Vanilla’s Secret Weapon This Instant!

 “What’s it like to be vanilla?” asks a scoop of Rocky Road, with genuine curiosity.

“Vanilla bean, you mean,” comes the reply with a wink.

“Whatever. But tell me.”

 VB (vanilla bean) gives RR a long, hard stare (not to be confused with “cold,” though indeed their temperature is that).

“Okay, listen up and I’ll let you in on a little secret… Vanilla is the rarest of flavors, though you — and every other bold, jazzy flavor — regard us vanillans as common. Plain. We get categorized as nothing noteworthy, nothing exceptional. It’s easy to overlook us. But “bland” isn’t at all what it’s like to be vanilla. That’s actually a misnomer.

“What’s remarkable about vanilla is not who we are standing on our own (though we do love and value our pure state), the essence and power of vanilla is who we become with other flavors.”

RR stares, squints, and states, “I don’t get it.”

“That’s okay. You’re Rocky Road. The only other flavors that get this are the vanillans,” VB smiles.

“Go on.”

“So, here’s what happens when you’re vanilla. You hang out with any other flavor in a small bowl where only two scoops fit, and you take on the flavor of whomever you’re with. Now see, you and I are on separate cones right now. I am free to be me, and you are free to be you.

“But if we’re put into a bowl, like we so often are, I would take on your chocolate, not only in color but in flavor. Perhaps I’d get a little walnuty and marshmallowy, too. Coming into the bowl, I’m vanilla bean. But when you join, I take you on. I understand you and your perspectives, I accept who you are, and I might even fool you into believing I’m not at all vanilla bean… You might come away telling your friends I’m Rocky Road, just like you. For vanillans, this happens all the time and with any flavor. Mint chocolate chip, strawberry, pumpkin, bubblegum… you name it!”

RR looks glum. “Oh. I’m so sorry you don’t get to stay your original flavor.”

“No, I actually don’t mind it. It’s nice to be able to take on so many different flavors. We vanillans appreciate having our horizons broadened. We can see, understand, and empathize with the vastly different ways others experience the world. But it does get a little exhausting being in a bowl with more than one other scoop,” VB laughs. After a pause, the confession: “It also gets a little lonely. Other flavors are so strong, they rarely stop and notice what’s happening. We find great comfort in being with other vanillans. For when we get together, we not only ‘get’ each other, we acknowledge and celebrate our differences.”

RR’s brow furrows.

“See? Most flavors think vanilla is vanilla with no nuances. Not true! Don’t forget about French, classic, premium, homemade…” VB says with a laugh. “We’re each different.”  

“So, what I hear you saying is that vanilla’s secret weapon is becoming the flavor of whichever flavor you’re in the bowl with?”

“Well, yes and no. Yes, maybe it is ‘secret’ in the sense that we don’t do this consciously; it just happens. The other flavors usually like it and don’t complain. That’s because they are already quite fond of their own flavor.”

Both laugh out loud.

“But no, it’s not so much a ‘weapon’ because it’s never used against other flavors. It’s more like a ‘secret blessing’ to be able to meet each flavor where they’re at.”  

RR smiles. “That’s nice. I like that. I wish I had some vanilla in me.”

“You can, my friend.”

The two clink their scoops. RR acquires a few bean specks and VB receives a chocolatey marshmallow as they wave goodbye until next time.

 

“Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.” - Psalm 139:14

“Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.” - 1 Corinthians 12:27

Handling a Fallen Hero This Instant!

Fallen heroes.

I’m not talking about the true ones, the ones who sacrifice their lives. Someone who dies in the act of serving, like a firefighter, is a real fallen hero.

What I’m talking about is someone we look up to, for whatever reason, and they become our own personal hero. Perhaps a singer. An actor. An author. An athlete. Someone we don’t know personally, but someone we sure do admire. A role model snagged from the sphere of superstardom.

I know I have fewer of these than the average American. I’m not into pop culture. I don’t read the headlines or the tweets. I like musicians and athletes, yes, but I don’t, like, stalk anyone or anything. I don’t really “adore” anyone.

Well, except Aaron Rodgers.

So there. There is that someone I slowly elevated to hero status without realizing it. I mean, over the years since discovering his existence, I never was a true fan as true fandom is defined. Didn’t follow him on social. Didn’t count the hours down till his next game. Didn’t even know when he was playing or on what channel! I relied on friends and family for that info. Every fall at the start of football season, I enjoyed texts and posts friends sent me about Aaron. Among my people, I was known as his fan.

