The Sweetest Victory

Monday night in preparing for our weekly Young Life club, Brian (the Area Director) shared a familiar Bible story to encourage the group of listening leaders covering the couches and sitting in huddles on the floor…

Mark 4: 35-41
As evening came, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let’s cross to the other side of the lake.” So they took Jesus in the boat and started out, leaving the crowds behind (although other boats followed). But soon a fierce storm came up. High waves were breaking into the boat, and it began to fill with water.

Jesus was sleeping at the back of the boat with his head on a cushion. The disciples woke him up, shouting, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re going to drown?”

When Jesus woke up, he rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Silence! Be still!” Suddenly the wind stopped, and there was a great calm. Then he asked them, “Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

The disciples were absolutely terrified. “Who is this man?” they asked each other. “Even the wind and waves obey him!”

That evening, with wet clothes plastered to their body, the disciples experienced Jesus’ victory in one blatant, chilling second of transformation. I can just imagine the men in their moment of shame, whip-lashed by waves and brutally aware of their own fear—or intense lack of trust. Those words from Jesus must have been embarrassing to hear, “Do you still have no faith?” Still—after all their time following Jesus, learning at his side day after day, and he asks them, “Why...why are you afraid?” It was clearer than ever—they should have trusted Him—but instead they backed away in a trembling cower.

The waves were too big—the storm too incredibly mighty and ravaging to see any glimpse of victory in that moment of trial…

“No, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ, who loved us.” Romans 8:37

Despite all these things. Despite the ugly giant of trial that stands in our way, its eyes glowing with fiery intimidation, despite the intense fear that captures our minds in its sweaty-palmed grip and continually squeezes harder, despite the absence of a bright and glimmering finish in sight, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ who loved us.

Victory does not come to us by means of clever escape or by volunteering another to “fix” the difficult situation. Victory comes by surrendering to the storm, the flame, the trial. The journey of becoming victorious in our mind, heart, flesh and soul can not begin until we give in. For anything to begin happening we must throw ourselves into the thick of the battle. We must jump right into the epicenter of danger and start fighting against the enemy that is trying desperately to overtake us. I find it interesting that in white water rafting when you come up against an obstacle you are told to jump downstream, towards the rock or obstacle in order to prevent a wrap or a flip. How counterintuitive. But there is a choice—to jump with courage into the obstacle itself or be swallowed by waves.

When we choose to go to battle in the midst of trial, we are not the victorious ones, Christ is victorious in us. He conquers that others might see the display of his powerful victory in our lives.

“To all who mourn in Israel,

he will give a crown of beauty for ashes,

a joyous blessing instead of mourning,

festive praise instead of despair.

In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks

that the Lord has planted for his own glory.

They will rebuild the ancient ruins,

repairing cities destroyed long ago.

They will revive them,

though they have been deserted for many generations…

Instead of shame and dishonor,

you will enjoy a double share of honor.

You will possess a double portion of prosperity in your land,

and everlasting joy will be yours.

For I, the Lord, love justice…

I will faithfully reward my people for their suffering

and make an everlasting covenant with them.

Their descendants will be recognized

and honored among the nations.

Everyone will realize that they are a people

the Lord has blessed.” (Isaiah 61)

The greatest example of victory I have ever encountered was, and continues to be, the magnificent change that has occurred in my dad’s life. My dad has battled bipolar disease for the entirety of his life. Now, after years and years of pain and the deep-seeded frustration that comes with leading a “double life”; the Lord has rewarded him for his suffering. In my last few blog posts I shared elements of who my dad used to be. Now, I can clearly see that God has exchanged “beauty for ashes and has brought a joyous blessing instead of mourning.” My dad is a very different man than he was just two or three years ago. Much of his change came about from the installation of different medications, but the true change in his heart and life did not take place until the day he decided to surrender to his trail. Even after surrender, victory certainly didn’t arrive overnight. I can clearly recall the extended period of waiting for change while watching my dad suffer mentally and physically in the process. There are still days of trial and frustration, angst and tears. But with gladness I can now say that, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is his through Christ, who loved him. My dad is a different man! Nothing in this world is more powerful to me than observing that transformation and record of change. Thanks be to Jesus for the power of victory!

And as He stands in victory,

Sin's curse has lost its grip on me;

For I am His and He is mine—

Bought with the precious blood of Christ.

