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It is difficult to really believe that God is good when my needs are unmet. Years of prayer have come to naught. What is it that God desires me to do or be? How have I disappointed Him?

I don’t know.

For the rest of this week, I’m going to be exploring this topic.

Lets define need, first. It’s not a desire or a hope or a dream. It’s something in me, or that should be in me, that will enable me to do whatever I’m supposed to be doing. In other words, a met-need enables me fulfill my purpose and calling.

Met-needs, to God, are necessary to achieve His purposes. Besides that, met-needs benefit both me and others. When needs aren’t met, however, I’m unable to do what God has put me on this earth to do … and I’m unable to be like Christ, to mirror His divinity in my person.

So, why aren’t my needs met? That’s the pressing question. I’ve prayed about some of these needs for many years, after all. Yes, I’ve changed for the better during this struggle to pray, but … well, when needs aren’t met, I feel both incomplete and that something is desperately wrong. Either I’m in the wrong place/circumstance or there’s something horrible in me.

I have a huge problem trusting God. As I pray, a little voice inside whispers, “He doesn’t care … won’t do anything … it’s futile.” I need to see myself as His loved child — psychologically, I’ve been so love-damaged that this is difficult, to say the least. But, with God it is possible. That’s the point of these blogposts, to chronicle my flailing attempts to really believe He loves me and wants to bring good out of this particular evil situation in which I’m mired, as well as in the future.

I read online that when God creates a need, He is responsible for meeting that need. But I’m not sure God created these needs. Maybe they’ve been conjured up by my own mind? Maybe they seem rational but are not? Maybe they’re implanted into me by evil forces of which I’m unaware? And, too, maybe God gave me these needs. Again, I don’t know.

I need to believe — this is a real need, certainly — that God loves me, has forgiven me, and will help me serve Him more effectively. The issue is Trust. Trusting God. NEEDING TO TRUST.

I can think of two times that God miraculously intervened to meet my needs. One was in a traveling situation during which everything seemed to go wrong, yet miraculously I walked by thousands of people and was the last person to board the plane. Another was more recent, where God definitely answered my pleas to be vindicated … I was, and am, innocent.

God expects me to do my part to meet needs. He usually doesn’t do it for me for God hates lazy Christians. Thankfully, laziness is not a character problem for me — I’m far too driven to be lazy — so He’s probably pressing down on the brakes which is why this feels like limbo or a long wait for seasons of life to change so I can get going: I’m EAGER to move beyond this place; EAGER to move to another country; EAGER to figure out where I fit, if anywhere.

Many others are like me in this big world — over-educated, passionate about high culture, eager to talk to others who read incessantly, and utterly devoted to faith and God’s calling. I want to know a few of these people.

Is this a need or a desire?

God-determined needs may be so fundamental that they’re a bit like breathing or eating, not like finding like-minded people. Needs could be for shelter and food and stuff like this, not for literate, Oxbridge/Ivy friends. But the desire to know people like me, which strikes into my core, has risen to the level of need. It feels like a need and until convinced otherwise, I’m going to pray for it as if it is a need.

I pray to minister to like-minded people. To truly love them. To be loyal and service-bound. I should be this way with everyone, but — and this is where the need becomes fuzzily desirous — I’d like to be contented, happy and challenged, too. I want people in my life I can trust, who understand me and that I understand. People of my class. People of my faith. People of my passions.

This could be just a very strong desire. Now, God could meet desires even if they don’t quite rise to the level of need. Needs often seem to be character driven — I need His guidance; His strength to endure this current unmerited trial; His wisdom to meet the challenges before me and to overcome them, one by one.

Think about Jesus walking on the water toward the disciples in that famous biblical pericope. Then, the disciples were panicking during a storm; they thought they would drown. Jesus neither assured them by saying something like, “Fear not, you’ll be okay …” He never comforted them. He didn’t run when He saw their panic. Instead, Jesus strolled along the top of the water, taking His own sweet time, not in a hurry, not worried, and not concerned about their widdle fweelings. He must have known He had everything under control. It was all about the timing.

The disciples thought they needed God NOW NOW NOW or they would drown, but Jesus decided they could wait.

This is where trust comes in. God knows how long I can last in the boat without drowning under the waves. He seems to toe that limit. I’m to trust Him and assume that He knows what He’s doing. I’m also to keep rowing and wait for Him to provide the solution AS I ROW. I’m to row and wait. Rowing is the only thing I can think of doing, after all. Rowing and praying.

Right now, I’m too worried about surviving. Yet, I know Jesus is with me. I’m learning to trust Him. Jesus may not walk on the water toward me, but He’ll get here in time. When I can really believe this, I will sleep at night without panic attacks, which I’ve had for the first time in my life.

