Passing the Test

Tests are a really good thing, and I’m glad we have them.

Those words never would have come out of my mouth during all my years as a student. I did not like tests, and I got rather stressed out whenever there was one coming up.

But if you think about it, school is not the only place where tests are administered. In fact, some of the most important tests are not connected with academics at all.

Right now, the world is eagerly awaiting a vaccine for COVID-19, and the reason we don’t have one yet is because vaccines have to undergo extensive testing before they are declared safe and effective. Personally, I’m thankful for that testing process–I’m not interested in taking a vaccine that might do me more harm than good because it was not tested.

Every time I get behind the wheel of my car and venture on to the freeways of Southern California, I do so with a confidence that the other drivers around me have successfully passed their driving test (though sometimes I wonder). Likewise, what gives me confidence to sit in an airplane 10,000 feet up in the air is that the machine hasn’t been cobbled together in someone’s back yard, but has undergone multiple levels of testing to ensure its safety and functionality.

Tests serve a good purpose, by regulating and proving the quality and genuineness of the item being tested. The same is true of tests in the Christian life. Consider the words of I Peter 1:6-7.

In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. 

I long to have a faith that is genuine, even more than I desire a genuine vaccine for COVID-19. But in order for my faith to be shown to be genuine, it must first be tested. An un-tested genuineness may not in fact be genuine, no matter how convincing it appears.

How is my faith–and yours–tested? Peter tells us it is by “various trials”: Pandemic. Quarantine. Distance learning. Losing a job. Losing a spouse. Not having a spouse. Having kids. Getting sick. Not getting your way. Dropping your ice cream off the cone.

Trials, suffering, difficulty–whether tragic, life-altering circumstances, or the mundane, daily grind–are the means by which our faith is proven to be genuine (or not). But I appreciate Peter’s perspective in these verses, as he speaks of the testing process.

Peter acknowledges that trials are grievous and hard–“…you have been grieved by various trials.” And in saying that trials may be “necessary,” Peter implies that they may not be desirable. That’s a very honest perspective.

In James 1:2, we are told to “Count it all joy…when you meet trials of various kinds,” and in Romans 5:3 we are to “rejoice in our sufferings.” To be honest, I don’t think I’ve gotten to that level of maturity yet–I find it extremely difficult to rejoice over the things I suffer. So again, I appreciate Peter’s perspective: when he writes “In this you rejoice…” he is not referring to various trials, but to the gospel truths he has expounded in the verses prior.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God’s power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you rejoice…

I Peter 1:3-5

It is the mercy of God in saving us, the living hope we have through Christ’s resurrection, the sure and glorious inheritance waiting for us in heaven–these are the things we can rejoice in, even when we are being “grieved by various trials.”

The testing process can be long and grueling and full of grief, yet if the result is a faith that is proven to be genuine, all the testing will be worth it. The tested genuineness of our faith is “more precious than gold,” more valuable than gold that is tested and purified by fire. The trial in which my faith is being tested is the ongoing struggle of parenting a child with very complicated special needs (today marks her 8th year in our family), but through that testing, God is proving the genuineness of my faith–therefore all the struggle is worth it.

All Tomorrow Holds

Distance learning for our special daughter starts tomorrow. We’re not excited.

The whole reason we enrolled her in the school district was because we finally admitted we did not have the capacity to give her the kind of training that she needs, and we wanted to avail ourselves of the specialized help and care that our state provides for those with special needs. That specialized help and care is not designed to be given virtually through a school-issued Chromebook with a parent hovering nearby–it is meant to be provided through multiple teachers, specialists, and aides working one-on-one, face-to-face with our daughter.

So we’re not at all sure what tomorrow will look like. We know that with our other responsibilities and work, we do not have the time to be tech support, one-on-one aide, teacher, specialist, motivator, translator, prompter, etc. for our daughter. We also know that without those things, and with her particular needs, our daughter is highly likely to simply sit and stare at the screen of her Chromebook, disengaged, uncomprehending, blank. It won’t be distance learning–it will only be distance.

We do not know what tomorrow holds. We do not know what this school year will hold. We do not know how we will survive the added pressures and weight of having our daughter home 24/7.

Because the tomorrows we are facing feel so heavy and unknown, a line from a song that a friend shared with me has been running on repeat in my mind the last couple days:

You hold my tomorrow, and all tomorrow holds
You already know

When Jesus was teaching His followers about prayer, He told them not to babble on and on, because their Father–and our Father–“knows what [we] need before [we] ask Him” (Matthew 6:8). In that same sermon, He told them–and us–not to worry about tomorrow, because our Father knows what we need, and He provides for those who seek first His Kingdom (Matthew 6:32-34).

