Dear Younger Me

"Dear Younger Me, where do I start?

If I could tell you everything that I have learned so far,

Then you could be one step ahead . . . " (MercyMe).

Dear Younger Me,

If I could go back and tell you what I know now, what would I tell you? How would I change the choices you made? If, by some divine power, I could go back and change the course of history for you, how would I do it? After all, I've learned a lot in the years I've lived between now and then.

I've learned that I can't carry the world on my shoulders. They are, though far wider than they were when you were seven, still far too narrow to carry that weight. I've learned that I can't change other people. I am not responsible for the choices they make. I can't take ownership of everyone else's feelings. All I have control of, and then only by the work of the Holy Spirit in me, is myself. I have learned that I am responsible for my own actions. I can allow God to change me, painful step by painful step. Pulling up those roots of sin and brokenness hurts like bully sometimes. And my feelings, in all their wondrous complicated mess are mine alone to deal with appropriately, before the throne of grace. Younger me, I could tell you these things so that you do not attempt to carry burdens not yours to carry on your skinny seven-year-old shoulders.

I've learned that perfectionism is a curse. Sometimes good enough is good enough. There is great freedom in giving one's best in the circumstances and then walking away. The world will not cease to rotate on its axis if the dishes remain unwashed and the bed remains unmade. You will not cease to wake up in the morning and the world will not hate you if you fail to achieve perfection. And if the world does hate you, achieving perfection is not going to change their minds. I could tell you these things, and make your life a whole lot less stressful.

I could teach you that tears are wholesome and healing, that feelings just are. They are not good or bad (although they can be good-feeling or bad-feeling), and you are not good when you feel good-feeling feelings, or bad when you feel bad-feeling feelings. You are simply human. There are good ways and bad ways to express those feelings, but you can feel them all. What is more, you can control them all. They do not have to control you. I could tell you all these things, and perhaps your life will be fuller, more nuanced, richer, more alive.

Or I could tell you about love. (Oh, not about THAT kind of love, younger me - I still don't know anything about that, sorry!) I could teach you that love is worth it, despite the incredible risks. Yes, your heart will be broken. It will be shattered into a million pieces, sometimes by betrayal, sometimes by death, sometimes simply by the stretch of time. But love is worth it. Because life is so much richer with love than when the heart is locked up into a cold, impenetrable prison, untouched by love.  I could teach you these things, and open your eyes to a world of friendship and kindness.

I could tell you that all those little things that make you, you are just fine. I could assure you that it's ok for you to read your stacks of books, to hide your open books in your desk, or under the table, or under the sheets with a flashlight. (Well, ok, maybe you shouldn't hide your open book in your desk, but I surely do understand.) I could tell you that your fascination with science and history and geography are perfectly wonderful, that your disdain of fashion and makeup and movie stars is fine,  that these things make you interesting, not weird. (Well, ok, they make you weird, but I could tell you that weirdness is something to celebrate, not to fear.)  I could tell you that your need to be alone is just as acceptable as others' needs to socialise are acceptable. I could tell you that you are just fine. I could tell you these things, and maybe remove the crush of condemnation and oddity from off your narrow shoulders.

Younger Me, I could tell you about Jesus. Oh, I could tell you about the One who loves you wildly, extravagantly, not just when you're good, but even when you're bad. I could tell you about how he created you in all your wondrous mad glory, and gave you gifts and talents and abilities he gave to no one else in quite that constitution. I could tell you about how wildly fond he is of you, how he not only loves you, but how he likes you. I could tell you about how he has hovered over you, always near (but not always obvious), always caring, always guiding. I could tell you of the tears he has wept for you, the laughter he has laughed, the joy that is his when he sees you. Younger Me, I could tell you how he is all you have ever longed for. I could tell you how he fills in all the gaps and holes and cracks left by life, and how he spills out through those gaps and holes in a glorious shine.  I could tell you these things, and maybe spare you years of crushing separation from his love.

Younger Me, there is so much I could tell you. There is so much I could change, if I knew then what I know now.

But I won't. I can't.

Because I have learned the things I know now precisely because you did not know those things then. There was no other way to learn them. Oh, I suppose others might be able to learn these things in other ways. But you're not they. And that's ok.

You learned these things one precious, painful step at a time, tutored lesson-upon-lesson by a faithful, faithful God who carries you. And to eliminate the lessons would be to eliminate the things I now know. And I wouldn't change what I know now for the world.

