I’ve had trouble with writing for the past year or so. It’s not so much a case of writer’s block as it is a case of a writer’s conscience getting in the way. Every time I sit down to start a post, I feel a sense of shame about not being the person I might appear to be on the page.
I’m uncomfortable with the disconnect between the daily frustrations I feel and the faith I profess. I don’t like sharing a truth from Scripture, a sweet story, or a life lesson on the same day that I wildly lose my temper with my own kids as we try to get out the door for school. Granted, sometimes I’m provoked. Other times I’m just grouchy and grumbly and altogether unpleasant for no particular reason.
I wonder who I am to write snippets of encouragement and devotional thoughts when I’m rarely able to put those maxims to practice in my actual parenting, marriage, and relationships? How is the anger, bitterness, or despair I express at home compatible with my own posts about peace, joy, and hope? At best I feel a little hypocritical, and at worst like a fraud.
And so I have settled into a season of silence while I wrestle with this issue. But I’m noticing something in this silence about God and his mysterious ways. The longer I let this concern simmer, the more I seem to run directly into reminders that his love and approval are not near as conditional as my own.
“The Christian does not think
God will love us because
we are good, but that God
will make us good
because He loves us.”
C.S. Lewis
Too often I forget that I’ve never been “worthy” of writing, regardless of how well my words align with my behavior. I’m worthy simply and only because God loves me and says I am.
Now, what does this have to do with thanksgiving?
Well, if thankfulness comes from a place of awareness, it has a lot to do with it. The most thankful, joyful people I know seem to be those who are aware of both their brokenness and their belovedness. Grateful people are holding these two things in tension.
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I love the story of Mephibosheth, the grandson of King Saul and son of Jonathan, David’s dearest friend. Both Jonathan and Saul are killed in battle when Mephibosheth is only five years old. While his childhood nurse is helping him flee, she trips and Mephibosheth incurs an injury that leaves him “lame in both feet.” He grows up living in relative hiding for fear that David might kill him (since it was customary for a new king to kill any remaining relatives of former kings who might have a claim to the throne).
One day David has his servant search for and summons Mephibosheth to the palace. He comes, fearfully unsure about what David might say or do to him. But rather than harming him, David invites him to eat at the king’s table and live as one of his own children (for the rest of his life!) so he can “show the kindness of God to him.”
Can you imagine Mephibosheth’s confusion about all of this? Wait a minute. You’re supposed to kill me, but you’re going to adopt me and my whole family instead?
This is an important plot twist.
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This week as we kick off another holiday season with high expectations for ourselves and those we love, surely it’s hopeful to remember the nature of the God we serve. We all come to our Thanksgiving tables a bit like Mephibosheth—with injuries, fears, heartaches, and doubts. But we’re invited to pull a chair up to the table and feast on the goodness of a God who desires—insists, even—that we be there.
We’re weak but still wanted; maybe some of us are wanderers still trying to write words of hope… all of us being made good because he loves us.
Thanks be to God for his incredible kindness. May we be people who can receive it and extend it this season.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.
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