deeply hurting, and most places I gaze at are more full of confusion and pain than hope. My personal story involves an October that, for the past twenty-three years, has been a battle marked by past trauma, ruled by anxiety and fear. I have attempted to reclaim it in various ways, some more spiritual than others. I have prayed and wrestled and confessed and built routines in this battleground of a month in the hopes of reclaiming what has been stolen. I’ve been pissed at times because, quite frankly, I agree wholeheartedly with L. M. Montgomery, “I’m so glad we live in a world where there are Octobers.”
I live for the beauty of this season, even in the knowing of what is to come. Even as I type this, I realize that what was stolen from me in October may work, in some strange way, to enhance my love for this particular month. Isn’t it wild that the world around us quite literally bursts into color directly before falling to the ground in preparation for freezing dormancy? The reds are my favorite. What a mystery it is that these leaves turn their brightest color as they reach full maturity. We tend to think we shine brightest in our youth when our skin is tight and our eyes are bright. We try our damndest to hold onto those years. Aging is this weird thing we avoid, but maybe in an effort to cover our wrinkles, we are also stunting the fullness of our maturity, our most sincere places of beauty. Perhaps the saddest thing of all is that we may never reach full maturity, spending our lives halting the very thing that is happening below our skin, regardless of how much botox we inject to keep the wrinkles at bay. In keeping up our appearances on the outside with such fervor, I wonder what that reflects about our insides? Like I said, I don’t plan what I’m going to write.
I digress.
I started writing this series in August. That month, I committed to getting a run in every day of the month. I didn’t miss a single day. By the end of the month, I had logged one hundred and seventy miles of slow and steady work around my neighborhood.
I’ve been looking forward to this moment, the time when I could turn the corner towards brighter days. It’s much easier to sell hope than it is a lament, after all—and as it should be, I suppose. The last two months, these days spent with this Psalm and around the idea of lament, have given me a new perspective on hope. It has become a lot more mysterious to me.
Let’s look at the remainder of the Psalm. I picture Asaph at this moment, wondering how long he will feel this way. He’s in a moment of sincere questioning and doubting, genuinely wondering if the Lord has abandoned him, maybe even perhaps if He has permanently changed. And then He pivots. We will start in verse 11.
I will remember the Lord’s works;
yes, I will remember your ancient wonders.
I will reflect on all you have done
and meditate on your actions.
God, your way is holy.
What God is great like God?
You are the God who works wonders;
you revealed your strength among the peoples.
With power you redeemed your people,
the descendants of Jacob and Joseph. Selah
The water saw you, God.
The water saw you; it trembled.
Even the depths shook.
The clouds poured down water.
The storm clouds thundered;
your arrows flashed back and forth.
The sound of your thunder was in the whirlwind;
lightning lit up the world.
The earth shook and quaked.
Your way went through the sea
and your path through the vast water,
but your footprints were unseen.
You led your people like a flock
by the hand of Moses and Aaron.
Psalm 77:11-20
This is a hard right turn. For the previous ten verses, Asaph couldn’t find anything in his present moment that mirrored the goodness of God. He was full of doubt and despair. I suppose it’s good that we don’t get the details. Was Asaph in the middle of a personal crisis? We know that musician who served in the temple during the time of David’s reign. Was he possibly carrying grief and doubt of the people he served? Or maybe he was generally despairing of the world around him? It doesn’t really matter the source of pain; a more general not knowing makes it easier to place ourselves there.
After a period of lament, Asaph turned to remembrance, and I’m just as struck by the language he used in recalling the goodness of God in the past to bring perspective to his present moment. There are elements of looking to the past that can distort our vision, but actively remembering the goodness of God, both drawing from the ancient stories in the text and our own lives, is a way of stirring hope and faith back into our moments of doubt, grief, and despair. There is a measure of walking through painful seasons, through times when we may even be on the verge of throwing away our faith entirely, that can deepen our roots. The practice of lament, of laying bare the fullness of our broken hearts before God, doesn’t scare Him. He is still God in our doubting.
Like Asaph, we get to a point where it is decision time. There are moments where I have pleaded for God to send a burning bush, or like the Israelites in their moment at the Red Sea, for Him to send a pillar of fire in the clouds. I’ve asked Him to shake the world around me, maybe to shake something loose in me. For as long as I have lived, I have never witnessed such a thing, but there have been holy moments when that still, small voice has whispered to me, “Remember what I have done.”
“Your way went through the Red Sea, and your path through the vast water, but your footprints were unseen.”
This is the mystery of God—the one who moves mountains and makes a way in the wilderness and plants streams in dry land. The one who turns water into wine feeds thousands with five loaves and two fish. The one who opens the eyes of the blind and makes the lame walk. The one who replaced my thirst for what ultimately numbed my pain with active remembrance of his death, burial, and resurrection. We do this through the taking of his body and blood around a table, partaking in communal confession and remembrance. We pause to remember all He has done, perhaps the most powerful observance we have earthside of His sacrifice. We can always find His goodness in sober remembrance. And often, it’s a mystery. We may not always see the footprints, but the evidence that something shifted is there. There is a story to be told, hope to be restored, and, therefore, faith to be forged as we walk ahead.
We are nearing the end of October, and I write these last few lines as the sun rises on my back porch. It hits the trees in my backyard around 7 a.m., and the scene before me bursts into color. One day, I’ll write about this October, the one of 2023. New life has sprung forth in ways I could never plan. The sun has risen in some areas of my life that have been lying bare for far too long. I’ve been begging for twenty-three years for new life to emerge. On September 25th, our little boy officially took our last name—new life. At the beginning of October, my husband and I took some time to tend to our marriage intentionally, and in those moments, old wounds began to heal—new life. I got to witness something so sacred in my nuclear family that I won’t share it here, but let me tell you, it was the most vivid picture of new life I may have ever seen. In the middle of the month, I gathered with some sisters who have become so dear to me that it’s hard to put into words how much they mean to me—new life. I’m watching before my eyes; my daughter and son, both adopted from entirely different places, bond with each other in ways that I could not have planned—new life. A friend reached out about six to gather a group of local women to meet once weekly to study the word of God, confess, remember, pray, and laugh—new life.
It’s a mystery that the trees in my backyard are bursting into color, reaching full maturity, just before falling to the ground to lay dormant during the winter. That sound that the wind makes in October is more vibrant, too. The blustery days shake the technicolor of leaves off the trees and send them dancing along the ground. Soon, they will lie bare, but not before putting on a show. Maybe God gave us October to remember his goodness. His harvest times just before the work being done take on a quieter approach in the winter months. Today, I remember what He has done, even where his footprints remain unseen—the beauty of the mystery of God.
As always, thank you for making it this far. You allow me, in this space, to share with you some very vulnerable places of my heart. Your time is not lost on me. May God bless you and keep you.
The holy moments remind me that He is always there. I just need to be open to Him. Especially in the periods of lament.
On my left forearm is where I had my first tattoo placed: the word "remember." People ask me what it means, and I tell them simply, "Remember what the Lord has done."
I got that tattoo because in September of 2021, when my God opened my eyes to His love and pulled me from a deep depression, He said to me, "Joel, when you forget what I've done, you forget my love. You must remember, and know that I have been with you all along."
The call to remembrance is a significant one. Thank you for sharing your meditation on this beautiful truth.