The Question

   

Little James and Thomas, scene from The Chosen 
Season 2 Episode 3

 The Chosen show just came out with Season 2, and the third episode was an emotional roller coaster for most viewers.  I, too, was impacted.  However, not in the same manner as others.  There was a particular scene with Little James and Thomas, and Little James admits he lives with a form of paralysis.  In discussion of the plot including Jesus healing the masses, Little James' admittance carries a hidden sorrow.  "Why hasn't Jesus healed him?"  Little James asked an additional question, "With all these people getting healed, would they still follow Him if the signs stopped?"

     Little James brought up one of the most confusing juxtapositions there may be growing up in the Church: if Jesus heals, then why are there people sick, hurt and disabled, still?  I am not immune to this plight, and despite the many conversations that I have had with God on the topic, I found myself crying tears recognizing that Little James' character (and the actor, as well, as he does live with cerebral palsy and scoliosis in real life) battles the same thoughts I have.  

     There is no easy answer to the question.  We often like having things black and white, but living by faith requires assurance even when things are painted gray.  The topic of healing is such a topic.  I have found that when individuals try to make healing a black and white, wrong or right kind of discussion, they can do more harm than good.  

     "They died because we didn't pray hard enough."  

     "They didn't receive their healing, because they didn't believe."

     Yes, there needs to be faith to receive the promises of God, but what happens when you are an individual who has prayed, has taken a step of faith, and yet, things remained the same?  I can promise you it is not for lack of trying. Moreover, there is the other side of the argument that may avoid the topic altogether, by claiming that God doesn't do miracles anymore.

     And yet, I thought the Bible says that He is the same yesterday, today and forever.  So, if He healed years ago, why not, now?  

     See the perpetual cycle that someone can run through when they are holding onto a promise?  Sometimes it is as if there isn't a winner.  Not unless someone gets healed.  In the time I have taken to process, I cannot explain away the question for healing with a single answer.  No person's situation is the same, and multiple factors may be at play.  Humans like formulas, but if the miraculous could be calculated, would they remain as miracles?  I would assume not.  

     The truth is, God's word is true and does not fail.  It is also true that some people believe and receive on this side of heaven, while others receive it postmortem.  But God is not a liar.  I am learning to have expectation, but trust no matter what.

     This doesn't mean I'm done having faith.  It just means that while expecting the promise, I am not requiring God to do the miracle on my timeline.  Some people get healed immediately.  Some have waited.  And perhaps there is a wait to expound on that matter that God is not a forgetful God.  He after all, is not a microwave God. 

     He has not forgotten Little James.  He has not forgotten the actor that plays him.  He has not forgotten me.  

     I have to remember that.  In watching the episode, I reminded of the flood of questions I have had through my lifetime.  Even though I have come to peace understanding that while in waiting, I can carry sympathy to others in the same situation.  Even though God has already revealed that my motive for healing was due to wanting escape from judgmentalism (i.e. the true healing needed was a spiritual healing, not a physical one...and the physical healing that is ACTUALLY needed is not the one people have pursued me to approach the altar).  Even though I had wanted two strong arms in an effort to hold onto my pride of doing things in my own strength.  Even though I learned that in my weakness, He is strong, it is amazing how fast the memory of feeling forgotten came.

     So, I had to write.  I had to write about the question I have carried my entire life.  I had to once again, choose to believe that God is a God of miracles, but simultaneously, He is more than a God of miracles.  I am choosing that He is good without the tangible proof that He is in my personal situation.  Until then, learning to rejoice for whomever and whenever someone receives their 'Yes and Amen'.

"The Question" (See 2 Corinthians 1:20; 12:7-12; Hebrews 11:32-40)

Miracles, signs and wonders manifested

Within time expanded, I began

To walk beside You.

However, in my wanderings,

A secret breathed - 

You know it already.

Of all who come before You,

Why haven't I been numbered?

Forgive me, God,

I don't mean to blaspheme.

Have you somehow forgotten

My face?

Surely You don't fail

To recall my name.

But my request got lost

In the shuffle of 'no's"

When I have been promised

'Yes and Amen'.

Do I flounder in my faith?

Perpetually, I am encouraged,

"Go to the altar!"

In return; I remain the same.

Beginning to believe 

A mustard seed is not enough

Anymore.

