Finding Happy

Have you ever assumed God wants you to be happy? Or miserable? I found myself doing that just this week.

I'm at a place right now where I'm generally content with my life. Oh, all is not perfect - it never is - but by and large, things are good. I have a job that I love. School is about to start again in a few weeks, and I'm filled with the nervous anticipation familiar to all teachers in September. I have friends who love me. I have a good home. I love my church family. I love my horse and my dog, and my car is running smoothly. Money is tight, but God is providing.

In the midst of all that, a ribbon of fear wound its way through my mind. It's all going to come crashing down, you know. Don't get too comfortable. God's going to snatch it all away. Don't enjoy it too much, or God will be sure to take it from you. And there's just enough of an element of truth in that thought that I begin to entertain it. It could come crashing down. There are no guarantees in life. Jobs get lost. Loved ones die. Pets pass on. Cars break down, and rust destroys and thieves break in and steal. It is good to be reminded occasionally about the vanity of life. Soap bubbles, the Teacher of Ecclesiastes says of life. Beautiful, shimmery, dancing, floating soap bubbles that are here one second and pop the next.

But that's not really what I was doing. In those fearful moments, I wasn't reflecting on the fleeting nature of life and regrounding myself in the unchanging heart of God. Rather, I was casting aspersion on the heart of God. I was allowing myself to think that God is a churlish beast who enjoys kicking his children just to see them squirm. I was thinking that God is a harsh Father, who, if his children are not crying, gives them something to cry about, and if they dare to laugh, he'll slap the laugh off their lips right quick.

I'm not the only one who thinks stuff like this. I hear strains of the same tune often. "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans/hopes/dreams." "If you have two choices before you, the one God wants you to do is probably the one you don't want to do." "Tell God you don't want to do such-and-such or go here-or-there, and you can be guaranteed that's what he's going to make you do or tell you where to go." We even joke somethings, when we go to a warm place in the winter, that "someone has to suffer for the Lord in the sunshine". We seem to have this idea that following Christ should involve the maximum amount of suffering and misery, and that any spark of joy or delight or, dare I say it, happiness, means we're not doing things quite right, and we must be "out of the will of God".

Now, I am the first to admit that our happiness is not God's primary agenda for our lives. I am the first to state that there are loads of times when God asks us to do hard things and walk through hard trials, things that are uncomfortable or downright painful, things that cause more tears than laughter, because those things are important to make us more like his Son. But does that mean that everything must be painful and difficult, and that if we find joy and delight in something, it's probably not what God wants for us? God's primary agenda for our lives is not our happiness, and sometimes obedience means putting my personal desires aside. I get that. I don't get to divorce my spouse, or have an affair, or engage in sexual activity outside of marriage, or be jealous of that other person, or gossip, or cheat on my tax return, or cuss at the driver who cuts me off in traffic just because those things might make me feel good or make me happy. But does that mean that being obedient involves always doing the thing that makes me most miserable and unhappy? If Plan A and Plan B are both God-honouring, obedient choices, and I would really enjoy Plan A but would not enjoy Plan B, am I really to assume that God must want me to do Plan B, based solely on the fact that it's the thing I don't enjoy? Is God really that much of a kill-joy and a miser?

I don't think so. I think I'm crazy to let the thought cross my mind. I think that God delights in my delight. I think he created me with my wishes, my hopes, my dreams, and my desires. No, outright disobedience is not ok. I get that. But obedience is not always painful. There is, as Michael Card once said, "joy in the journey", and I just don't believe that joy is some over-spiritualized pretension that all is well even I'm crying my eyes out. Joy is not grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it. It's being able to see glimpses of good even when I'm gritting my teeth and bearing it. Joy is not seeking out the darkest, stormiest skies I can find, and camping out under them on purpose because I think that's what God must want, and then pretending I'm happy about it. Yes, sometimes we get stormy skies. Then joy is being able to find a single star in that dark sky, and being able to revel in the beauty of that star, because it is beautiful. When the night is so cloudy I can't find that star, joy is found in knowing I believe the stars are there, even when I can't see them. But it's also being able to appreciate the fact that sometimes God delights to give me a cloudless night sky, set ablaze with so many stars I feel myself falling into the vastness of the universe and straight into the arms of God. It's being able to appreciate and thank him for a job I love, a home I love, family and friends I love, a dog I love, a horse I love, for as long as he gives them to me to love,without fearing he will snatch them away without any reason other than that I love them. Joy is being able to appreciate that sometimes God puts me in a place that delights me as much as it delights him, and to take full delight in that delightful situation.

