Day 311

I sat in the leather chair in a room all by myself.

The paper smock crinkled over my skin.  And all I wanted to do was be home.

I don’t know what happened, but I was having a hidden anxiety attack by the time the anesthesiologist came into the room.  It was the five minutes before the operation that I began to panic, and the panic grew.  Unexpected terror.  I had to suffocate myself from crying, from sobbing.  It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life.

I remember it—a feeling so clear it still reverberates off the walls of my memories like it wasn’t really two years ago.  The older I’ve gotten, the more terrifying surgeries have become.  And I think it’s because when we age, as we age, our mortality sets in, in a way that it never could in our youth.  Youth held us in immoritality and impenetrability.  But age, oh, age, every year the golden gates are closer than the last and we know the inevitable is, in fact, inevitable.

I remember pondering all the shortcomings of my life in that moment, cradled by the leather chair.  I sat alone, the only people to surround me, strangers.

And it’s this feeling that makes my heart cave at the thought of my father going under the knife.  While much of life events are faced with family and friends, in an operating room, it’s just you.

Exhausted, I woke up early this morning to take my roommate to work.  When I reached my parking lot, I pulled out my phone and Tango’d my family.

There he was.  He was smiling, but his eyes were tired.  I wanted to reach out, to touch him, to hug him.  But from two thousand miles away all I could do was keep myself from crying.

And my mom was curled up beside him.  She, to, was tiered in layers of exhaustion.  Hair tousled, drowsy eyes, and a mouth that did its best to hold a smile.  Weak.  We were all weakened by the coming schedule of the day.

We talked for a  few minutes of simpler things.  YouTube videos of cats.  My upcoming trip in October.  Family from out of town visiting.  My OYC progress.  And then there was a pause.

“You’re going to be okay, dad,” I said, meekly.

“I know,” he almost whispered, looking at something far away, something I couldn’t see.
“Dad, you wanna grab mom’s hand and I can pray for you, for us...I’ll say a quick prayer?” I promised, trying to convince them both.

And he grabbed mom’s hand.  And I prayed.  I tried to keep my words simple, casting only love in easy language—to stay away from “Biblish,” as my friend called it last night.  Together she and my small group prayed I could away from overwhelming, eloquent Bible jargon.  I’ve been speaking it for so long I’ve quite forgotten how overwhelming it can be for an unbeliever.  And so I prayed, simply, for God to give dad peace and strength.  I prayed for mom that she would have strength to sit through the hours met with silence throughout the duration of the operation.  For her and my brother, to be there for one another, to find strength in one another.

And when I finished, we continued to talk.  Not so much because we had anything to say—we had long exhausted the remainder of our energy and the last of our words.  We remained on the phone because we knew what it would mean when we hung up.  Dad would be on his way to the hospital.

I just stared at my dad through the screen.  So close and yet so far.  It became an even stronger battle not to cry.  I knew I couldn’t, because I was the last not-crying member of the family.  If I cried, they cried.

And so I tapped the END CALL button on my phone, crumpling into a cardiganed heap of numbness.

I gave myself five minutes to pull away, out of my body.  I sat, still.  And even though the entire world was moving, my ears were met with the silence of the morning, and eyes sought out the digital clock on my dash, warring with time.

I replayed the short phone call, recalling my father’s slight smile and my mother’s tired eyes.

I am so tired, God.

So tired I just want to cry.

I just don’t understand.  How do people disciple people, be in small groups, be part of a church plant, volunteer their time to church, have a family, wake up extra early to drive their children to school, cook dinner after work, be a wife to a husband, lead small groups, meet new people, invest in new people, invest in the unsaved, maintain current friendships, have time to pray, make time for quiet time, and then add on all the other unexpected emergencies?

I’m worn.  I’m weary.  I’m exhausted.  I’m confused.

Is this where You want me, God?

So exhausted that I can’t do anything but lay in Your arms?

I hear You saying good and faithful servant.  I hear You say keep pushing.  But I don’t know if I can push anymore, God.

I’m just so tired.

Day 236

The moon was sad.

It followed us, the shadows of it forming a droop in the skyline above.  A sallow sadness hung above us.

No ordinary road we walked, there was laughter and merriment, but also wrecklessness and confusion.

For the first time as a saved soul, I strode down infamous Bourbon Street.  With every step my heart found itself deeper in a place of intrigue that was always eclipsed by anguish.

So much rich talent danced around us.  The street performers, the costumes, the music filled the warm air.  Its essence saturated the atmosphere and it all was indeed what fashions a night in New Orleans.

My eyes were wide with wonderment as I peered into each shop.  But it was when I saw them that my heart immediately fell to my feet.

They stood on the porch step stoop.  Smiling.

Of course they were smiling.  They were beautiful.  They were charming, I could tell.  Intoxicating.  But the depths of souls of the two women before us were overshadowed by their near-naked bodies.  Hostesses at the doors of stripclubs.

My pace slowed.  My heart stirred.  My soul panicked.

To each I wanted to run and metaphorically tackle like a mom distressed with a daughter’s outfit.

But though my heart continued to scream, I kept walking.  What would I say if I walked up to them?  I remembered not so long ago when evangelists preached to me.  I laughed.  I scoffed.  I dismissed.  I rejected.  I judged.  What would He have me do?  Preach about a God they don’t believe in?  How could I say it in a way they would understand how much they’re loved?

Fear had set in and my feet continued to move.

That was a really difficult night.

And this aching in my heart continues to deepen for the world.  My hunger to help, to save, is as constant as a pulse, but left unfed.

I have the passion, but not the words.  Not the absolute knowledge.  Not the Scripture memorization.  I have no sturdy foundation on which to stand should I approach someone about my God—our God.

For so long, I’ve made do with actions—letting my actions speak for me when my mouth cannot—and I’ve grown comfortable, letting His love for His children shine through me in ways that don’t involve formulating sentences, arguments, and reasons.  Not talking about my God has become protocol.

And lately I’ve been truly convicted of that.

Reading Revolutions in World Missions by Dr. K.P. Yohannan, an amazing book that you can request for free here, has really been hammering my heart.

He says, “There is nothing wrong with charitable acts—but they are not to be confused with preaching the Gospel.  Feeding programs can save a man dying from hunger.  Medical aid can prolong life and fight disease.  Housing projects can make this temporary life more comfortable—but only the Gospel of Jesus Christ can save a soul from a life of sin and an eternity in Hell!”

Those two women are still on my heart a month later, and I pray for them.  And I am terribly sad that I walked away without sharing the Gospel with them, or, at the very least, learning their names.

God, I have the desire to help “the least of these,” but am left speechless.  How can I be useful, how can I give You the most glory if I’m silent?  Please continue to provoke in me this desire to learn.  Place on me a confidence in Your Word so that I may share it with others.  Place me around non-believers.  Give me a heart that truly seeks to verbally share and not just physically act.   Let me be unsatisfied in this way and let me follow You to whoever You made lead me.  Give me peace about rejection and strength to keep pursuing.  Equip me, God.