I wonder if I am

Some sadistic joke.

Healings point to the heart

Of Christ, but when bought

With His blood, will they cease?

Is Your goodness only a bribe

Until redemption becomes

Our inheritance?

You conquered the grave!

Yet what Father forgets 

The groaning of His child's soul?

Am I to be banished

To my own hellish prison

Questioning the affections 

Of her Savior?

     Be still

     And know My heart!

Humanity forgets

History's chronology is not bound

By our short breaths

In the span of eternity.

Our hearts are abashed

As we determine the evidence

Your Lordship's worth

To be the work by earth's end.

If it were to be...

I would not be the first

To die before seeing

Your veracious Word bear fruit.

Those before me set their eyes

Upon You before any gift

You could bring. 

To call You friend

Meant more to them

Than what wonderful change

To their circumstance.

If I had a new hand

Would I ever have need

Of You, again?  Would I think

To stand on my own

If You gave me

What I thought You owed?

I fear this titan

Would grip the throne;

Lay claim to a crown,

Deny a holy deference;

Forget the exaltation of salvation,

Refuse sympathy to strangers.

Your promises indeed,

Are 'Yes and Amen',

But not to the detriment

Of Your Name.

The world prizes the pride

Of personal strength magnified.

If we become kings,

Why must we bow?

We forget we exist

With Your breath in our lungs,

Our skin formed by Your hands,

Your blood bleeds life to our souls.

May my weakness illuminate

The magnificence of heaven's splendor.

Certainly, You were, are, and always 

Will be

Good, just, and true.

Your words have no end.

Your promises are 'Yes and Amen'

To the glorification of Your Name, Jesus!

How shall my story be writ,

Let it be so.  

I know that You love me and are for me

To truly become Your beloved.

Help me to rejoice

With those who have received

Their promise now.

Help them to trust You

As I have learned to

In the waiting

In receiving 

Your faithfulness. 

Palm Sunday 2021

      I was studying the different accounts of Palm Sunday, when a question I had was, "Why did Jesus parade through Jerusalem?"  It seems a little prideful, and ain't He humble?  Come to us in our lowly state.  And here, He is going through a town and getting all the accolades a man could get.
     But then it hit me.
     Jesus wasn't just a man.  And as much as we love the idea of how He came to our level, the truth is, He still was a King who had a throne.  He had a parade - really, a procession - because He was hinting to the Jews, "I am your promised King and Messiah."  And as His creation, we are made to glorify Him.  Yes, He loves us and came to serve us; but, if we realized TRULY who He is, I think we would treat Him more reverently than we have.
     I am guilty of forgetting Jesus' royal status.  I am prone to treat Him like the genie from Aladdin or a REALLY good friend with benefits. (Cue awkward pause.)  But He is King, God, and Lord.  And every time I choose to justify my sin and attempt to make myself the queen of my heart, I am engaging in a personal act of mutiny.
     But there is no room for that, as Christians.  We not only admit that we have sinned.  We not only admit our need for a Savior.  We also pledge allegiance to the One who saved us.  We invite Him to truly become Lord of our lives.  I'm challenged to see what that should look like. 
     One question I have for myself is, "If there were NO consequences to any of my actions, what would I be okay with doing?"  The answer to that reveals the nature of my heart. 
     And I have seen it.  Time to change.

"Forgive Me, Lord"

 I have walked away.
I have held Your hand
And kissed another.
I have said, "I love You,"
But my actions forget.

Forgive this adulterous heart.
I long to be faithful,
Yet there is something
That beckons me
To take my leave.

I have become convinced
I can stand apart from You.
I breathe by sight;
Not by faith.
Change this adulterous heart
So that I may truly love You.

You have asked if I would
Take up the chase.
Run after You with
The entirety of my being.
There was a time

When we were close.
It came so fast,
And we were strong.
Where are we, now?

How dare I worship You
For myself?!
Begged for the Creator
Of the cosmos
Bend HIS knee.

How could I be so thick
To think this was about me?!
You are the first and last.
When the time comes,
We shall all bow before YOU.

You Chose Me.

 You chose me.

You saw my existence 

Before my conception.  You counted 

The days of my life, knowing when 

I would breathe my first.  When I would carry my last.  

You chose me.

