Last week, I collected a friend’s mail for her while she was out of town. She had been anxiously anticipating a late Christmas package, or rather her preschooler had been, and I checked for its arrival with almost as much nervous glee as if it were my gift coming. Now, at our little condo complex, when we receive packages in the mail, those packages are gently, tenderly, and lovingly placed by our kid-gloved mailman into these large, centrally located, rectangular locking metal boxes, and then the key to that mailbox is placed in our individual mailbox. (All true minus the “gently, tenderly, and lovingly placed” and “kid-gloved” parts. )
So, when into my friend’s mailbox appeared the gleaming, promising key – yippee!!! – I grabbed up that key and jammed it as fast as I could into its corresponding hole. I threw open the door, and there, wedged impossibly into the large rectangular opening was a brown paper package tied up with string (hopefully containing) a few of her favorite things. I reached into the depths of the metal box and sought purchase on the package, but, alas, my goal was futile. There was absolutely no possible way to slide my fingers around the parcel; the mailman had managed to squish his entrustment into an opening that seemed exactly the size of the box in question. Unbelievable!
I cajoled that package. I bargained, and I pleaded; I even sweated blood (not really). That thing did not budge. In my mind I pictured a less than kind mailman, deviously twirling a handlebar mustache waxed at the tips, his monocle in place, laughing sinisterly as he used the super- pointy toe of his boot to kick the parcel deep into the recesses of the cob-webbed mailbox where I was sure to never retrieve it. Finally, I threw my hands up in despair. If I couldn’t get this stupid (Oh, yes – I used the “S” word.) box out, I doubted anyone else could either.
About that time, one of my neighbors came along and offered to help. Guess what? I was correct: that box didn’t like her, or the next guy who offered help (or his son who held the flashlight). That’s right; the package was an equal-opportunity Hater, and by now, I thoroughly despised the box, too. More than that, I despaired; how was I going to get my friend’s package out? Because, and I forgot to tell you this part, once you placed the key into the lock, you couldn’t remove it. So, leaving the box there really wasn’t a viable option. No, the presents were my responsibility.
Then a thought occurred to me: it wasn’t the actual brown box that mattered at all, but the contents inside that were of value. So, after calling my friend to make sure she didn’t mind, I took a pair of scissors to that brown paper box, and freed the contents (and the box itself, too) from their metal prison in a matter of seconds. Problem solved simply by changing perspective.
So many of the problems I encounter – or create – in my own life are ones of perspective. I allow or force someone I care about to fit a role to which they are not suited, and we both get hurt, or I read something into someone’s actions or words and act as if my interpretation is truth without confirmation. This problem of perspective is true of faith, too, I think.
Faith glistens and shines when life elevates me in the palm of its hand to touch the belly of the pink clouds at sunset or gently sets me to ride upon the foam of the sea. But when I’m bumping along a deserted, desolate, dusty road or scraping the bottom of a slimy barrel, then, man, forget it; because, really, what has faith, or God ever done for me? Oh, how very easily I forget!
My whole life is a testament to God’s glory. My climbing out of bed in the morning is its own song of praise, but sometimes I have trouble remembering that. When my body feels like it’s betraying me physically, or when I’m scared of the future, I tend to forget how very far I’ve come in the past few years. The occipital nerve stimulator that allows me to function with as little pain as it does is a blessing from His very hand, but I’ve become callous toward that gift, unless and until, my brain feels like it’s waging its own war against me. Then, you’d better believe I’m grateful! So many, many other things are also straight from Him, and I tend to say, “yes, but…” How can I not vividly, everlastingly recall His awesome generosity of mercy toward me?
In truth, if I sat and reflected upon it, I see evidence of God in action for me and around me every day. I see Him in the way a baby’s DNA knows to develop fingernails (Itty bitty fingernails! Amazing!). I see Him in the renewal of my friendship with someone I knew 26 years-ago, and I see Him in friendships that have dissolved. I see Him in the forgiveness and restoration of broken families, and I know Him to be present in the despondently sad separation of abusive families. I see Him in hummingbirds and hot air balloons. I see Him in eyeglasses and embryo storage for infertility. I see Him in successful adoptions and in my own failed adoption. While I see Him in all of these things – intellectually know Him to be present – sometimes I do not feel Him. And this lack of feeling can lead to a true crisis in belief.
It’s then that I hit my knees. Hard. Again. Because this has happened before, it’s a matter of trust knowing that He won’t leave me alone with this dearth of divine comfort for longer than I can withstand. My head, rather than my heart, shifts my perspective from the clouds and sea foam or the dusty road and slimy barrel to the things that my head knows. He is there. He has to be because He promises to be, and He always keeps His promises. He never changes; He is the same from the beginning to the end. Most importantly, He loves me.
The thing about faith: it’s terrifying. Faith is the polar opposite of surety, and it’s always a choice. There is no such thing as proof in “faith”, and if I’m hoping to find proof, I will always be disappointed. There is not now, nor will there be, by His very nature, proof of God as I know Him. Believing in Him, following Him – always a choice. (As AT&T says, “It’s not complicated.”)
When I cannot feel Him, when all I have is my head knowledge (and fear), I search and find myself looking for Him in places I ordinarily would not. Sometimes I even find Him there; delightfully, enchantingly, uniquely, I find Him there. But those are stories for another time.
Faith does not often fit the box built for it. Tall sides stand high, waiting to receive the essence of your conscious self, ready to have the flaps slapped down quickly, sealed with tape – a neat package of airtight confidence. But God doesn’t deal in absolute certainties. Instead, faith is always about choice and mostly about perspective, and as I’ve learned well, occasionally you’ve got to cut the box.
The Unexpected Life 