God not only holds my tomorrow, but He holds all that my tomorrow will hold. He knows what my daughter needs in order to learn and grow to whatever capacity He has given her. He knows what I need in order to care for my daughter, and He knows what I need in order to care for the rest of my family and my work and other responsibilities. He knows all of that, and He holds all of that.

If tomorrow proves to be more than I can handle or hold, He knows, and He will hold me, even in my failure or despair.

If the constantly changing COVID-19 situation changes yet again tomorrow, God already knows what that change will be, and He holds my life within His steady arms of love.

What does your tomorrow hold? Whether you are dreading tomorrow, or greatly anticipating it; whether it is shrouded by fog or shining in the sun; whether it holds pain or stress or fear or joy–you can be confident that God knows it fully and holds you securely in it. Rest in that reality.

The “Easy” Family Hike

When you put a 2-year-old wearing cowboy boots, a 6-year-old in sneakers, and a 12-year-old in slide sandals, together with several teens and a few adults, even a relatively easy hike is bound to go up a notch or two in difficulty.

When that 2-year-old will only let her teenage sister carry her and will scream bloody murder if anyone else attempts to help, the degree of difficulty jumps considerably. Especially when the hike is at least 2.9 miles long, with an elevation gain of almost 1700 feet, in loose gravel that is incredibly slippery. Add to that a 6-year-old boy who’s too big to carry (and wouldn’t want to be carried anyway!), and a 12-year-old boy whose choice of hiking footwear gave new meaning to the term “slide sandals,” and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

Or…just maybe, you could end up with a recipe for a truly bonding experience!

Our first outing together, on our recent vacation in Colorado Springs with two other families, was this supposedly easy hike. It was easy for the first 200 yards. Then it got progressively more difficult. When it quickly became apparent that the 2-year-old’s sister could not carry her all the way up the mountain, we had to endure several screaming fits while others tried to help out. Eventually, one of the younger guys carried the toddler while her sister got far enough ahead to be out of sight, and then the screaming stopped. But traction was so difficult in the loose gravel that it took two or three of us working together to get the 2-year-old safely up the mountain.

When I wasn’t helping with the 2-year-old, I was giving motivational speeches to the younger boys, to keep them going despite their weariness and sore feet. And the further we traveled up the slippery trail, the more I wondered how in the world we would all make it down.

Everyone persevered, and we eventually made it to the top. Like most hikes, all the complaints and travails of the climb are quickly forgotten in the delight of reaching the top and seeing the amazing views. We lingered for quite awhile, taking photos, eating snacks, watching the chipmunks, and clambering around on the rocks. It was worth it. We had conquered the mountain!

But what goes up must eventually come down. So down we went. And as I had imagined, going down–safely–on the slippery gravel was harder than getting up. But we made it, with only one bloodied knee, one very sore back, and one cramping calf.

It was one of those vacation stories that we will remember for a long time, with some bemused head shaking at our inexperienced optimism (We can do this–no problem!), and with much laughter over all that we experienced together. We had to work together–we had to trust each other–we had to each do our part. That is how the Body of Christ is meant to function, and there is a beauty and joy in that togetherness which God has designed us to experience.

Trail Markers

Having grown up in Oregon, I’ve done a fair amount of hiking, usually in wooded areas alongside a stream or up to a waterfall. On those hikes, the trail is marked out clearly as a dirt path winding between the trees and rocks and water. Occasionally the vegetation along the trail gets a bit overgrown, making it difficult to see the trail, but even then what you’re looking for is that dirt path beneath the overhanging vegetation.

My family just spent a week in Colorado Springs, and in one of the hikes that a few of us went on, to Castlewood Canyon State Park, the terrain was almost completely composed of large boulders. There was no dirt trail marked out for us to follow; instead, I had to learn a different means of following the trail.

On rock, the trail is marked by little piles of stones, known as cairns, so you move from one cairn to the next to find your way. When the trail curves or goes up or down, it’s not always easy to see that next cairn, so a few times we had to search a bit in one direction then go back and search in another direction in order to stay on the path. After awhile, though, my eyes became adept at scanning ahead for the next cairn, and we were able to move fairly quickly without getting lost.