Naught for the accomplishments

I would found, 

Nor for the accolades

I hope to receive.

Oh, how I believe

That their words would add

A breath of weight to the worth

Of this dame!

You chose me.

It wasn’t my intellect.

It wasn’t my words.

It wasn’t how I sang.

You chose me.

It wasn’t my physicality,

Or my perseverance.

It wasn’t my skills..

You chose me.  

For I was Yours.

My Father chose me.

He didn’t have to.

There were no words made

Obligating Him to hesitate

His presence to be near.

My Father chose me.

The circumstance was cursed at most;

Shameful at best.

And yet,

He chose me.

The matter was a mess.

My Father found the blessing in disguise,

Even though the odds defined

It wasn’t worth the risk;

He determined His blood of enough

Value to call me His own.

I confess that to this day,

I still search for my own crown.

There is this instinct that if I

Just do something,

Say something,

Dress a certain way.

Act a certain way,

Accommodate to a standard,

Then perhaps…

Just maybe…

I would be worth something.

Humanity’s philosophy argues

Heavenly DNA would 

Justifiably perpetuate

The longing for my glory.

Nonetheless, idolatry never has

Satisfied the desire to be loved

Just because.

Nevertheless,

You chose me.

Not for the distinction of who I am

Or may be;

Rather for the distinguishment 

Of who I am to You.

"That's SPED!!!"

      SPED.
It’s short for Special Education; the academic support for students with disabilities.  But it’s become a slur.  For the 21st century, it’s become the new R-word.  If someone does something stupid or dumb, people used to say that it was “retarded.”  Now it’s SPED.  Most not realizing that both terms are derogatory in nature toward those who live with disabilities.   I live with a disability.  For my entire life, I have.  Although, I would do anything but admit it.  But I do.   Sounds ironic.  It’s quite easily noticed - the limp fist of my right hand coupled with a slight limp on the same side.  I live with cerebral palsy.  What fails to be seen is the seizure disorder, for which I must take medication daily to maintain a healthy and independent life.  Negligence to do so would risk full-body intensive seizures that momentarily leave me unable to speak or walk as my body recovers.  All of this due to a stroke before birth. I am not just a Special Education teacher.  Truth is, I have been a SPED student myself.  And with that confession, I must also admit that I still psychologically hold the insecurities I kept secret as a child.   I know I have done well.  I know I have accomplished much.  I give an air of confidence, all the while, I am quietly measuring up unknown intentions.  I fear what you may think of me.  I expect you to deem me less than valuable, because of where I have an inability.  Moreover, my anxieties only rest when you prove to me that you see me more than just my hand. I fear, therefore, I judge.  And I judge, therefore, I fear.  It sounds hypocritical, and at some level, it is.  I don't want to be judged for what I can’t do.  Yet, do I have a right in judging someone’s intention, before they say hello?  But present and past social norms in Western society have not treated those who are disabled (either physically, emotionally, or cognitively) kindly.  So my apprehensions, though amiss, seem very justified. During the Middle Ages, those who lived with a disability were seen as having been cursed by God, or worse, possessed by the devil, himself.  The latter often required the death of the individual.  In Ancient Greece, Sparta was praised as being a warrior culture.  As wonderful as they seem (they even chose to educate their women!), if a child was born with a disability, they would abandon them on a cliff side.  More barbarically, they sometimes threw them off its sides.  The introduction of Darwinism and the ideology that the strongest survives gave way to a social implication.  If someone was poor, compassion was no longer given.  The person was to pull them up by their own strength, or they were better off dying.  If disabled, they were but a pitiful creature whose only help was God’s own mercy.  That being said, many were left to die.  Or, if lucky, put into institutions.  However, these were a little more than holding houses for those with disabilities.  Many chained, or even put into cages until meal times. Perhaps it was a lack of knowledge of how to care for these individuals; perhaps it was a way to ignore the problem and put it out of consciousness.  Maybe a little bit of both. Thankfully, by the 1970s, an awareness grew that things needed to change, and by the 1990s, IDEA was developed with an outlook that students with disabilities need to have the same opportunity to succeed academically and in life, as their non-disabled peers. 
Nevertheless
, the problem is that the Western society prizes itself as a culture of independence and strength.  We focused on what we could do, and will hide and deny any weaknesses.  Because, we believed, if we showed any flaw in our system of humanity, then we are viable to be cut.  We don’t like weakness.  We can’t get ahead if we are weak.  So, we push aside anything or anyone who shows any signs of it.  After all, it is the strongest that survives.  And it’s the strongest that succeeds. And despite how strong I can prove myself to being, every time I walk into a gym, I wonder if anyone in the room thinks, “Oh, wow.  Look at her right hand.  She’s handicapped.  (Poor thing.)  God bless her for trying.”  I know it’s an unfair assessment, but I’ve had my own share of worth determined as less, because I couldn’t do something as well as someone without a disability (or I had to work harder or longer for the same achievement).

