Through It All, It Is Well

On March 12, my life changed. I imagine that yours did too, around that time, if not on that exact day.

I left my office for the last time in I don't know how long. I took my laptop, but I left my plants. I took my books, but left my shoes. I took my coffee but left my coffee cream in the fridge. I thought I might be coming back. I was taking my things in a superfluity of caution.

And now, like everyone else in the world, I am at home. Learning new words, words I never wanted to learn: COVID-19, pandemic, social isolation, quarantine, social distancing. Feeling feelings I really don't enjoy: fear, anxiety, stress, concern, confusion, uncertainty about the future, loneliness, longing to see loved ones, longing for a hug. I am learning, whether I want to or not, how to stay connected with students scattered across the province. I have been plunged into the world of Microsoft Teams, Zoom meetings, recording lectures (and discovering some of my idiosyncrasies as I do so -- who knew my voice sounded like that?), and rearranging assignments and schedules to accommodate social distancing.

It feels surreal. I look out the window, and the sun is pouring down and the breezes are soft and little green shoots are pushing up from the ground. The birds are singing. The spring peepers are calling in the woods. My horse is shedding gobs of hair. The whole world pulses with the joyous anticipation of spring. Yet, in jarring contrast that my mind can't quite comprehend, pestilence stalks. I am uncomfortably conscious of touching anything that is not in my house. I find myself withdrawing from people I love to maintain that supposedly-safe six-foot circle. I am hyper-aware of every twinge in my body -- that tickle in my throat -- is it allergies, or the plague? The two realities are so diametrically opposed to each other, I have a hard time reconciling them.

And yet, both are true.

I was walking in my backyard the other day, thankful I at least have a yard in which to walk, thankful I am not stuck in an apartment in China or Italy or Toronto. Last fall, I planted approximately 150 bulbs in the lawn in an effort to naturalise the yard. Those bulbs lay in the soil all winter. To be honest, I had forgotten about them. And the yard is pretty wet around this time of year. Ok, that might be an understatement. The lawn is ragged and muddy and mostly underwater. It looks bad. It looks hopeless. Every spring, I nearly despair that it will ever look like anything other than a mud-hole.

But as I sloshed through the puddles in my rubber boots, I spotted something.

Tiny little spots of colour were pushing their way up through the mud. They were tiny, for sure. Impossible even to see from the deck. Definitely not 150 spots of colour. Maybe more like 20 of them.

Nevertheless they were there.

They were there, and they brightened my day. They were not less beautiful for their lack of size. In fact, perhaps they were more beautiful for their delicacy, for my having to stoop down and study them. They were more beautiful because these tiny slips of colour were defying the mud and the wet and were pushing up into the sunshine and the warmth. And they delighted my heart.

They are metaphorical, these little spring flowers. In some way, they epitomise everything about this strange new world we're living in.

When I look at the news, I could despair. All appears to be bleakness and fear. It is like looking at my backyard from the deck, full of flood and mud. Hope drowns if I study the obvious. Fear rises if I spend too much time reading the countless alarmist posts on my social media feeds. My heart get sucked down into the mud of anxiety if I think about what might happen tomorrow, next week, next month, whenever.

But this is the world in which I find myself. This is the life I have been given for this season. I can fuss and fume because it is not yet sandal weather and I can't go barefoot across the lawn and the yard does not look the way I want it to at this moment, or I can pull on my rubber boots and do what God has called me to do this day.

So I'm donning my rubber boots. I'm washing my hands. I'm keeping my distance. I'm avoiding my family and friends. I'm staying home. I'm keeping up-to-date, but not too up-to-date; there is nothing I can do about the numbers, anyway. It changes nothing for me. I'm avoiding social media and its alarmism. I'm doing the tasks God gives me to do today, and I'm doing my best to live one day at a time and not to think too far ahead. I'm playing music that reminds me of the sovereignty of God.

And don't I find tiny spots of colour pushing up through the mud. Another day of health. Neighbours staying safely six feet away but wanting to know how everyone is doing, offering to care for each other, assuring each other that we're there to help. Brothers and sisters in Christ reaching out across distances -- checking in. I discover a new hunger in my heart for Jesus. I look forward to my Bible reading with a fresh awareness of how much I need the Lord. I dread the news, but I am excited to open my Bible. I pray more. I pray constantly. Most precious of all, perhaps, is that I am learning to trust. I am learning that if I turn my eyes off the news and onto Jesus, he holds my heart steady. I'm learning that life out of my control but in his control is ok. No, not just ok. It is good. Through it all, it is well.

