#ComeApart

Last night, at 3:00 in the morning, I came to a realization that I should always have known, but which has only now become a stark reality in my life: I do not belong here.

For my whole life, I have been taught Canadian pride. My grandparents emigrated here, with nothing but good to say about the nation which had fought in World War II, and which had freed them from Nazi oppression. They were proud of their adopted country. They worked hard to learn the language, to adapt and fit in. They named their born-in-Canada children English names, and Anglicised their Dutch names. They became citizens, and threw themselves into life in the new country.

I was born in that new country. I was told the stories about how the Canadian soldiers had freed Holland. I heard the stories of their move, their struggles to adapt to a new land, their pride in being Canadian. I felt that pride, too. And in so doing, I began to think of Canada as my home. I forgot that I am a stranger and a sojourner wherever I might be on this earth, in whatever land I might happen to live. I thought Canada was home.

No longer.

I forget no longer. I woke up in the wee hours of the morning to the realization that Canada is no longer home. Indeed, it has never been, but I had forgotten that. I had been lulled into a sense that it was home, and that I belonged here. I had forgotten that my citizenship is in heaven.

Oh, I continue to love this country. I cannot help but love it. Canada has been a great country, as far as earthly kingdoms go. I pray for Canada fervently. I pray for its rulers, and for its peace and prosperity, in the same way Jeremiah instructed the exiled Jews to pray for the peace of Babylon, and that Paul bade Timothy to pray for Caesar.

But that doesn't make it my home, any more than Babylon was home for the exiled Jews, or Rome for the persecuted Christians.

I will pay my taxes, as Jesus told his disciples to render to Caesar what belonged to Caesar.

But I cannot feel at home here any more than the Jews felt at home under the rule of Herod and Rome.

I will obey the laws of Canada, and submit to the authority of its leaders, as Paul instructed the Romans to do, so long as those laws do not go against the laws of God.

But I will not forget that Canada is not my home. Scripture tells me I am a stranger and an alien on this earth. Today, I feel that keenly.

I felt bitterly betrayed last night by a country that I thought was my home, but which is systematically attacking some of my most cherished beliefs: belief in protection of the unborn and the elderly; belief in freedom of religion for all, including evangelical Christians; belief in the sanctity of marriage, and the right to hold such a view without being labeled unCanadian and phobic; belief in the equality and rights of women; belief in standing and fighting wholeheartedly against staggering and demonic evil.  I felt betrayed, but I was not. Canada has not betrayed me. Betrayal suggests I belong, and I never did. And the kingdom to which I do belong will never betray me. My King is still on the throne, still Faithful and True, and some day, the leaders of every nation on this earth to which I do not belong will bow their knees to my King and proclaim him as Lord.

My citizenship, whatever my passport may say, belongs to the Kingdom of God alone.

To my only leader, Jesus Christ, died and risen, will I pledge my allegiance. (He, too, stood stripped before a crowd, but he was not admired. He was broken, bloodied, despised, rejected. Oh, his precious shattered face.)

For him and for his kingdom, I will give my life, if that is what is required.

His laws before all else I will uphold, even when that puts me in conflict with the leaders and the people of this land.

On him I will fix my eyes and I will remember:

This country is not my home. I am not home until I am home with him.

Oh, Jesus, come.

God Heals

See this beautiful boy? We are going through a bit of a crisis right now.

He and I have been in ministry together for six years now. He has taught me so much, about being a good leader, about patience and trust, about looking for the try, about facing fear and being courageous. I have taught him far less. And together, we have, by God's grace, reached out to hurting people to bring them joy and hope and healing.

It has been an amazing six years. Over and over, I have watched in amazement as God has used this big, beautiful, gentle and patient horse, and a far more stubborn, impatient fool of a human being to reach out to hearts and souls who are hurting. He has whispered to them, "Do you see how I love you? Do you see how I am gentle in my strength? Do you see how you can trust me?" He has used us to woo them into his fold. It has been a joyride, and Raphi is more than my pet. He is my partner in ministry, the door through which I am permitted to walk into someone else's heartache and sorrow, and that's a sacred place to be.