     We live in a day and age where abortions are legal when a mother finds their child will be born with a disability.  Because apparently one can determine the fruitfulness of a life by the diagnosis given before the first breath.

     The coach who wouldn’t play me more than one minute per game (in junior high, mind you) for basketball or volleyball, because she “wanted to win.”

     Picking teammates for basketball at a sports camp, I was picked second to last.  The last person being a kid who was overweight.  In both of our cases, we were picked based on a visual representation and not our skill level.

     Playing Lightning, I told a classmate that he should have gone easy and let me shoot.  He said he was.  I was joking.  He was not.

     In freshman year, playing Ultimate Frisbee, and catching the frisbee, I almost hurt my left hand.  One kid yelled, “Hey!  Don’t f-- up that hand!  You already have an f--ed up hand.”  Later, when we played tennis, I was the only one to make him move out of my way when casting my ball (he played on the tennis team for high school).  I felt pretty good about that.

     Peoples’ comments of how they don’t know how they would live with a missing limb, because it would be so hard.  (Because, again, somehow, you can determine the fruitfulness of the future based on a present misfortune.) 

     In my senior year, during human biology, we read about a medical case of a man (I think it was fictitious) who continuously had misfortunes that began with the loss of his hand and ended where his head was connected to a robotic body.  One of the discussion questions for class was, “At which point did the man stop being human?”  You may understand my table partner (who lives with a form of dwarfism) and my emotions filled with shock and disgust when one of our classmates responded, “When the man lost his hand.”  To her, essentially she was saying, neither of us were human.

After running in the Spartan 2018 race.

     I know I am guilty of determining my worth based on my experience, and retorting as such.  I am not just insecure.  I am also prideful.  I have aimed to take away all doubt in anyone’s mind of my worth by attacking great challenges. My cousin once told me that growing up, it was like I always had something to prove.  It’s true.  I live with a Napoleon (Bonaparte, not Dynamite) complex.  In sports, I have a knack for picking out the biggest player and sizing up.  Because David slays Goliath, and no matter the cost, this fight won’t be easy.  Goliath is going down, or I will die trying (cue dramatic up-close movie shot)!  

     Frankly, at the core of this show is really a girl who just wants to do things just to do them.  I see a mountain, and I want to know what the view looks like from the summit.  Should cerebral palsy tell me I can’t?  The worst thing I can be told is that I can’t...just because of a disability I live with.  I push my boundaries, because partially, I want to prove to myself how far I can go.  That living with a disability is not going to determine the call of God on my life.  That having weaknesses won’t prophecy how my life should be lived, based on society’s judgment of my worth. 

     I have proved my strength, because I, too, have bought into the lie of our culture that says to live with a weakness is to be worthless.  To be marred means my value has been depleted. And yet, God wants me to understand that as long as I try to prove myself according to society’s patterns, I am living in a psychological and emotional cage as cramped as those found in the institutions of the 19th century.  As long as I emphasize my own ability, I will fail to see the ability that God gives, no matter what I can or cannot do (see 2 Corinthians 12:7-10).  

     We may measure one’s potential by their capacity, but God states that our very existence already defines our purpose.  And it has never been based upon what we could do.  There are a couple instances in the New Testament where Jesus healed men with withered hands.  A plausible parallel, but that is not the Scripture reference I have gleaned hope from.  It has been John 9:1-7.  Those who know more of my story can get a glimpse of another reason why, but I will reveal this:  in verse 3, Jesus points out that the person’s disability is not for the lack of value of the person, but so that God’s glory may be revealed.  I am not a freak of nature.  I am not a mistake.  It has taken me a LONG time to accept that.  