Spots of colour pushing up through the mud.

And maybe that is the way of this world. The sunshine and springtime live side-by-side with the pestilence. The pestilence makes the sunshine and springtime more precious. The sunshine and springtime make the pestilence more bearable. They remind me that, as dark as this day may be, God is there, bringing hope and joy, steadying my feet and soothing my soul. The world is groaning in travail and my heart groans with it. The world is glowing with the hope of spring and my heart soars with it.

God is on his throne and it is well with my soul.

******

Here are some of the songs I'm playing on repeat. You may recognise some lines from them in my blog.

Robin Mark -- All Is Well

Bethel -- Through It All

Sugar On The Outhouse

It was 2001. Maybe early 2002. I can’t quite remember. I was in Papua, Indonesia. It’s the west side of the island just north of Australia, the east side of which is Papua New Guinea. I was there as a school teacher, teaching six kids whose fathers were pilots with Mission Aviation Fellowship.

It was a strange situation. I had no plans to be a missionary. I had no plans to be overseas. And yet, God called me, and here I was, in this hot, jungly, third-world place that was literally trying to kill me at every step. Germs. Malarial mosquitos. Deathly poisonous snakes. Wild dogs, cats, and rats. Water not safe to drink. Humidity high enough to melt photographs. It didn’t feel like missionary work at all. It felt like what I had been doing for years: teaching children and living life — but in a much more difficult situation. I wasn’t doing missionary work. I wasn’t winning souls for Christ. I was teaching small children how to read and write, just as I had done in Canada.

I was there for a year. I knew from the outset that it wasn’t going to be forever. I knew there was stuff I had to face back home. Staying would have meant running away from the things I had to face. In some ways it would have been easier to hide in the jungle. But I went home. I faced the stuff I had to face. And I never went back to Papua. I was not meant to go back. It was a season. Instead, I went back to school and became a prof at a fantastic Bible college. Today, I am doing what I have always been meant to do: to teach.

But I have always wondered what it was and still is all about. Yes, I learned a lot that year overseas. God used that year in Papua to transform my life. And I’m good at what I do today (I think). I love my job. But what difference does it all make? I wrestle with it often. Maybe I’m taking the easy way out. Maybe I’m hiding in the Christian bubble. Maybe I’m failing at this "being a follower of Jesus" thing.  And then I think, But I truly believe I’m doing what God called me to do. I think I am making an eternal difference. I examine my heart and believe it and rest in that for a little while, until the next wave of doubt crashes in. Really? You’re a cop-out, Marianne. You’re a wimp and a sorry excuse. Even in Papua, when you were supposedly a “missionary”, you just did what you always do.

The year was 2001. Or maybe 2002. I don’t exactly remember. One of the pilots whose kids I taught came to me. There was a group of missionaries in the jungle, in a village with no air strip. They were serviced by helicopter, but the helicopter was broken down and they had run out of supplies and their generator was not working. They were starving. So MAF was going to attempt an airdrop of supplies. Did I want to go? Are you kidding? Of course I wanted to go! So we went. The pilot took the bay door off the plane. We (pilot, crew, and I) flew out, circled the site, tried to figure out the best way to do this thing, and started chucking stuff out of the plane. It’s hard work circling a site just so and chucking the stuff out so that it lands in a spot where it can be retrieved. Several drops ended up in the tops of trees. Several packages ended up lost in the jungle. A bag of sugar landed on the outhouse and destroyed it. But most of the stuff ended up safe and sound in the possession of these brave missionaries who were isolated from the outside world for the sake of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It was a cool experience for this school teacher in a foreign land.

The year is 2020. I am sitting in chapel at Mission Conference at the Bible college where I teach. The speaker is talking about how he and his wife and another couple went into the village of an unreached tribe in Papua. They jumped out of a helicopter into the midst of a tribe of people who had never had any contact with the outside world. They built homes there and for four and a half years learned the language so they could preach the gospel. And many in the tribe came to faith. In fact they are now sending out missionaries to other people groups. They were rescued from the kingdom of darkness and brought into the kingdom of light. It was an amazing story, the story of real missionaries who do hard and courageous things and see dramatic results. Certainly not my story.