This storm will end.

—

It will end when I learn to trust Him in ways much greater than I do now. It will end when I learn to love Him and accept His love for me. It will end when whatever God is doing — His purposes elude me! — is accomplished.

Here is where prevailing prayer kicks in. I am praying passionately and with all the faith I can muster to be delivered from this situation however God chooses to save me. I believe I’m obeying what I know to be His will both specific in this situation and general. I have made a vow, like Hannah, that God can have the rest of my life, even to the point of martyrdom. I want Him to pick up the tattered threads on the ground scattered here and there, and re-weave them into something beautiful and wearable. I want more of God in my life. To know him intimately. I am asking God to lead and guide all my decisions, wee and big.

—

Too, I’ve decided to harangue God until He answers my prayers, to pray until I drop. These are prevailing/winning/overcoming prayers that will not end until I prevail, win and overcome.

Abuse is a horrible thing particularly when it’s done by parents. The memories never die … the pain and consequence never disappears. I shouldn’t say “never” because this is not true. In my case, I’ve worked through it. Slowly.

When one sibling is the beneficiary of another sibling’s abuse, yet denies it, it’s a gut-punch. This happened to me. My sibling was adored and protected by her mother — I was thrown to the dogs without either parent’s love. She’s unable to see this, probably because it throws into stark relief how much she gained and how much I lost. At this point, it doesn’t matter. I’m over it.

I can remember, though, when my mother died. I was relieved. The woman who had inflicted such pain on me was gone. I was free! It felt, strangely, like a huge load had been lifted off my shoulders. Yes, I was free from her manipulation and abuse. Finally.

Recently, I have been struck by the idea that I must forgive her because God has forgiven me. Besides that, if I don’t forgive her, God has reasons to hold back His blessings or, worse yet, not forgive me. Since I am a sinner, I need His forgiveness not His wrath.

For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins. 

So, alone, by myself, I’ve been praying to forgive and really mean it. It’s very very difficult to forgive someone who denies my abuse. But it must be done.

Let me share with you the stages of forgiveness.

First, I became aware, slowly, that I needed to forgive her, not because she merits it — she doesn’t — but because I want to do the right thing, to honor my Father and behave like a true Christian. Any psychological benefits of forgiveness do not matter to me. It’s the spiritual benefits I crave, a closeness to God that only comes to those who have short accounts with others.

Second, I realized I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t forgive her. The pain was too deep. To me, she’s my mother re-incarnated, so the relief I had felt when my mother died simply stopped when I tried to forgive. The torment returned. The horrible memories flooded my mind. I prayed and prayed to be relieved of these memories but they didn’t disappear. If anything, they intensified. At some point I just gave up. I told God I was unable to forgive her, so it was up to Him to either change me or change the circumstances.

Third, amazingly, He began to change me! He started by reminding me, not too subtly, that forgiveness isn’t an option but a command. So much of the Christian life is commanded, in fact. Including forgiveness. So, God raised the stakes. He commanded me. I had no choice but to give in … but how? I couldn’t do it.

Fourth, He began to show me things about my past that weren’t all bad. Before this, however, I had to recall the horrors and deal with them, one by one. When I had thought of my mother, I remembered her jealousy and how she liked to dig her into my skull, then laugh. I remembered her shriek. I remembered her sabotaging my success. She felt entitled to all attention and deeply resented the fact that, frankly, I was smarter, better educated, better looking, more athletic and all-around more likable than she ever was. This is not bragging. I’ve been beat down by life and am not this way now. But I was this way. I had to hide success in front of her and amplify any failure, which she loved to see.

When I applied to Harvard and Yale, mother told me not to tell anyone because I’d never get in and she didn’t want to be embarrassed. So, for the most part, I told only a few close friends. One of my friend’s mum was like a mum to me, so I told her. She said, confidently, that I’d be accepted and love it there. Sure enough, I was accepted into both universities with full academic scholarships to boot. But the joy of being accepted was tempered by the fear of what my mother would do to me! I began to vomit and actually considered not going because I feared more abuse.

My friend’s mum helped me tremendously. She told me that I had to tell my mother that I was accepted, and too, I had to go.

I vividly remember telling my mother about these universities. She spun around, stared at me and started screaming, “I‘m the smart one in this family, not you … you don’t deserve anything … you must have tricked them … it’s not fair … you are so bad … I hate you.” I stood there and took her verbal abuse, then silently walked out. This infuriated her. She stood in the doorway, grabbed a wadded sock and threw it at me.