     I am thankful - if I would just pause a second and reflect - to have family and friends who do see me as their equal despite living with a disability.  I become so self-conscious when I see a video of myself.  I see the unequal pacing of my walk, my right arm hangs perpendicular.  And my hand never stretches out as others do.  This must be what my friends see!  And maybe it is...but it isn’t all they see.  They see me.  They aren’t afraid to invite me over for company, or have conversations, go on camping trips, hikes, run races or invite me to play basketball (and I have become a better player because of them).  This is SPED.  

     I have also learned that I don’t have to be afraid to show my weakness.  Having a lack of ability in some areas, or recognizing that I may need help is not an exemption from being valued.  Furthermore, we all have gifts and strengths that differ from one another, and we have areas where we need to grow and receive assistance.  We all need each other.  This is SPED, too.

     Who I am is not what I can do.  Who I am is not what I cannot do.  Who I am is because of Whose I am.

Torn Heart and Shadowed Emotions

      

Christmas break is coming to a close, as tomorrow is the first day of 2021, and school starts back up on the following Monday.  It came and left too fast.  In the last year, I have learned to enjoy the little time I spend with my family.  Unlike when I first moved to Browning, I find myself almost yearning to stay.  Not for the sake of my hometown, but for the few individuals that live there.    Coming to visit for the holiday, I didn’t realize how much I missed them.  It’s easy to forget feelings when there is a chasm of one’s presence.  To flee the pain, we just bury the triggers that cause the cuts.  Even if the cuts are meant to heal.  As I said before...staying in Browning, I didn’t realize how much I missed my parents and little brother.  But after spending a little time and having to come back home, I have felt the tears come and go.  Wishing that I didn’t have to be separated, I wonder if there is a way to not have my heart break.  Again. In the first few years of being on the Rez (with the exception of the first year), I used to cry because of the disconnectedness of my family.  I didn’t even want to go back!  Though I would come visit, we still would be in separate rooms, watching whatever would entertain us.  But now… Now, I have learned that I can love my family where they are, and still enjoy their company.  (That’s how it ends up working, doesn’t it?  Not necessarily the situation or other person changes, but we ourselves, do.)    I find myself seeing how we are now, and reminiscing what things could have been like, if I still lived at home, but with the present mentality.  All those years, suffering silently, wishing things could have been different, not realizing how much things would change in 10-15 years later.  There is a blessing in remembering the past, and yet, there is a grieving that things aren’t the way that they were (i.e. living at home with my parents.) I don’t miss the fights or the distant communication.  However, presently, I know that my mother indeed cares about me.  I wish I could be with her and laugh.  My baby brother is not a baby anymore.  And as adults, we have really cool conversations.  Of course (as always), I miss my father’s hugs.  Yet, I am not meant to be with them, physically.  It was a vacation; not a move-in.  Doesn’t make the tearing any less painful.  To know that I must be in one place, but miss being in another place makes departure harder.  I feel torn, and wondering where I should be.  Ironically - and it may be due to COVID - I felt a distancing from individuals in Browning.  The connectedness I’ve had with people, the community or my church is slowly waning.  Some of the relationships have stayed stable.  Nonetheless, I felt I was given a word that I would be on the Blackfeet Reservation for only seven years.  It will be seven years in August of 2021.  A part of me feels ready to move on - COVID has made everyone sheltered, and I am ready to spring out.  A foxhole, though safe, can also be suffocating.  However, over the course of this last year, I have found that I was involved in ministry with a personal motivation to find affirmation.  God has been wanting me to strip old dead snake skins, and for some reason (my own stupid pride), I am still wrestling with the concept that my story isn’t about me.  There has been a shift that I am tired of the masks or facades I have kept up.  And yet, in my pain of leaving my parents’ home, I found myself putting those old skins on.  Because of the pain, I would rather just watch things not essentially.  Veg out.  Distract myself from pouring out the tears, because it hurts too much to admit that I feel split.  I should want to be here.  But a part of me still wants to be there.  But I should want to be here. I’ve learned to not act as tough as I used to, but admitting my wounds...Well, I still hide them.  Maybe old habits die hard.  I learned that I shouldn’t cry.  If there was something wrong, my parents (God bless their hearts) were trying to find ways to fix what was wrong.  This is a wide breadth of what the circumstances looked like, however, I learned to cope with my pain.  Sadness is uncomfortable, and to this day I hate the feeling of it.  I become concerned that I will become depressed.  And yet, watching random Youtube videos is a form of functioning depression when used to escape the reality of my world and the emotions that sometimes come with it.  My mind is convinced that if I just veg out for a few, then I can pick myself up.  Nevertheless, leave me alone with silence and the hurts can return.  The pain still lingers, because I didn’t let myself cry, not even for a little bit.  Paradoxically, one of the things I watched yesterday addressed this matter: “Pain is the cost of love...And we would not appreciate what joy is if we do not know what sadness is.”  So much of our American culture is about being the strong man and laying down our feelings, because we should “lack needs”.  We are the first to try to fix things that are wrong.  But healing doesn’t necessarily come with immediacy.  Even in the book of Ecclesiastes, Solomon wrote, “There is a season to mourn, and a season to rejoice.”  I am in an odd position where I can look back on what God has done, but I find a yearning for the former things.  I’m sure I’ll be fine by the time school begins.  Things will get busy, and my mind will be back at work.  This journey will continue, as something God is pressing on my heart is purpose, and how I shouldn’t find it in doing things, but rather in Him, as is.  You see, part of the comfort I relish in, being separated from my family, is being too busy to focus on their absence.  As of Monday, I can shove these emotions under the rug.  I’m trying to be okay.  Not sink into despair, yet simultaneously acknowledge what my mind and where my thoughts go.  As long as I try to find methods to run away, I am failing to address the things that God wants to unravel in me.  As long as I allow my heart to hide all the emotions that well up in my soul; as long as I find ways to numb in the name of coping, my scabs will cover the things that need to be undone.  But changes are harder than the blueprint.  To get to the path of healing and wholeness, I must walk through some uncomfortable things.  God’s question to me: “Are you willing, or are you going to continue to find other substitutes?”  Sigh…  One step at a time, shall we?