Life in Christ is probably more akin to a trail marked by cairns than to a clear dirt trail. God brings us along this journey one step at a time, and sometimes the next step is not very obvious. But we have been given markers–cairns, if you will–to keep us on the right path and moving in the right direction. What are those markers?

In Galatians 2:14, the Apostle Paul says that the conduct of the Jewish believers was “not in line with the truth of the Gospel,” therefore he rebuked and corrected them. The Gospel is not merely the truth we believe for salvation, but the Gospel provides the boundaries–the trail markers–within which we are to live and walk as children of God. Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection, to make sinners into saints, marks out the path we are now to follow.

Therefore this is the question I must always keep before me, in the moment-by-moment decisions I face every day: Is this in line with the truth of the Gospel? How can I keep in step with the Spirit of God (Galatians 5:25)? On this journey of life, I’m not looking for little piles of rocks; rather, I’m fixing my eyes on Christ. He is the One who has gone before me. He is the One I follow. He is the Gospel that marks the path I am to take. And He is the prize at the end of the journey.

 

I Don’t Know

Will my daughter (the one with special needs) ever learn?

I was certain she would, when she first joined our family. I was still hopeful several years in. But now…I don’t know.

Will she ever think on her own, without looking blankly at someone to give her a cue?

I thought the consistency and stability of being in a family rather than an orphanage would give her the confidence to think for herself. I thought that if we refused to give cues, she would eventually catch on. But will those things ever make a difference? I really don’t know.

Will something as simple as wiping her mouth during mealtime ever stick in her head?

You would think that something repeated multiple times at all three meals every day for almost eight years would start to stick (do the math–that’s at least 10,000 repetitions!). You would think…but at this point, I don’t know.

Will she be able to do any task of self-care completely independently (and appropriately)?

Sure, she can brush her teeth on her own, if you count brushing only three front teeth (like she did at the orphanage and ended up with cavities in just about every tooth). Yes, she can bathe herself, except she can’t turn the water on or off, put shampoo on her hair, rinse her hair, wash her back, dry her hair or back, or hang up her towel (and we haven’t even tried standing up for a shower). Thankfully, she can use the toilet on her own, but often needs a reminder after 10 minutes (or 20, or 30) of why she is sitting there. Will she ever do those things fully on her own? I do not know (but I’m not holding my breath).

And what about me? Will I ever learn to love her as Christ loves me?

The enthusiasm I had at the beginning has long-ago been drained by the exasperation and exhaustion of caring for such a needy child. My love is so small and selfish and un-Christlike. Will that ever change? I don’t know.

Will I see past her slowness and dullness to the beautiful girl God has created her to be?

There are glimpses of beauty when a genuine smile lights up her face, or when she beams with pride over some small accomplishment. But so often that light is hidden underneath a blank stare or a stubborn defiance. And so often my compassion is clouded by exasperation and sorrow. Will my heart change? I don’t know.

Will I ever be able to fully rest, without feeling the burden of her care?

I know the right answer is “Only in heaven,” but heaven feels very far away right now. I’m so tired–tired of not knowing what will come, tired of hoping but not seeing, tired of trying but getting nowhere. What am I to do?

I don’t know.

 

The Endurance of Samwise Gamgee

In J.R.R. Tolkien’s epic story, The Lord of the Rings, the main character, Frodo, completes his quest to destroy the One Ring, but he does so not because he himself was immensely strong or smart or capable, but because he had a fellowship around him, and eventually just one faithful friend. Samwise Gamgee (or just Sam, as he is referred to most often) had not joined this dangerous quest as a close friend of Frodo, but merely as a loyal servant–his gardener. But the further they travelled along the perilous road to Mount Doom, the more Sam showed himself to be not just a servant but a true friend.

So it’s clear that Frodo would not have finished the quest, had it not been for Sam. Indeed, Frodo acknowledged that earlier in their journey, as he and Sam imagined their adventure being retold as one of the great tales of old: “Frodo wouldn’t have got far without Sam, would he?” (The Two Towers, p. 363) Sam’s loyalty and friendship were the bedrock of Frodo’s endurance to carry out the quest to the end.

But what about Sam? How does Sam endure, when he’s the one caring for–and even literally carrying–Frodo? Sam is the character I most identify with in that story, and I often find myself bearing the weight of other’s pain or suffering, in order to help them endure. So how do I myself endure in the midst of carrying others along this hard road? How do you endure when you find yourself in a caregiving role that drains your own strength and joy?