-“In Christ Alone” lyrics

Battle Begins: Observing a Loved One with Bipolarity

He curls in on himself like a dead bird’s fist
Knees barred to chest with languid weeps of little boy
Wails of hollowed soul pair with cries
of grown man slipping through finger pulled hair
Contracted angst meets short breath

(Pause) before falling again

He’s warped metal in furied flame
Twist of mood turns to brief madness
The raging dip like hot fish dripping in batter and oil
Turning, frying, flipped against will

Dull eyes ignite

before turning to glass
Just waiting for glaze to become boiling rage
He curves like putty, malleable madman
Sweet gentle man turned listless again

Peeling Back the Foil

My sisters and I were like three worn out puppies as we sat in a huddled pile on the backseat bench of our family van with crusted dirt tagging our cheeks and foreheads. Lindsay, my older sister, started to fall asleep—head on my shoulder, her body wiggling a bit as her conscious began to slip and give way to lucid dreams that would pass the fourteen hours we had remaining to drive home from our vacation to Yellowstone National Park. Heidi, the youngest of the three, drummed her fingers against the surface of the car window, milky with fog. On the middle seat of the van, my four year old brother slept in his car seat, drool stringing from his thumb to his mouth. I listened intently as my mom and dad talked in the front. With sweet demeanor, my mom was pointing out the highlights of the trip—the glassy pools of iced-over water, the tiered layers of bubbling hot springs, innumerable buffalo—she listed them and chuckled a bit in memory of the buffalo. I joined with her in laughter from the backseat. Before long my dad abruptly interjected, “How are we going to afford this?” My father was a worried man and I had heard him ask that same question constantly. He always directed it in anger towards my mother as if she was responsible for wasting his wealth. She never did anything. None of us did. Yet he always had something to scream about, to rattle our fears, to make us question whether or not his insults and comments were valid. That car trip home from Yellowstone was a time that I never questioned, just believed. I believed every word he spoke, every hideous name he gave me or my mother. I had a way of detecting the waves of an approaching argument. The air changed and my parents’ conversation began taking on a certain rhythmic pattern. I waited for the breakout, as timely and predictable as the relentless geysers we watched emerging from crusted soil earlier in the week. My heart would pulsate with greater fervency leading right up to that moment of heat. Then, the moment it broke, my heart would stop, then slowly retard into a detained state of numbness that leveled and remained until the argument passed. I imagined my heart on ice—that living pinkish organ resting inside a white frozen box, impairing it just enough so that it lost its wild vibrancy, yet keeping it contained enough to survive in chilled stillness. During these times, I often found a way to preoccupy my eight-year-old conscience.

That day, I rested my forehead against the cool comforting stiffness of the glass van window. Then, I just stared. I watched the grooves of the window frame rattling slightly with motion, examined the road below us, it’s yellow markings resembling a line of flying darts—one shot right after the next. I closed one eye, then the other, creating a new picture that widened or shrank and jostled back and forth with each blink. I watched the trees passing; let them melt together slightly as I squinted my eyes, my lashes hovering and reminding me of little spider legs. These mindless games made a hush of the noise of my parents, and soon enough their voices were nothing but a tonal sliding and buzzing.

Before long, my father pulled over at a rest stop, to “cool off”. He slammed the door of the caravan and shuffled right and left before he committed to a direction and walked quickly away in frustration. I watched the heat of his mouth turn into puffs of smoke in the chilled air. Without fail, one of the four of us always asked my mom whether or not he would return—we had little reason to believe he would want to. She always lulled and pacified us with her words of stillness. She reached for each of our hands and squeezed them for an alleviating moment. She prayed for us, then for my dad. I could never understand how she would pray with such intensity and deep seeded care for him, her voice wavering with unrest, but consistent with some supernatural hope. “Amen” we all said together, my brother Christian and sister Heidi red in the face with tears, and Lindsay and I back to back, holding up each other’s weight carefully.

After an hour we were still waiting, Christian had fallen back asleep and we had all left our spots and were climbing over and underneath the bench seats like they were caves. I laid still on the floor, settled my back against the curved edge of the trunk and combed the carpet with my fingers. My mom suggested we all get ourselves a surprise from the vending machine. She passed us each a few shiny dimes and quarters and we walked hand in hand, Lindsay leading, to the vending machine. Lindsay bought a plastic purple ring with a Carebear on the surface of the boxy gem. Heidi and Christian both chose gummy bears, and I stood there, always the careful one, wanting to make the perfect decision. A pack of mixed fruit mentos caught my eye and I quickly made the purchase.