But as I sat there listening to this amazing story, feeling guilty once again for my comfortable Canadian existence, a thought dawned on me. These guys entered a village in the jungles of Papua in 1998. Could it be? I started doing the math. Four and a half years after 1998 is 2002-2003. It seemed far-fetched. Impossible. But I asked. In 2001-2002, I was in Papua, and we did an airdrop to a bunch of missionaries in the jungle. Was that you guys?

It was.

I was in the airplane that chucked the sugar that took out their outhouse. I was in the airplane that dropped the supplies that saved their lives.

I take no credit for any of this. If I had been responsible for that airdrop, the missionary I heard speaking this week would have died on the spot. I would have hit him, not just the outhouse, with the sugar. I was just there. But I was there. I was doing what God called me to do that year. I was teaching. Teaching kids whose parents were pilots. Pilots who served missionaries in the jungles of Papua. I was there. In being faithful to do what God called me to do that year, I was a small part of the eternal saga that was unfolding in that jungle village, and I had no idea.

And here we are, nearly 20 years later, I a Bible college prof, he a speaker at our Missions Conference, laughing about the sugar that took out the outhouse. And I know that I know that I know that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. Just because I do not see the eternal saga doesn't mean I'm not doing what God has called me to do. I did not see the eternal saga in Papua when I was there, either, but it was unfolding. I am not a cop-out or a wimp or a sorry excuse. I am following Jesus, doing what he has called me to do, and as I faithfully follow him, he is using me in the eternal story in ways I cannot begin to see. I had no idea that I was part of a story that would result in the salvation of members of the Moi in the jungles of Papua, but I was. I have no idea what parts of what stories I am involved in now, today, right here, but I see now that I am.

It is not often that the tapestry is revealed and that I get to see just a glimpse of the glorious plan that God is unfolding in this world, but how grateful I am that he gave me that little glimpse this week. He is working in his world and the gospel is going forward and I, even I, am playing a part in that. I'm not on the sidelines. I'm not a cheerleader. I'm on the field, and I'm playing to the very best of my ability.

One of my specialties is chucking sugar on the outhouse.

Clashing Worldviews in the Fitness Room

Most days from around 3:00-4:00 find me in the fitness room of Heritage. Sometimes I work out with various numbers of students. Some days I am the first to arrive, so I hook up my iPad to the Bluetooth speaker and select a playlist of the latest Christian hits on Spotify. (If I'm not the first to arrive, I am happy to listen to whatever else is playing, so long as it is loud enough to cover up the sounds of my creaking joints and groaning muscles.)

Now, I'm a cheapskate. I am happy to use a fitness room that doesn't have all the latest and greatest (no hydro massage table, for example) because I don't have to pay to use it -- not even the low, low price of $4.99 every two weeks. And I'll listen to an ad or two (or ten) to use the free version of Spotify, rather than pay the $10/month I'd need to pay to get rid of the ads.

And therein lies the clashing worldviews. The most frequent ads I hear are for Spotify itself. I wish I could quote the ads directly, but, alas, they always play whilst I'm in the middle of lifting a weight or running on the treadmill. Even for the sake of this blog, I'm not about to dash over to try to somehow capture the content of the ad in all its glory. But they go something like this: "People say that moderation is a virtue, but what fun is that? You should be allowed to eat all the ice cream you want. And you should certainly be able to listen to whatever music you want, whenever you want, wherever you want, without interruption. Click the banner for more details and start your free, three-month premium account now." The message is clear: moderation sucks. Moderation is for losers. (Or for cheapskates who refuse to pay. But they're clearly losers.) You deserve better. You deserve whatever you want. You deserve not to have to exercise moderation in anything, and certainly not in the music you listen to.

The irony does not escape me. I am hearing this message whilst working out. Now, some people might work out because they love it. I am not one of those people. I run, but it's not fun. Sore muscles are just sore muscles -- there is no "good" sore and "bad" sore, just the kind of sore that makes it hard to climb stairs. Basically, I hate working out. I would much, much rather curl up with a good book. Shoot, I'd much rather do most anything than spend an hour in that fitness room.