Does God want me to be happy? I think in our fear of the disobedience that so often follows an affirmative answer to that question, we have decided that not only does God not care about us being happy, he would actually prefer that we are permanently unhappy. Oh, but we have joy. To which I say, hogwash. I have met joyful people. They are happy. They are able to find joy even in hardship. They are able to hold happiness and sadness in balance, neither letting the happiness cause them to fear or deny the sadness, nor letting the sadness strip away their happiness. They know you can laugh and cry at the same time. They know that sometimes God asks us to do hard things, but sometimes the things God calls us to do are just plain fun. Some seasons are tearful; joyful people do not deliberately seek those seasons out or wallow in them, but they live in them with grace. Some seasons are full of laughter; joyful people do not make it their goal to pursue or stay in those seasons, but they enjoy such seasons to the full.

God is no miser. Scripture tells me he delights in giving me good gifts. Scripture tells me that if I ask for bread, he won't give me a stone. If I ask for a fish, he won't hand me a snake. My Father is lavish, extravagant, giving freely, loving wildly.

I plan on enjoying that.

And if the opportunity comes up to go somewhere sunny in the dead of winter, I promise to laugh with the Lord and soak up the sunshine.

Sixth-Generation Butterflies

It's late summer, and the miracle of the monarchs is set to begin again. The sixth generation is being born.

Every year, far to the south in Mexico, the monarchs begin to stir themselves from their winter sleep, and start to fly north. Each generation of butterfly flies a little further north, breeds, and dies. Their average lifespan is about eight weeks. Slowly, each progressive generation moves north, until they arrive in Ontario in early summer, just as the milkweed plant is beginning to emerge.

Four or five generations live and die. But then the sixth generation hatches.

And these butterflies are different. They don't live and breed and die in eight weeks. Instead, they fly south. Traveling at speeds of about 20 kilometres per hour (on a good day), they will travel distances of up to 80 kilometres a day, for days and days and days, until they have flown nearly 5000 kilometres all the way back to Mexico.

Hundreds upon thousands of butterflies will brave storms and cold, high winds, high wire lines, open stretches of unfriendly water, predators, and starvation as they flutter their way south.

Look closely. The clover is full of butterflies feeding before they tackle the crossing of Lake Erie.

They have no idea where they're going. They just go. And these fifth- or sixth-generation butterflies don't die after eight weeks. They fly all the way to Mexico, live four or five months through the winter, and then, in the spring, start the journey north once again.

The monarchs have always amazed me. Especially the sixth-generation monarchs stir my heart. To do something so amazing. To stand out so remarkably in my generation. To be part of the generation that "takes the land", so to say . . . oh, but that would be wonderful! Every fall, I think about the butterflies, and I wish I could be a sixth-generation butterfly. To do something beyond the standard hatch-eat-breed-die-in-eight-weeks. It sounds so visionary, so victorious, as I stand on the shore and look out over a stretch of wild, open water, with the winds whipping ferociously across the waves, and I realise that if I commit to setting out, away from the safety of the sweet clover on the shore, there will be no turning back, and I am afraid to go. It sounds so grand and glorious, but I'm not sure I have what it takes.

But I realised something this year that I've never really thought about before. Sixth-generation butterflies don't know they're doing anything special. They're simply doing what they're created to do. They are following the call of their Creator to fly south. Day by day, mile by mile, wingbeat by wingbeat, they are simply obedient. Not visionary, not victorious, not grand or glorious, but obedient. And their wonder is seen only because they are obedient to the end. In the ups and downs, in the bright sunshine and sweet clover, in the wide, windblown expanses of the open waters, they are obedient. They have have no idea that they are so amazing. They have no idea that a slip of flying tissue paper has no business flying across the Gulf of Mexico, or across a Great Lake. They have no idea that fragile wings are not up to the task of flying up to 5000 kilometres. They just do it, because God has called them to the task.