When we returned to the car, I nested in the backseat amongst some overstuffed sleeping bags. I held the candy package in my palm, thinking about how much was inside and how long I could make each mento last—maybe even all the way home to Seattle. I thought about how much I adored the pink strawberry mentos and how I really didn’t care for the orange or the yellow. Buying an entire package was worth it, even if only two or three pink mentos were found inside. In the moment, all I desired was the tangy sweetness of the pink flavor. For some peculiar reason, my mind remembered a moment sitting with my mother just before bed, her reading the Bible to me with my head cradled in her lap. “If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish and it will be given to you” she read out of John 17. She explained this verse to me in simple terms—that if we follow Jesus wholeheartedly, he will give us what we ask for if it’s a part of His will. My child-like faith captured this verse, storing it deep in my mind, only to rise quickly when all I desired in the world was for pink mentos to emerge from below the foil wrapping in my hand. I squinted my eyes tightly and prayed, “Jesus, if it’s your will, I would like all pink mentos this time.” I really believed this could happen. I wanted to see if God could really do it. I started unwrapping by pulling a string of foil from the top. I felt like Charlie Bucket waiting for the golden ticket. I wondered if Charlie prayed before he peered into that chocolate bar. I kept opening, almost too afraid to look what was underneath. The first ring of foil came undone and there was one glorious pink mento, its waxy gleam coruscating with brilliance. My eyes widened and I reached to pluck the first treasure from the top of the roll. As I wrapped my tottering fingers gently around the candy, I pulled back slightly to reveal yet another pink pearl. Once more, I repeated and a third then fourth fell from the packaging. I began collecting them in my lap—placing them carefully just between my thighs, guarding them with the greatest immediacy. Suddenly, a zealous wave came over me and I ripped the side off the rest of the package. One by one they fell into my lap—each piece of candy pink—not a single orange or yellow. My jaw fell and my lips remained unattached for several minutes. I was speechless. What a wonder. Interestingly, I was more excited about God hearing my prayer than I was about the stack of brilliant pink gems in my lap just waiting for consumption. How did He do that? I thought to myself.

Before long, my dad returned to the car and without a word, we were back on the highway. He stayed silent the whole way home, despite my mom’s efforts to debrief and reconcile. Everyone became quiet again. We all just sat there for hours. My brother and sisters eventually fell asleep. Then my mom set her feet on the dashboard and laid down her exhausted head. Once in awhile, my dad’s eyes would catch mine in the rear view mirror, but I would look away quickly before he had a chance to speak something with them. I pressed my forehead against the glass for a second time, my dad heavy on my conscious, and I just stared. Instead of playing games with the scenery outside my window, I tried something new. I opened my lips slightly and in a quiet undertone I began to pray.

Ephesians 1:7
“In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God's grace”

Last night I sat huddled with three of my Young Life girls between piles of pillows on the floor for “cozy night” at our Bible study. We nestled ourselves in blankets and down comforters, drank peppermint hot chocolate, ate warm cookies, and talked about bitterness. Yep, bitterness. A great topic for “cozy night”. Talk about a dichotomy. The true topic of the night was forgiveness, but what stemmed from it was the theme of bitterness that so often rules in our hearts in place of forgiveness.

I showed the girls two video clips—music videos from songs that, in my mind, accurately portray the binary of forgiveness in the mind of our culture and forgiveness as Jesus Christ describes it (“Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others” Col. 3:13).

Lately, many unfortunate memories from my past have been resurfaced—a reawakening of the wounds that I was sure were sealed by this point, and along with them, a resurgence of bitterness. The ugly thing about bitterness is that it does nothing to “fix” the person you are bitter towards—it only eats away at your own heart while the other person smoothly carries on with their life, unaware. In dealing with my own bitterness and struggle to forgive, I have been acutely aware of the way our culture encourages us to harbor bitterness, bottle pain, and stay angry forever. It certainly seems the natural thing to do. The first music video I showed the girls, “Apologize” by One Republic (featuring Timbaland) honestly portrays the destructive affects of bitterness with the repeated message written in the lyrics “It’s too late to apologize”. The video has incredible imagery. Objects symbolic of things eternal keep flashing on the screen—doves, a bride and groom, a wedding band—and all throughout the video they are continually spinning on a circular wheel. By the end of the video, all of these objects are destroyed—the bride and groom catch fire, a vase of water that was “preserving” a bouquet of flowers turns black and the flowers wither. The entire scene is laced with the repetitive phrase, “It’s too late to apologize.” Too late. The dark ink of bitterness has already spilt and ruined all that it has encountered.

The second music video, “I’m Not Who I Was” by Brandon Heath, has a drastically different tone and message from the beginning. Where “Apologize” is filled with a pounding musical angst, the melody of “I’m Not Who I Was” overwhelms the listener/viewer with a sense of lighthearted relief. It is gentle, smooth, and soothing. And of course, it is filled with the message of God’s forgiveness contrary to the bitterness of this world. The lines at the closing of the song say it all, “Well the thing I find most amazing/In Amazing Grace/ Is the chance to give it out/ Maybe that’s what love is all about.” There is this overarching theme of our lives being touched by the wonderful bliss of Christ’s love and forgiveness—the only natural response is to spill over with that same love and forgive others who have wronged us. The result? We can look back in laughter saying, “Wow, I’m not who I was!” Those who have been forgiven much, love much (Luke 7:36-8:3).

One video ending in combustion, fire and destruction; the other ending with release and a smile. Beautiful art that gives sign to the power of living the countercultural way—Christ’s way.

I posted the links of the two videos for you to watch yourself. Be blessed!

Ephesians 4:32
“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”

http://youtube.com/watch?v=ePyRrb2-fzs ("Apologize")

http://youtube.com/watch?v=ZpOLyR8MwiA ("I'm Not Who I Was")