The Shepherd for the Lambs

      (References: Psalms 23; Isaiah 53:5-6, 9, 11; John 10:1-11; 20:1-10)

     Psalm 23 is one of those passages from Scripture that if not careful, is easy to pass over.  Almost every kid in a Christian home will have memorized the psalm, so because the words are familiar, the meaning may be lost at first glance.  So, when I came across this passage for devotions one morning, I knew I needed to pause and ask God to help me look beyond what I already knew.
     The first few verses made me reflect on this past year.  I have revolved so much about me, and in the last several months, it is as if God has been remaking me, putting me in a fire to burn away all the dead things in me.  This story of my life has never been about me.  It is about God, and His glory.  Then there was verse five.  "You anoint my head with oil..."
     Cue long pause.
     I don't deserve my head to be anointed.  Maybe that's the point, though.  I am not worthy.  I have transgressed.  I have iniquity in my history.  I have aimed to find my own peace and healing - and tried to prove my own goodness as a Christian, and that's where I lost it.  But Jesus died for me.  He made His bed with the wicked (see Isaiah 53), so that I could become a child of God.
     I am reminded of the two disciples that ran to His tomb after the news of His resurrection.  One was the most loyal and faithful - the one who stood at the feet of Jesus as He was nailed and bloodied on a tree.  The other could be considered (after Judas) to be the most faithless; betraying his association in the hour of need.  I am not like John.  I wish I was.  I am more like Peter.  And yet, even in his brokenness, he ran to Jesus. 
     I realize that I have pressed God into a corner.  Or I forbade Him to come to a part of the house (ain't that easy to do?).  But I can't do it, anymore.  Peter did the same thing.  Actually, all the disciples did.  But Jesus died so our sin would not define us.  He died to free us and bring glory to the Father.  
     I was wondering what Christmas would mean for me, this year.  Sometimes, as familiar verses, it can become rhetoric and ritualistic.  But now I am reminded that I am a lamb who needs constant guidance and course correction.  I have been broken and need restoration.  However, no matter what I can do, I am still marked.  And yet...the Shepherd who cares for me thought it fitting to die in my place.  The Shepherd's life for His lambs.
   
     There is born to you this day in the city of David, a Savior, Christ the Lord.  Behold the Lamb who takes away the sin of the world!