But they do do it. They fly. They beat those tissue-paper wings against winds that would blow them off course. They gather in clusters to fight off the cold. They dodge the predators. It's not an easy journey to which God has called them. They have to fight every wingbeat of the way.

But because they struggle inch by inch, because they are such unlikely travelers, because they are obedient, they become a miracle. We are amazed. We watch them, hold our breath, hardly able to imagine that they can survive. They do something hard to imagine, and we admire them.

And maybe that's the answer. Maybe it's not in the visions of grandeur, but in the day-to-day obedience that the miracles happen. Maybe it's in the everyday struggle to remain faithful to the task of that day that God's glory is shown. Maybe the land is taken because unlikely travelers remain faithful to the end to the call of their Creator, despite the opposition thrown against them.

And if that's the case, then maybe I can be a sixth-generation butterfly.

On Being Not-a-Mother on Mother's Day

I am not a mother.

When moms gather together and exchange birth stories, or nursing stories, or baby stories, I have nothing to contribute, except, perhaps, second-hand stories.

I have never been awakened by a squalling child at 12:00, 2:00, and 4:00 night after night after night.

I don't know what it's like to walk around permanently sleep-deprived.

I've never heard a child call me "Mommy", except by accident.

I've never watched my child sleep at night.

I've never sat up worrying, waiting, watching for my missing teen-adult-child to come home at night.

I've never watched my child make foolish, heart-wrenching, God-forsaking choices.

I am not a mother.

I am reminded of that often throughout the year. "You don't get it. You're not a mother." It's not meant in a harsh or cruel way. It's just a fact. It's true. There are things that I don't get, because I'm not a mother. I haven't had those experiences. I can understand in a generic sense, but I don't understand from personal experience. I can imagine, but it's just imagination. For 364 days of the year, everyone realises this.

And then comes Mother's Day. And suddenly, the whole world seems to want to pretend that I am a mother. They want to "include" me.

But I am not a mother. I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am an aunt. I am a friend. I am a teacher. I am a mentor. I am all these things. They are good and honourable and God-honouring roles, all of them, and I am honoured and privileged beyond measure to carry those roles. I love dearly the roles God has given me. But I am not a mother. And Mother's Day is not my day. Pretending it is changes nothing. Tomorrow, everyone will go back to reality.

Let's face the fact: Mother's Day is exclusive. It excudes every woman who does not have kids, and every person whose mother has died. The day is called Mother's Day, not Women's Day, not even Like-A-Mother's Day, and while I am a woman, and may even be like-a-mother (although I'm not sure about that) I am not a mother. My horse doesn't count.

And let's face the fact: Mother's Day is painful for many people. If I was not a mother but wanted to be, the day would be painful. If my mother was alive but absent, the day would be painful. If I had horrific memories of my mother (thank God I don't), the day would be painful. I don't think that having people tell me that this day is for me, too, would make the day any less painful. I know, in my heart, that this day is not for me.

It's not my day. I'm not a mother.

Is that such an awful thing?  Is womanhood defined by motherhood? Is my value defined by my reproductive genius? Am I only worth celebrating under the umbrella of "motherhood"? Am I only of value insofar as I can mimic motherhood? Hardly. My roles are important. My nieces and nephews need me, not to be a mother, but to be an aunt. My students need me to be a teacher and a mentor. My brothers and sisters-in-law need their sister. My mom needs me to be a daughter. My friends need a friend. Those roles are precious and valuable and unique. They are worth celebrating, not under the guise of "motherhood," but in their own right.

And what about the fact that Mother's Day is painful for so many? Is that such an awful thing? Why do we try to make it less painful by attempting to somehow include those who are not included? If motherhood is important enough to have a day to celebrate it, then the loss of motherhood is important enough to grieve, deeply and keenly. Isn't it? Grief is a good and healthy thing. It indicates the loss of someone who is or is supposed to be special, important, treasured. Someone worth celebrating. Someone like Mom.

Motherhood is worth celebrating. It is also a unique and precious and valuable role. No one can completely take the place of a mom. Others may fill aspects of the role, but they will never fill the role completely. "Like a mom" is not "mom". Motherhood is special.  So let's celebrate it.

So what if some of us cry? Tears are part of the celebration. Why can't we see that?

And so what if it doesn't include me? I'm ok with that. Why aren't you?