But now we're going through a bit of a crisis. Over a week ago, Raphi began shaking his head up and down in a most peculiar way. It was as though he were being stung on the face by swarms of bees. He got more and more anxious, shaking his head, rubbing his face on his legs, pacing, hardly able to stand long enough to do more than grab bites to eat and gulps of water to drink. His nose was wrinkled with worry, and his eyes were anxious and distressed. This was not the sweet, placid horse I know. What was wrong?

It seems that Raphi has a condition called photic headshaking. Somehow, sunlight triggers a nerve in his face, which then burns and tingles, making him feel like he is indeed being stung by swarms of bees. It's a reaction similar to the one we humans have when we look into the sun and sneeze. When he is outside, Raphi shakes and rubs and paces. When he is inside, or once the sun sets, or on heavily overcast days, he settles down again. It's a condition that is incurable and often hard to treat. Basically, if a horse has photic headshaking, he needs to be kept out of the light. Which means he needs to stay inside except when it's dark, or he has to wear a mask the whole time he is outside. One that looks something like this:

 It's a freakish thing. It makes him look like a monster or an alien. It covers up those dear, warm, liquid eyes. I'm sure he would not mind wearing it; he's easygoing like that. I know he'd rather wear a mask like that than be cooped up inside all day. But I hate it. He will have to wear it all the time. All. The. Time. Even when I'm working with him. Even when I have students who come out to work with him. Welcome, student. Here is your freaky-bug-eyed therapy horse. No, you can't see his eyes. He's allergic to the sun.

The irony has not escaped me. Here is a horse who is being used to bring students into the light of Christ, and he cannot stand to be in the light. Here is a horse who is being used to introduce hurting women to the Son, and he cannot stand the sun. I have to say that I believe there is strong element of spiritual warfare to this whole thing.

I have been struggling with the notion that maybe Raphi and I were coming to the end of the road. No, I am not going to give up on my horse. I believe that a commitment is to the end, even if it's just an animal.  But maybe I had to accept the fact that our days of ministry were over. Maybe God was closing the door for me on this ministry which has been, for the past six years, my joy and delight. I just didn't know, and it broke my heart. After all, how can I use a horse who cannot be outside except when it is dark or raining? Or how can I use a horse who looks so frightening, when I cannot see his eyes?

So you can use him only if he's perfect?

Pardon?

If you can use him only if he's perfect, what does that say about all the broken and hurting women you work with? What does that say about you? Can you use him only if he's perfect? Are you going to love him only if he's perfect?

Well . . . no . . . . No, of course not. I'm not that shallow! No, I wasn't saying that. But I hate to see him broken! Can't you heal him? Can't you work a miracle, and make my horse able to see the light again? I've been praying for a miracle! Am I supposed to just stop?

Can I not use that which is broken?

Well, yes . . . of course.

Can I not use that which is weak? Is my strength not made perfect in weakness? Is my grace not sufficient?

Well, yes . . . yes, of course, I know it is.

What if my strength will be made even greater in his weakness? What if Raphi can be more effective because he is so obviously broken? What if those who are broken can see in him an image of being strong even in brokenness, and learn to rely on my strength in their weakness?

I dunno. I guess that can happen. No. No, I know that can happen.

Well then, what's the problem? They'll be ok with his brokenness. Are you?

<sigh> I want to be. I love this horse. I'm not going to throw him away just because he's not perfect. But I don't know even how to work with him if I can't see his eyes. He may not be blinded by this, but I am.

Then you're going to have to learn to see in new ways. Aren't you? And maybe, just maybe, you'll become a better horsewoman because of it.

So I'm supposed to stop praying for a miracle?

No, you can keep praying. But quit thinking that this is the end of the road unless you get one.

Trust me.

I've got it.

It's under control.

Raphi may not be able to see, but I can.

Raphael. God heals.