Tolkien characterizes Sam as a tremendously hopeful hobbit, and certainly hope was critical to Sam’s endurance. But the journey that he was on with Frodo was very long and very perilous, and Sam’s hope waned at times. One night, as he stayed on watch so that Frodo could sleep…

Sam struggled with his own weariness, and he took Frodo’s hand; and there he sat silent till deep night fell. Then at last, to keep himself awake, he crawled from the hiding-place and looked out. The land seemed full of creaking and cracking and sly noises, but there was no sound of voice or of foot. Far above…in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. (The Return of the King, p. 211)

In the stillness of that moment alone, beauty stirred hope in Sam. The beauty of that solitary twinkling star lifted his eyes above his miserable condition and pierced his heart with the truth that darkness will not win in the end. Beauty helped Sam endure.

As their journey brought them nearer to Mount Doom, however, there were no more glimpses of beauty to smite Sam’s heart with a renewed hope. Then endurance took a new tack.

Never for long had hope died in his staunch heart, and always until now he had taken some thought for their return. But the bitter truth came home to him at last: at best their provision would take them to their goal; and when the task was done, there they would come to an end, alone, houseless, foodless in the midst of a terrible desert. There could be no return.

But even as hope died in Sam, or seemed to die, it was turned to a new strength. Sam’s plain hobbit-face grew stern, almost grim, as the will hardened in him, and he felt through all his limbs a thrill, as if he was turning into some creature of stone and steel that neither despair nor weariness nor endless barren miles could subdue. With a new sense of responsibility he brought his eyes back to the ground near at hand, studying the next move. (The Return of the King, p. 225)

Hope only seemed to die in Sam, yet the essential core of his hope remained, and coupled with his fierce loyalty to his master and friend, that root of hope steeled his heart into a resolve and grim determination to finish what he had set out to do. Loyal resolve helped Sam endure.

So when the weight of caring for others is depleting my soul, and I find myself lamenting along with Jeremiah, “My endurance has perished; so has my hope from the Lord” (Lamentations 3:18), I would do well to walk in the footsteps of Samwise the Stouthearted. After all, Sam’s endurance is a small reflection of our Lord’s: Jesus’ loyal love steeled His resolve to carry out the will of the Father (Luke 22:42), and He endured the cross for the joy that was set before Him (Hebrews 12:2).

 

Mercy Awaits

I trust in Your love everlasting
I cling to Your unfailing grace
In seasons of sorrow and blessing
I give You my pain and my praise
Your undying mercy awaits

This chorus from Enfield’s beautiful song Mercy Awaits has been on my heart (and in my earbuds) lately. Though there is definitely blessing to be found in the midst of sorrow, it feels like I have been in a season of overlapping sorrows: a string of deaths of people I love, major transitions in my work and family, worldwide health crisis and isolation, civil unrest and economic uncertainty. And underlying all of that, the ongoing experience of ambiguous loss and sorrow that comes with special-needs adoption.

So I trust–God’s love does not end.

And I cling–God’s grace will not fail.

Because I am in Christ, God’s merciful kindness–His hesed love–is always waiting and ready to pick me up again. Much of my sorrow comes from my own sinful choices to try to arrange for my own happiness rather than bending my will to His. I need His mercy constantly. Even in the sorrow that comes not from my sin but from the brokenness of the world I live in, I am desperate for His mercy to carry me.

If you also, as a child of God, find yourself in a season where the sorrow seems to be eclipsing the blessing, then out of the depths of your pain, may the words of this song become the cry of your heart to the One whose mercy is waiting for you as well.

Out of the depths I shout to You
Unable to see Your design
I keep my contempt to comfort in
And swim in my sin-laden brine

Out of the depths I plead with You
Soften this hard heart of mine
Give me the joy to realize
You test me like gold to refine

I trust in Your love everlasting
I cling to Your unfailing grace
In seasons of sorrow and blessing
I give You my pain and my praise
Your undying mercy awaits

Out of the depths I hold on to
The faith that sustains through the wake
How soon I forget the gifts that You give
And focus on that which You take

Out of the depths I cry to You
Only on You can I call
Mercy awaits, You promise me
No matter what storm may befall

I trust in Your love everlasting
I cling to Your unfailing grace
In seasons of sorrow and blessing
I give You my pain and my praise
Your undying mercy awaits

I trust in Your love everlasting
I cling to Your unfailing grace
In seasons of sorrow and blessing
I give You my pain and my praise
Your undying mercy awaits
(c) 2011 Enfield, words & music: Ryan Foglesong.