However, last month the whole vaccinated/lied/not-vaccinated thing went down. And suddenly everyone’s all up in arms about my guy.

In short, Aaron got Covid-19 and, as it all turns out, his statement going into the season—that he was “immunized”—didn’t mean he was vaccinated. Cuz he wasn’t. He never got the shot. He was doing a homeopathic treatment instead.

How do I feel about this, as an Aaron Rodgers fan?

Well, on the one hand, points for creativity, man. He never said he “was vaccinated.” He said he “was immunized.” The rest of the world took that and ran with it, doing all kinds of assuming.

Here’s the problem. Aaron didn’t try to correct those false assumptions. He walked around with the rest of the vaccinated players and avoided the protocols in place for unvaccinated players. Again, he was unvaccinated.

Ooof.

How’s a Rodgers fan to respond?

Welcome to my post. I’m trying to figure that out. I’m wondering what it means to look up to someone who lives in the world of fame and fortune and to watch them mess up. Aaron’s not the first. Don’t get me started on the countless leaders who’ve gone before him, from Christian pastors to renowned musicians to, sure, I’ll say it: politicians.

What’s the real issue when someone in the spotlight messes up? First we must consider what it is to mess up. In 100 percent of the cases I’m thinking of, “messing up” is a matter of morality. Of values and standards.

Aaron’s misleading statement, followed by the lie of his actions (failing to honor the unvaccinated player protocols) is a matter of morality. For fans disturbed by his actions, we are disappointed to discover… what? That he is capable of lying? No, that’s not the shocker. We’re all human and subject to the same temptations. What’s jarring is that he succumbed. He misled, and then he had no problem walking out a lie.

So, if morality at the heart of a hero falling, what does that say about us? Those who hold our heroes in high esteem? Is it that we expect perfection of ourselves and, therefore, of our heroes? Or is it that we know we are imperfect but, wow, our role models better not be? No one wants to put “meh” on a pedestal; what we want to aspire toward is goodness. Excellence. Fierce talent coupled with right living.

It would be easy in this moment to go Christianese on you and say, “We’re all human. Only Jesus was perfect, and so only he can serve as our true hero.” 

I mean, right? But where does that leave us regarding the men and women who live in the spotlight, excelling in their field, garnering our admiration and fandom?

For me, it comes down to our calling to walk an oh-so-fine line. Where, on one hand, we look up to our heroes and proudly assert our fan club membership status because, well, we’re proud of them! And, on the other hand, we release our grip a bit.

For me, with Aaron, nothing has changed. I mean, yes, I was disheartened enough about this whole not-vaccinated/living-a-lie thing that I had to write about it. But at the same time, he’s still Aaron. He’s still a great quarterback. I am not walking out the door of the room to his fan club party. Does that mean I am dismissing his actions and letting go of my standards for people in the limelight? No. Because, frankly, I never elevated him to super-human status in the first place.

Now, when a child is involved, things get more interesting. My responsibility as an adult ramps up. When a child in my life sees a hero of mine fall, what impacts him or her is not anything the hero did or did not do. The child is actually watching ME, and my response to The Fail. This is where I can’t get away with, “Oh, he’s just human! Fahgettaboutit!” I also can’t get away with, “What a jerk. Never again will I watch a Packer game or utter the name of that No. 12 guy.” 

Because, guess what. Children don’t look up to famous people. They look up to the adults in their lives.

It’s our reaction to our fallen heroes that children remember. Yes, it is a fine line, and yes, it is possible to walk. It starts with getting real with ourselves first. We must ask, “How do I feel about this person's failure? Why?” Next, we must make terms with it and have a heart-to-heart conversation with the child. In that conversation, it’s okay to express disappointment or whatever our feelings may be. Finally, we must live out the very example we want our children to follow. We must be the hero.

The most important set of eyes will always be on you. Not on Aaron or whomever your Aaron may be. Just you.

“Therefore … let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith… Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” – Hebrews 12:1-3 (NIV)

“for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” – Romans 3:23 (NIV)

“But where sin increased, grace increased all the more.” – Romans 5:20 (NIV)

Make a Snowball This Instant!

