I laid awake last night staring at the ceiling wondering what I had missed, pretty sure I had missed something. Otherwise, why was I still awake? Door was locked, alarm was on, stove was turned off. I traced the ceiling with my eyes, mentally fidgeting. Hmmmmh…then, God seemed to whisper: apparently, I had not really finished with “Cutting the Box.”
So, here it is. Are you ready?
When I turned 27, I threw a full-fledged, out-and-out temper tantrum; it wasn’t pretty. Have you ever witnessed a grown woman throwing a fit? UGGGLY! (Notice the all caps, please.) I had just moved home to small-town Virginia from NoVa – that would be “The City” for those of you unfamiliar with the area – resulting from the slow, molding deterioration and, finally, complete decayed rotting away of life as I knew it over a period of 2 years. In that time, all my hopes, dreams, and plans – every concept I held of myself and my carefully cultivated world – had also withered and died on the vine, eventually blowing away in life’s dry, harsh wind, leaving me bereft and utterly lost.
So, a 27th birthday in rural Virginia was not something I had expected or wanted. In fact, being there at all symbolized complete and abject failure. How had I let this happen to me? Tears flowed, legs kicked, voice wailed. Yep, UGGGLY!
My life plan had been clear: successful and adoring husband, beautiful and healthy children, law school followed by my own successful five-star career (I had that planned, too, but lawyers are boring unless you’re another lawyer. I’ll leave the career path out). I had lost the husband when I couldn’t have the children. (Kinda makes it sound like I misplaced him. Nope. I know exactly where he went. He left.) Law school had been snatched away when my body failed. Nothing I had planned, wanted, deserved or needed had come through. (I’ll come back to “deserved” and “needed”.) A temper tantrum seemed in order. So, I threw one, a great big one.
Sometimes a girl just needs to cry. When I was finished, the husband was still gone, the children were still not an option, and law school was still impossible. And I was still in my parents’ guest room. Well, phooey.
I’d spent the first 27 years of my life believing that my plan was what would come to pass merely because I had planned it that way; I would work toward the future I desired and make it so. My hard work, my determination meant I “deserved” my goals.
Side note: I really despise the word “deserve;” it is way overused. So few things are truly deserved, and in all fairness, if I received what I deserved even half the time, I’d be in a world of pain. (I’m pretty sure you know what I mean.) I’m not kind or compassionate or just or fair or generous when I’m given a chance to be nearly enough. I try; I really do, but I fail because it’s human nature to do so. Read that again: it’s human nature to fail at all of those things. And that knowledge breaks me every single time I see my face in the mirror. The point is, we keep trying because it brings God joy when we attempt to love each other in practical ways.
And “need”, well, obviously I didn’t need those things to survive because I did not have them. And I was still alive. Wounded terribly, but still alive. So, maybe I used that word “need” for things I merely desired. (I find that I do that a lot.)
A crisis of faith loomed. I had prayed, oh, how I had prayed for each and every thing that had disappeared from my life. I had prayed for my marriage to be restored, for my husband to stay, for my husband to forgive my infertility and a myriad of other things, for my husband to love me. I had prayed for my sick uterus and failing body, for the children I would never have but so desperately desired. I had prayed for the career I had imagined, the legal studies I enjoyed. And I had heard…nothing. Utter silence. Utter stillness. Utter despair. And in my heart I feared I was ALONE.
Now, here’s the basic, bottom line problem with all of this: I had told God exactly what to do. In other words, I had attempted to shove God into a box of my own construction. “Here you are, Lord Almighty, the Great I Am, please step into this nicely shaped box that’s just right for all of my hopes and dreams and plans. No, no thank you, I will not consider anything else you may have in mind.”
But God does not operate along those lines. The God that parted the Red Sea and created the world is not a God that I can contain. I do not understand most of what happens in my life (Never fear: I do not understand most of what happens in this world, either.). But I know that one day I will; He promises that. But there are so many things I want to ask Him, will ask Him one day. Is His concept of time the same as ours? What does the Book of Revelation mean? What about dinosaurs? How old is the earth? What’s up with the platypus? How about the Kardashians? Why did my life come apart at the seams? (For now I’m a big fan of the Catholic concept of “mystery.” I’m holding onto that with both hands.)
I don’t want a God that fits into the boxes I construct. If He did, doesn’t that mean that I’d drawn Him, created Him, designed Him to my own exact specifications? Wouldn’t that mean that I’d be worshiping nothing other than that which I had created? Wouldn’t that make Him nothing more than an idol? Instead, the Lord of Light gloriously refuses to be defined by me or anyone else. He rules His universe unrestrained and unconstrained. And that is a wondrous thought.
So, hand me those scissors, and I’ll cut open the box – again.
The Unexpected Life 