 

powerless (a lament)

¹² Arise, O Lord; O God, lift up Your hand;
forget not the afflicted.
¹³ Why does the wicked renounce God
and say in his heart, “You will not call to account”?
¹⁴ But You do see, for You note mischief and vexation,
that You may take it into Your hands;
to You the helpless commits himself;
You have been the helper of the fatherless.
¹⁵ Break the arm of the wicked and evildoer;
call his wickedness to account till You find none.
¹⁶ The Lord is king forever and ever;
the nations perish from his land.
¹⁷ O Lord, You hear the desire of the afflicted;
You will strengthen their heart; You will incline Your ear
¹⁸ to do justice to the fatherless and the oppressed,
so that man who is of the earth may strike terror no more.
Psalm 10:12-18 (ESV)

Almighty God, I cry out to You on behalf of the powerless.
Father, I am outraged at the injustice and oppression that wreaks havoc in our land.
Many of those in positions of power are misusing their power to mistreat those without power.
And the pent-up anger of a powerlessness that has been unjustly—cruelly—treated again and again explodes in violence that only feeds the brutality of the powerful.
God, please bring an end to this vicious cycle of death and destruction!
Lord, Your Word says You hear the desire of the afflicted, and there are afflicted people on all sides of this chaos—afflicted people who are powerless to save themselves from the injustice that is thrust on them.

Father, I cannot begin to understand the pain of these who face cruel injustice day after day, year after year, century after century.
I do not understand the depth of their pain, but I can understand in a small way the experience of powerlessness. I have felt that.
And in fact I feel something of that powerlessness now, seeing a centuries-long problem that infiltrates every corner of our society. I feel very small.
But that is precisely why I pray to You, O God.
You are not powerless. “To You the helpless commits himself…”
You are the God of justice. Make Your power and justice known!

God, You see, You hear, You act.
Please open my eyes to see the pain on all sides of this divide.
Please allow me to hear the stories of the powerless, that my heart would break as Yours does.
Please show me how to act. But whatever action You lead me to, may it only come after much weeping over all that I see and grieving over all that I hear.
Help me to see and hear like Jesus did, in ways that move my heart to compassion and my hands and voice to action.
I do not want to remain silent. I do not want to cower in fear over saying the wrong thing or being misunderstood.
So I start with prayer. I begin with lament. “Arise, O Lord; O God, lift up Your hand; forget not the afflicted!”
Amen. Come Lord Jesus!

 

Loving Well in Pandemic

What does it look like to love one another well in such a time as this pandemic? One way we demonstrate Christ-like love is when we willingly limit our freedoms for the sake of others around us.

From the outset, we have been asked to comply with various restrictions aimed at “flattening the curve” and slowing the spread of this virus. Even if we ourselves are not in a category of higher risk, we are still being told to shelter at home and not gather in any groups. Wearing a face covering or mask has become the new norm in any setting outside our homes. Regular, mundane events like grocery shopping look vastly different now with limited numbers allowed in the store at once and markers every 6 feet for the checkout lines.

For we who belong to Christ, engaging in these (and many other) changes of routine is more than simply following the rules–they are expressions of love for one another as Christ has loved us. Christ’s love was demonstrated when He, who in His infinite nature had none of the limitations that we finite human beings possess, chose to not hold onto that infinite nature, “but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.” [Philippians 2:7] Then, as if that willing limitation of His freedom was not enough, Jesus “humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” [Philippians 2:8]

The Almighty God constricted Himself into the limited human body of a man, and then that man Jesus allowed His freedom to be constricted even to the point of dying. That is what love does–love always constricts. Love willingly limits its freedom for the sake of the one it loves.

We rightly celebrate this willing constricting of love every time we witness a wedding ceremony. But how quickly our own willingness disappears whenever it becomes apparent that our love for someone will cost us some of the freedoms we cherish so dearly.

• Though we are free to buy enough toilet paper for 5 years of quarantine, will we limit that freedom so that our neighbors do not run out?
• Though we ourselves are healthy and have no worries over catching the virus, will we limit our freedom to hang out with friends for the sake of the health of our larger community?
• Though we may have the green light to regather with our church family, will we limit that freedom in order to demonstrate our unity with those who are not yet able to return?
• Though we may be among those who feel less concerned about strictly adhering to the regulations for face coverings and physical distancing, will we limit our freedom by wearing the mask and keeping the distance for the sake of those who feel that concern more strongly (likely for good reason!)?
• Though we have the freedom to use our federal stimulus check however we choose, will we limit that freedom by giving some (or all) of it away to those who are faced with dire economic concerns due to the loss of their jobs?
• Though we may have increasing opportunity to re-engage with society as things open up again, will we even consider maintaining a stricter quarantine for ourselves, for the sake of being available to serve those who are most vulnerable among us?