The “snowball effect” is often used to describe something that gets bigger and bigger, slowly at first, then picking up speed so that it’s huge to the point of uncontainable. People tend to say something “snowballed” when they describe a mess that could have been avoided. Or when something shouldn’t have gotten to some unacceptable state of being but somehow did anyway.

I see it differently. The snowball effect when it comes to a relationship between a man and a woman is a tender thing. Something to be cherished.

It starts of slowly, indeed. Each one feeling out the other. Each one tip toeing around, weighing whether what they discover about the other is interesting, intriguing or attractive. With each step, and with interest growing on either side, a snowball is formed.

As both invest, the snowball grows. It’s a joint effort. No single individual can build a relationship snowball. It takes two. Each adds their own handful of snow, each eager to see it grow into something of their own. A snowball like theirs has never before existed.

With each passing day, each conversation and each activity, the couple is pleased to add to the snowball. It is their own. It contains their history. The core consists of those first days and weeks, the exploration and the discovery, and in time as they push the snowball forward, it grows with shared memories, laughter, highs and lows.

The problem with a snowball is not that it can’t be unrolled, bit by bit just as it was formed, but rather that it can be destroyed in an instant. All it takes is a heat source. Sun, fire, a hair dryer… it does not matter. A snowball of any size can vanish merely moments after the heat takes aim. All that effort, all that joint building, gone. Not even “undone.” Just gone. Disappeared, leaving no trace but a puddle, which is absorbed into the ground and quickly turned into mud.

There are no words to somehow make this better. There’s no lesson to be learned. Nothing like “build the snowball anyway, just avoid heat at all times.” No, “Build it but store it in a freezer every time you’re not busy adding to it.” Nope. You can build the snowball or not build it. Every snowball comes with risk of a heat source presenting itself at any given moment.

Not all snowballs melt away. But whether you have had one or whether you have had many melted snowballs, you’re not alone. You are free to do whatever you need to do to mourn its disappearance. You can take all the time you need.

Then you can choose: will you move to sunny terrain to live out your days, or will you go find another winter wonderland? The choice is yours and no one is judging you. Both environments can be home to a richly rewarding life. Whichever you choose, go there without apology, with the wind at your back and the memory of your snowball alive. Because even if it’s gone, your snowball wasn’t the only thing being formed. It, too, was shaping you.

(written maybe a little too soon ?! after the writer’s snowball got held up to fire)

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance…a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak.” – Ecclesiastes 3:1-4, 6-7 (NIV)

Discover a Magical Happening This Instant!

Disclaimer: It’s long. It breaks my usual format. It contains only hints of spiritual value. But it’s true. Alllll true, and could maybe happen to you!

* * * *

It had been a fun weekend. I mean, what’s not to love about your 20-year college reunion?

You drive for 7+ hours, one way, in your new car to get there and when you get there, you discover the Airbnb you chose is legit 5-star.

Then the weekend gets going and your inner extrovert comes alive and parties all over your inner introvert.

You have conversations with people who still make you laugh harder than anything. And your memory gets jogged like stumbling over a rock in the fog every time someone shares something you did that you’d conveniently never once called to mind in the last two decades.

You’d asked God for a Magical Happening going into the weekend, and while none of these quite fit what you’d envisioned as a Magical Happening, you can’t complain. It was great.

So, there you are, on the morning of your last day in town, getting ready for the 7-hour return trip. Though the BnB was incredible, sleep was terrible. Always is when you travel. You stare at the bathroom mirror thinking, “I have 7 hours where no one will see me. So … to shower or not to shower?”

You continue staring. Your hair and face … not good. They need as much help as they can get. Then you realize you don’t even care that you won’t be seen—YOU need to go through the everyday getting-ready routine for YOU.

So, you shower. AND do your makeup. And it feels good.

You hit the road.

As you drive, you can’t help but apologize to eastern Washington as cruise down it. It’s got a bit of an eye sore going on from Spokane to the Columbia River Gorge. Brown, brown, and more brown.

“Dear Lord, thank you for this audio book to make me laugh out loud because what’s outside my window makes me want to cry my head off,” you say-pray.

Miles roll by. You pass the first sign for a rest stop cuz you’re good. Forty-five minutes later, however, the next blue sign for a rest stop has tremendous appeal. Never mind the little white sign below it saying “closed.” You choose not to believe it.