So, why do I do it? Part of it might be a protest against encroaching age. I don't want to not be able to do the things I can do today, but I know that the things I do today will become harder and harder if I don't keep myself active. Skipping a couple of days doesn't mean just picking up where I left off, it means actually losing ground. So if I hope to be able to do the things I do love to do, like riding my horse and gardening, I need to not lose ground. That's part of it.

Part of it is because I hate the way I feel when I don't get physical activity. I'm not talking about how I feel physically. The physical payoff is maybe nice, but mostly non-existent. I've never felt a runner's high. Running is just always hard. Most of the time, I basically hurt the whole time I'm down there. In fact, I mostly live my entire life with low-grade muscle aches. No, the physical payoff isn't what I'm talking about. I'm talking about how I feel emotionally. Maybe I get more stressed out than most, but by the end of most days, my nerves feel frayed and I'm wound pretty tightly. An hour in the gym unwinds me. It smooths my rumpled soul. It's an outlet for stress. But eating ice cream and reading a good book is an even better outlet for stress, and I'm in the gym, not eating ice cream and reading a good book (which I'd much rather do). So that leads to the real reason I hit the gym.

The reason that gets me into the fitness room from 3:00-4:00 most days is simple obedience. I have struggled with my weight pretty much my whole life. I gain easily. I lose slowly. And years ago, I was convicted that the way I was living was not honouring to God. He has given me this life and a task to do, and I was living myself into an early grave instead -- literally -- heart disease runs in my family, and a genetic propensity for heart disease and high cholesterol coupled with being overweight and inactive is a fast track to an early grave.  I was already beginning to show the signs of an immoderate lifestyle. I could have taken pills to fix the problems, but the pills caused other problems, and I knew that the real problem wasn't my physical heart, but my heart before God. I was buying the world's message that moderation was for suckers. I had completely set aside that whole idea about doing whatever I do for the glory of God. It wasn't even about my lifestyle so much as it was about my attitude about my lifestyle. I had to repent. So today I can't eat whatever I want whenever I want to, however much I want. I choose broccoli when I'd rather choose toast and peanut butter. I choose coffee with a little cream when I'd rather have the caramel macchiato with whipped cream on top (that one is easier on my pocketbook, too). I choose an apple instead of ice cream. I order a salad instead of the burger and fries when I go out to eat. I eat until I'm satisfied instead of eating until I'm full. I try to exercise moderation in my eating, and when I don't, the weight goes on quickly; one week of less than moderation results in gains. And I get myself to the gym.

Getting myself to the gym is part of that life of moderation. It is part of honouring God with my life. On the days when I'm particularly unmotivated and wish for any excuse to not go, it is the one reason that gets me down there. Oh, I'm pretty sure that if I think hard enough about it, my left eyebrow is too sore for me to work out today. I should just forget it and go home early today. And I hear that prick in my spirit that says, Really, Marianne? And I sigh and grab my bag and head down the stairs to the torture chamber fitness room for my daily meeting with discipline and moderation.

So, when I'm down there, running when I don't want to, lifting weights despite protesting muscles, feeling old and achy and tired, trying to keep my groans quieter than the music playing, and I hear the Spotify commercials telling me that I'm a fool to think that moderation is a good thing, it is such a clash of worldviews. Here I am, precisely because I am living in moderation because it is the right and good and God-honouring thing for me to do, and I am hearing that moderation is ridiculous and I can just "tap the banner" to cast off my shackles once and for all. It's a bit of a slap in the face.

But it's a good reminder, too. Because I've lived the life without moderation. I know that even though it looks alluring and shiny and tempting and free, it is actually a life of slavery. There is a hidden cost. The three-month-free promotion turns into a fee that I don't want to pay. And the life without moderation is not as easily cancelled as the subscription to Spotify might be. The shackles are tighter.  The fees are higher: it means sacrificing good health, losing the ability to do the things I love to do (my horse does not carry me as happily when I refuse to be moderate), and mostly, living with the knowledge that I am not living in obedience to my Saviour. Those costs are just too high. I've paid them before. I've had the subscription to that life. I cancelled it years ago. I'm not going back.

So, sorry Spotify, but I'm not hitting the banner. You're wrong. Moderation is freedom. That's why I'm at the gym.