In a culture obsessed with maintaining our rights, to willingly surrender those rights sounds very wrong. Yet not only did Jesus set the bar for us in this, but the Apostle Paul also wrote about the rights he had as an apostle, yet he “made no use of any of these rights” in order that he would not “put an obstacle in the way of the gospel of Christ.” [I Corinthians 9:12 & 15] May we also willingly lay aside what we could rightfully do, in order to love well in such a time as this.

 

Love Constricts

I’m feeling squeezed.

As I understand it, boa constrictors wrap their coils around their soon-to-be-dinner and tighten their squeeze every time their victim inhales, until it finally suffocates. I’ve never had a hug like that from a boa constrictor (thankfully!), but in this season of pandemic and quarantine, I’m feeling like the life is gradually getting squeezed out of me.

I’m sure many families who are caring for someone with special needs are dealing with far heavier and harder circumstances than my family encounters with our special daughter; nevertheless, the struggles and pressures we are facing with our daughter are very real, and they have intensified greatly over the past ten weeks of this quarantine. When she is home 24/7, then we are on duty 24/7–there is no break. My strength and joy are draining away–I’m getting squeezed.

Six weeks ago, a college student (who is much wiser than her years) wrote my wife and I a kind and thoughtful email offering encouragement in the midst of what she knows is a constant struggle with our daughter. She shared a section from a book, which included the following quote:

The lie that pulses at the heart of every act of idolatry and injustice is that we are unfairly constrained by our promises, duties and obligations—all of which are marks of our creatureliness, our dependence and contingency on others—rather than graciously freed by them. God-playing demands not just the chance to make our dreams come true but the freedom to discard our obligations to people who no longer seem to serve our immediate interests.

[In contrast, there are] …people with great power who do not use their power to grasp at opportunities to demonstrate their godlike freedom from constraint, or to discard obligations that threaten to expose their creatureliness and limits. Instead they have become more like the true God the more they embrace everything that has been given them, including their own and others’ limits and pain.   [Andy Crouch, Playing God, © 2013 InterVarsity Press, pp. 235-236.]

That college student’s encouragement was that she saw a “quiet faithfulness” in our daily determination to continue to care for our daughter–that we were (in Crouch’s words) embracing the constraints of our daughter’s limitations and pain, rather than discarding our obligation to her in order to break free from those constraints. I definitely appreciated her encouragement, yet realize now that those constraints are the very thing that is squeezing the life out of me.

Author Paul Miller would say, “Of course–love always squeezes and constrains us!”

The incarnation…of Jesus narrows his life… Love always constricts.

As Jesus went lower, he lost human power and control, resulting in an increase of suffering. (Of course, as the eternal God, Jesus always has infinite power, but he is clearly, “standing down,” willing to not exercise his power. He does that in his temptations all the way to the cross. He doesn’t avoid the consequences of his humanity. So the fully human, incarnate Son of God is constricted to the point where he can’t move his hands or feet because he’s nailed to the cross.) The same happens to us as we go lower, which is why we are so allergic to love. Maintaining control protects us from the suffering inherent in love…

We instinctively sense that love will narrow our life.   [Paul E. Miller, J-Curve: Dying & Rising with Jesus in Everyday Life, © 2019 Crossway, p. 131.]

The choice to love this little girl, by welcoming her into our family almost eight years ago and by caring for her ever since, has dramatically narrowed our life. And that daily choice to keep giving and caring for her, despite the emotional drain that comes with it, is the suffering that Miller says is “inherent in love.” This kind of love–a Jesus kind of love–certainly doesn’t feel warm and fuzzy! If we are called to love like Jesus, then our love will lead us into death like His love did. The life will be squeezed from us.

But just as the death that resulted from Jesus’ love was not the end of the story, so I have to trust that being squeezed to death by my commitment to my daughter is not the end of my story either. Instead, I cling to the hope that perhaps there will be great good that comes from my daily dogged determination to keep serving and caring for this teenage perpetual-toddler who squeezes the life out of me. After all, if the wisdom of the great wizard Gandalf the Grey means anything to you,

[Some believe] that it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. I have found it is the small things…everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keeps the darkness at bay…simple acts of kindness and love.   [The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (Extended Edition)]