Taking the extended exit, you finally hit the stop sign where you must go either left or right, and there it is, a sign as plain as day with an arrow pointing left: “Rest Stop: CLOSED.” And to the right? Brown nothingness as far as the eye can see.

Well, okay, and a Conoco.

You’re only a quarter of a tank down, but your full bladder screams, “That’s a small price to pay for relief! Buy your way into that gas station restroom NOW.” 

So, you take a right and follow your body’s strategy for relief.

As you stand cross-legged by the tank waiting for it to fill, you take in the scene. As previously noted, there’s not much to see … except now at least some humans pepper the territory.

Standing outside the gas station store—which of course holds your highly sought-after toilet—you see a short, huge-busted black woman talking to a tall, lanky white guy. The woman’s shirt reads: THINK ABOUT IT.

You roll your inner eyes. “What am I supposed to think, lady?” you silently ask.

The nozzle clicks off, you hastily grab your purse and beeline toward the building. A tall man brushes past you on his way out. You glance up and do a double take. Is that…? No way, that guy looks exactly like the guitar player of a band you recently discovered and have seen twice in concert! (You know his face because you had a fan-crush on him and followed just him—rather than the whole band—on Instagram for a while.)

As you’re shaking your head, marveling how much that guy looked like him, you turn around and nearly run into T-shirt girl.

Then it hits you like a splat of ketchup on your white shirt—she is the lead singer (with an insane voice, btw), the only woman in an otherwise all white dude band … meaning that guy is the guitar player and THAT BAND is here! Right now!

After you accomplish your restroom mission, you nearly fly out of the building (now that you’re no longer bursting at the seams) and all the men of the band are standing around outside their van.

It’s just a van, not labeled or anything, and it’s towing a U-Haul (you love that you know it's cuz they're a band; they obs have instruments to carry around). And there you are, your paths intersecting in the middle of Podunk nowhere. This is your chance.

“Excuse me, are you guys Dirty Revival?” you ask crush dude.

All the guys look up, faces also now lighting up.

“Yeah!”

“I’ve been to two of your concerts and love you guys! What are you doing here?”

“We’re just wrapping up a tour with about five stops and are heading home to Portland now. Where are you from?”

You continue conversing, just happy to have your day made and to be clearly making theirs. Because you are Girl at Random Gas Station Who Knows Band, you are now to them: Girl Signifying They’ve Hit the Big Time.

You talk about said tour, where they’ll be playing on New Year’s Eve, and whatever else fans and bands talk about.

When it gets to the point where any normal person would ask for their autographs and really put the icing on this whole cake of a moment, you go blank. You can’t think of anything to say. Awkwardness is trying hard to elbow its way front-and-center, so you offer a cheery, “Well, keep up the good work!” and head back to your car.

And as you drive away, you realize the significance of it all: sometimes Magical Happenings will take place when you least expect them … when the weekend’s in your rearview mirror and you think your chances are behind you … but instead? You showered. You got ready. And you hit the open road before you, only to discover it holds nothing but possibility.

When the Battle Rages This Instant!

“Are you kidding me?”

You speak these words not in any sort of hopeful, excited kind of way, but rather in the dumbstruck, genuine kind of way you do when you question reality. You’re baffled, incredulous, and not at all pleased.

Day after day, something new unfolds and soon you have A Situation on your hands. With each new hit, you find a different sentiment to express the same feeling. You utter words like, “Unbelievable.” “No way.” “How is this even happening right now?” and “Somebody wake me from this nightmare.”

When this happens—when you progress from a single hit to a series of hits with no end in sight—it’s safe to say you’re no longer facing A Situation. You’re in the middle of an all-out battle.

Have you been there?

I’m not going to suggest what types of situations qualify as battle worthy. It doesn’t matter. You know a battle when you’re in one. And it’s all you can do to face each day.

When weight after weight is heaped on your shoulders, despite your best efforts to maintain decent posture, you slump. You can even slump to the point of mush. Like a mud puddle in the middle of a battlefield, you can find yourself getting trampled on, with the noise of injury and dying too loud for anyone to hear your cries for mercy.

But what if—what if!—this battle that feels like it belongs to you because, well, you are caught in it, wasn’t actually your battle?

Imagine for a moment…

Though the attacks are coming at you from every side, and you feel like a wimpy soldier without an ounce of armor, what if you’re not actually needed on the field?