Because, ultimately, what I know now is not so much what I know, as Who. And Younger Me, He is worth it. So worth it.

So carry on. Gut it out, Younger Me. Make your mistakes. Feel your heartbreaks. Suffer your pain. God is there. He is teaching you himself, about himself.

And he is worth every heartache you are feeling, every tear you cry, every joy you feel, every dream you dream, every wish you wish.

He is worth it.

Borrowed Bravery

This is Caliber (l) and Raphi (r). They are paddock-mates, and they hang out together a lot. Caliber is the boss, and Raphi does what he's told. You can see that from this picture. Caliber has his ears pinned, and his head swung toward Raphi. That's horse-talk for "Get out of my way." And Raphi has his ears pointed toward Caliber, and his nose pointed away from Caliber. That's horse-talk for, "On it, boss."

Being boss means that Caliber gets to tell Raphi what to do, and Raphi gets to listen. Caliber goes through the gate first. Caliber gets to eat first. Caliber gets to the water first. And Raphi gets to wait. If Raphi didn't listen, those pinned ears would be followed with a warning nip or a hoof strike, and warning nips with horse teeth and hoof strikes can draw blood. Raphi has had his share of bites and welts over the years.

Now, Caliber is generally a pretty fair boss. When both horses know their place, there isn't a whole lot of jostling. It is rare that Caliber gets to the nipping or striking stage because Raphi sees those pinned ears and obeys. Caliber lets Raphi eat and drink and have his being without undue nagging, and Raphi chills pretty happily under Caliber's leadership.  They get along well.

But every once in a while, something will come up to disrupt the balance.

Like me.

You see, when I show up in the paddock, I become the boss. I get to tell Caliber and Raphi what to do, and both of them have to listen. And I tend to favour Raphi. Because, well, I love that boy. So let's say I have an apple. Under normal circumstances, Caliber would get that apple. He is, after all, boss horse, and there is only one apple. But because I am disrupting the balance, I pin my ears and swing my head toward Caliber, and say, in horse talk, "Get out of my way," and he, in horse-talk, says, "On it, boss." Then, in horse talk, I say to Raphi, "Come get the apple," and he, in horse-talk, says, "On it, boss, happily." My presence momentarily elevates Raphi in the herd to a position higher than Caliber's.

This past week, I was working with Raphi and the trailer. There was hay on the trailer, really good hay. All the horses wanted to get onto the trailer to eat that hay. All of them were loose, without ropes. Left to their own devices, Caliber would have been on the trailer, eating the hay, while the others stood outside and drooled. But I was disrupting the balance, so Raphi was on the trailer, and Caliber stood outside drooling. And then I watched as Raphi stepped off the trailer, pinned his ears, and swung his head toward Caliber. Boss-talk. Brave words from the low horse.

He did it only because I was standing there to back him up. He did it only because he knew I was the boss, and he was with me, and that gave him strength he didn't have of his own accord. He did it not because he had confidence in his own strength, but because he trusted me. He trusted my strength, and he trusted his relationship with me. He knew I wouldn't let him down. If I had walked away, it would have taken about two seconds for Caliber to move Raphi and get on the trailer.

Borrowed bravery.

Like David and Goliath and God.

You come at me with weapons of mass destruction, but I come in the name of the LORD.

Like me and the evil one and God.

You come at me with your lies and your shame and your haunting, horrible words that could leave me bruised and bleeding, but I come in the name of the LORD.

And the best part is that, while I cannot stay with Raphi all day, every day, God does stay with me.

Borrowed bravery.

On my own, I am weak. But with God?

I am brave.

Commute

The air is cool as I step out of the house, but the moisture in the air promises great heat later in the day. Already the clouds are building.  I toss my bags into the back of the car, and hop in. Another commute. It's as much a part of my day as brushing my teeth, and the city slides by routinely. I merge onto the highway and hit cruise.

It's quiet. No radio. To much to think about. Too much to pray about. Too much to see. The next hour is mine. My mind flows into it and fills it up.

My wheels hum over the pavement. The goldenrod hangs heavy, covered in dew, each drop catching and reflecting the slanting sunlight. Early-morning mist hangs over the fields and trees, silhouetting them in diffuse light. Sure signs of fall, these heavy mists and drooping goldenrod heads. A sure sign that the seasons are turning, and today is the first day of school.