What if every morning…when you rise from the safety of slumber and have no choice but to face reality…what if all you had to do is show up to the battlefield?

The battle’s not going away. And the protective cave of slumber isn’t an option until tonight. So, to avoid morphing into mush in the daylight hours, could you simply show up?

Does it sound a little too simple to just put one foot in front of the other?

I thought so too. Until I found myself stuck between a rock and a hard place, and God, in His unmistakable way, told me exactly what He did King Jehosphaphat:

"'Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s. Tomorrow march down against them… You will not have to fight this battle. Take up your positions; stand firm and see the deliverance the Lord will give you… Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Go out to face them tomorrow, and the Lord will be with you’” (2 Chronicles 2:15-17).

All He said was: “Show up.”

I tried that for some time. It was liberating. I experienced relief. And while nothing was changing, I believed God would eventually move if this was, indeed, His battle.

But then I realized I hadn’t finished reading 2 Chronicles 20. So I went back for more. Here’s what I found:

“Jehoshaphat appointed men to sing to the LORD and to praise him for the splendor of his holiness as they went out at the head of the army, saying: ‘Give thanks to the LORD, for his love endures forever.’ As they began to sing and praise, the LORD set ambushes against the men of Ammon and Moab and Mount Seir who were invading Judah, and they were defeated. …This is why it is called the Valley of Berakah (praise) to this day” (2 Chronicles 2: 21-22, 26).

Just like that, I realized my “showing up” was shy of one critical component: praise. Since all I had to do was show up to a battle that was not mine, I found I did have spare energy (since I wasn’t using it to fight). And with that slim bit of energy, the most productive thing I could do was praise the Lord.

This is when things started happening. Things so far outside of my control, I found myself uttering—this time in a hopeful, excited, awe-struck kind of way—“Are you kidding me?” “Unbelievable.” And “No way.”

God was moving.

It’s not that “show up and praise” is a formula for victory. It’s not. I can’t tell you the outcome of the battle you’re facing. “Show up and praise” is simply an approach for attending a battle that’s not yours. It’s a way to keep perspective, to keep your head up, and to give praise where it’s due.

After all, the Lord knows you’d rather step over that mushy puddle in the battlefield than become one yourself.

Read it: 2 Chronicles 20

Rest in it: "When you’re in over your head, I’ll be there with you. When you’re in rough waters, you will not go down. When you’re between a rock and a hard place, it won’t be a dead end—Because I am GOD, your personal God, The Holy of Israel, your Savior. I paid a huge price for you." – Isaiah 43:1-4 (Message)

Wear the Right Gloves This Instant!

It’s springtime. You’re getting ready to do some serious weed pulling in your front yard, so you hunt down your red, rough-but-tough gardening gloves and get to it.

Just a few weeks ago, you were getting ready to go skiing on the mountain. You slid on your ski pants, down jacket, beanie, sunglasses, gloves, and you were ready to rock.

Were these the same gloves you’re reaching for now, to do yard work?  

No.

Ski gloves are not gardening gloves. Nor are the khaki pants you wear to P.F. Chang’s the same pair of pants you’d choose to veg out in around the house while watching movies and eating popcorn.

Gloves, pants…you get the idea. One pair does not fit all. Context matters.

About two months ago, the mountain town I live in got hit with a 118-year record-breaking snow dump. And I mean dummmmmp. Go to bed with 4 inches of snow on the ground, wake up to two feet. And that was just the beginning. The snow continued falling for three solid days. And with it, my tears. (#SWFCan’tHackConstantShoveling)

As soon as the snow stopped dropping from the sky (leaving about three feet of the stuff standing tall outside), I was suffering severe cabin fever. A friend and I decided to go out to dinner.

I have a front-wheel drive Nissan Versa with Blizzak snow tires that could win awards for its efforts on the snow. My friend has an all-wheel drive Subaru Crosstrek. Guess which one we took?

A car with front-wheel drive, no matter how great the winter tires, remains a two-wheel drive vehicle. A Crosstrek, well, is a Crosstrek. There’s no comparison.

From the comfort or discomfort of wearing proper clothing (gloves, pants, etc.) to choosing the right vehicle to handle the terrain, if you choose the wrong thing, you pay the consequences.

Icy fingers. Stares from fancy-pants restaurant goers. Or sliding into a ditch and getting stuck.

You want to choose wisely. It’ll help you avoid discomfort, embarrassment, or putting your life on the line.

The thing is, when it comes to our words, we don’t suffer the consequences when we choose foolishly. Our loved ones do.

Have you ever been there for a grieving family member and said something you thought might help, but it actually made things worse? Have you ever heard a friend articulate the depths of his despair and offered a simple, trite, even flippant response? Have you ever wanted to encourage someone with Scripture and seen their countenance harden? (Lord knows, even the truth of His words can be ill-timed.)

It’s not that silence is the answer, but in every case, context matters. Increasing your EQ, empathy, and wisdom mean you wear the right gloves for the task at hand. 

Heeding context may save you from inadvertently offering gardening gloves to a snow skier. It may help you avoid telling your husband to wear pajama pants out to dinner. And it may save the lives of your passengers when you choose to drive the more robust vehicle in a snowstorm.

“A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver.” —Proverbs 25:11 (ESV)

“There is one whose rash words are like sword thrusts, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.” —Proverbs 12:18 (ESV)

“Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” —Colossians 4:6 (NIV)

Asking Why This Instant!

I don’t know why cancer takes a child.

I don’t know why some wives miscarry once, twice, five+ times.

I don’t know why she had to lose both legs. 

I don’t know why so many daughters don’t have daddies and sons don’t have fathers.

I don’t know why the imagination puts itself in a dingy box labeled “pornography” and traps itself there. 

I don’t know why some couples say their vows at 19 and never part until cozying up to a century, while others navigate a beautiful life with never a partner to share it with.

I don’t know why his marriage was torn apart when she decided she wanted a wife instead of a husband.

I don’t know why being wrapped in brown skin subjects her to a lifetime of “less than.” 

I don’t know why the brain deteriorates and the body breaks down.

I don’t know why mental illness is real.

I don’t know why some are born handicapped.

I don’t know why his future vanished in an instant, crushed by steel on that otherwise silent, pre-dawn road.

I don’t know why the only acceptable atonement for sin required ripping apart the triune God and torturing Him to death.

I don’t know why love hurts so much.

 

Why.

We have a million whys, you and me. 

What do we do with them?

 

Ignore them? Swim in them? Suffocate under them? 

Chris Stapleton, in “Broken Halos,” sings, “Don’t go asking Jesus why. We’re not meant to know the answers, they belong to the by and by.” 

Is that the answer? To simply not ask them? 

I don’t know. And I don’t have the answer that’s going to take away your whys. 

I do know we have options. We can ask why if we want to, or we can sit quietly beside our whys. We can pretend they don’t exist, or we can shake hands with them and acknowledge their presence. We can lift them up and release them, or we can wrestle with them until breathless with exhaustion. We can release our whys in a flood of tears, or we can drink them in and digest them. 

There’s no right or wrong way to handle our whys. 

When my whys are a wolf pack, snarling and closing in on me, my own hunt becomes one for safety, for peace. All I want is to run to my Shepherd. He’s unfazed by wolves. I just want to go and sit with Him. Go and cry there. Go and rest under His staff. Go and be me—the me He saw fit to bring into the world; the me He knew would ask a thousand whys; the me He knew couldn’t handle the answers.

You and me, we’re human. We’re born into finite flesh and blood. While we’re fearfully and wonderfully made, our skin is vulnerable to prey. I know this full well. 

So, for now, I beeline for Jesus and let my whys follow. In His presence we all sit. Somehow, my questions don’t consume me there. They lose their fear factor. And while they’re usually relentless, around Him they settle down. They get sleepy.

Funny thing about Jesus’ presence ... I used to try to escape it. Why press into a God who keeps answers from me? I figured I’d fight my whys solo … find my own answers. But when I tried, I got eaten alive. Misery, every time. 

I no longer try to assert my independence from my good Shepherd … simply because it hurts too much. I wasn’t created to wander alone among wolves. 

Do your whys chase you? Haunt you? Hold you captive? Leave you numb? What if, instead of finding answers to pacify them, you found peace sans answers? What if you let your whys join you in the vast, open field of the good Shepherd’s sweet, consuming love? Could you and your whys lay down together, under His staff, and be?  

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts." —Isaiah 55:8-9

"I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep." —John 10:11