My life has followed this rhythm for as long as I can remember. September to September. Fall to fall. How many times did I not start school, dressed up in my new fall sweater, only wake up to a day just like this one -- full of mists and goldenrod and thick humidity that blooms into full-out summer heat later in the day. I smile. Oh, there is something so new about the first day of school.

I pray for my nieces and nephews. Two of them are, for the first time, not going back to school. They're that old. I'm that old. I pray for them, too. It must be such an odd feeling, watching the world go back to school, and not being a part of it. Two of them are still too young for school. All the rest, like me, packed a lunch, grabbed a book bag, and started for new classes. New beginnings. So I pray for each by name on this mist-filled, golden-bright, fall-cool, summer-humid morning as the highway hums beneath my wheels.

Rows of corn march in soldier precision up the hill of a farmer's field. One plant follows another in lockstep up the hill, tassels waving like hat-feathers. The bean fields aren't like that. Their plants grow in tangled masses, obliterating the neat rows in which they were planted. How like the events of my day. How I wish they would unfold like rows of corn, neat and tidy, one following the other in precision, but so often they tumble about in a tangle like bean fields. What will today be like: corn fields or bean fields? But I am not there yet, and here, now, in the peace of my car, as the fields slide by, none of that matters. It will be what it will be, and God is Lord of it all. Breathe in, breathe out.

And so the miles roll, and my mind soars and leaps and wanders, and I pray and watch and wonder, until I hit the outskirts of town, and I cancel the cruise and dodge the construction, and wend my way to the school.

Ok, God, it's yours. Make it so.

**********

The promised heat of the morning has been fulfilled. It hits me like a wall as I open the car and toss in the books. The road shimmers as I pull back onto the highway, windows down, hair whipping in the hot wind that blows in from highway speed.

The mists have lifted, hanging now low in the sky in a thick haze made brown with the dust of the construction along the highway. But that clears as I leave the city and head back through farmers' fields, and the sky burns blue and bright, filled with massive clouds that grow higher as I watch. Their bottoms are sullen and grey, their tops billowy and bright. It is a big view, this open sky and farmers' fields, and my soul stretches to meet it.

A good day, altogether. A bit corn field, a bit bean field, but good.

A huge flock of starlings swoops over the highway. I want to bend low over the steering wheel to watch them in their dance, but I dare not. Too much can happen too quickly at highway speed. How is it that such a number of starlings can flit and dance together across the sky, turning in pinwheeling perfection, each knowing its spot, without ever colliding, but we drivers below can't manage that? Perhaps because they are focused on the dance, and not on the drivers below. Their movement is magic, visual harmony playing across the sky.

The rich sweetness of cut hay sweeps through the car. I breathe deep, and find the field of neat swaths, drying to golden goodness in the hot sun. An advantage, I suppose, of not having air conditioning, smelling that good, sweet hay.

I notice that the bean fields are yellowing, a pale mirror of the heavy richness of the goldenrod. Fall is such a yellow season, as if every part of the earth is gathering up extra sunshine to store it for the grey days ahead. All is yellow and golden and rich, and while winter is coming, I am not there yet, and here, in the peace of my car, as the golden goodness slides by, none of that matters. The richness of today is here to enjoy.

The clouds are still growing. I am in the shadow, but I can still see the edges, impossibly bright, rim-lit with the sunlight behind. The silver lining. Except it's not so much silver, as blinding incandescence, too much to take in, too much to look at. What does that say, I wonder, for our maxim? "Every cloud has a silver lining," as if there is some glimmer of goodness even in the hard times. But this is not a glimmer. It is a dazzling display of brilliance, a show-off shine of glory that cannot be taken in with naked eye. It is a glory that cannot be hidden by the dark cloud, a glory that breaks the cloud and reaches through with long fingers to touch the world below. And I wonder, I wonder if perhaps we content ourselves with silver linings and fail to see the majesty of the glory of the Sun.

By the time I pull off the highway, I am back in the sunshine, and the clouds glow pink behind me. I can see more clouds growing ahead. I am surrounded by storm, but as I stop at the top of the ramp, there is silence. No hum of wheels, no whine of wind, no scream of traffic. Just peace and sunshine, and the song of crickets fills the peace. The worries of the day break free and float away. It is what it is, and God is Lord of it all.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Home.