“You deserve to be hit,” she said.

And then it was over. I left the next day even though it would be a few months before the academic term began. I simply couldn’t live at her home any longer.

—

When she died, I was so very grateful; I praised God effusively. But she didn’t really die, I found out, because she lived on in the form of her daughter, the one she loved, not me. My sibling is just like her. She even looks like her. Her voice and nervous laugh is just like mother’s. The last time I saw her, many years ago, I was struck by her walk — she tilted forward and walked determinedly like her mother. Their eyes are the same color. Her hair, also similar. The shape of their bodies is uncannily identical. Their interests are the same — they both had the same major in college. They had similar jobs. Similar interests. Similar outlooks. Similar insecurities. This makes perfect sense since they had been together all the time as if tethered at the hip: my sister’s entire childhood and much of her adulthood was dominated by her mother.

But now, I have to forgive this sister. Forgive the abuse she continues to deny. Forgive how she took advantage of my pain over and over and over. Forgive how she claims to be a Christian yet has no capacity for forgiveness. Forgive her mocking of what mother did to me, her assumption that I somehow deserved it.

Folks, this is hard. Really hard.

But I’m doing it. Alone. If she ever comes back into my life, which I doubt as we’re hiking down very different paths, I’ll tell her that I had struggled to forgive her but finally did it. She’ll assume, I’m certain, that she’s perfect therefore needs no forgiveness; she has done no wrong. She’ll blame the past on me. Whatever. That’s okay. My forgiveness of her is rooted in God’s command and God’s enablement, not her response. Finally, I’m free from her as well.

Free at last.

So, the fifth stage of forgiveness is actually doing it. And then, not looking back but setting my face like a flint, forward ever forward, walking toward the rising sun, and away from the horrors of childhood. I have forgiven her. It’s over. Done.

I obeyed God and am finally free.

When there is disagreement between us, I have learned to defer. I do what my father says to do. Just yesterday there was a serious disagreement. I wanted peace — he wanted justice.

So, it’s time for prayer. Will you pray with me?

Lord, be with me. Be with my little family of three. Lord, you know our innocence, intention and love for each other. You commend these things for You are God, a God of love and goodness, justice and mercy. AMEN

I ask to be protected from my accusers. Deliver me from their false presuppositions and self-told lies. If I have done any wrong, forgive me, for I always want Your gracious favour. Lord, I know that I must forgive those who are trying to harm us. Your Son, Jesus, says that I must forgive others so You will forgive me. How can I pray, “Father forgive me,” if I don’t forgive others? I am angry and bitter at what has been done to us. Yet, Lord, I know that this bitterness is not of You. Thus, I must ask your forgiveness and help in digging out this root of bitterness from my inner person. AMEN

I pray for K’s faith, that he doesn’t turn against You because of this injustice. Let him grow stronger and wiser, not weaker and more angry. Let him see that You have this in the palm of your hand, and that you could have intervened to protect us … but didn’t. Your reasons defy explanation, yet I pray your will be done. Please, please protect his tender faith. Build him up in the Spirit and don’t let him be torn away from You. AMEN.

Lord, this morning during devotions I read this in Second Chronicles:

The battle is not yours.

Thank you. I needed to hear this for the battle is Yours, God, not mine. You protect the weak, humble and impoverished. You side with the victims. I don’t need to fight this fight for you are bound to fight for me. You are my Father. My heavenly father. I can put myself in Your hands trusting you to care for me and bring good out of evil. AMEN

He brought me forth also into a large place: He delivered me because He delighted in me.

You are the large place. After pain, suffering, humiliation, accusation, targeting, pursuit by enemies … David was brought to You, the large place. AMEN

Lord, may the same happen this morning. When the accuser comes, give me the strength and the words to speak to her or them. Let me do the right thing, be honest and forthright, and leave the consequences to You. AMEN.

Obey God and leave the consequences to Him. This is a good maxim in all circumstances, no? These may be particularly trying circumstances, but God’s maxims always apply to all situations at all times.

Just as I obey my earthly father because He is the assigned one to provide covering for me, I shall obey my heavenly Father who has provided eternal life, shelter and the promise of justice in the end. I can forgive because God has this! He is in control of all things. He is sovereign. And even in these horrible circumstances, God is working for my good and the good of my father and son.

Thank you, Lord. Thank you for your deliverance. Thank you for your love. Keep growing me so when this finally ends, I will be more worthy and able to serve You. Protect me, Lord. Bring me to a large place. Set me free to live, finally, after so many years of servitude, isolation and silence. I love you, Father. AMEN.

God’s purpose in suffering is a theme that I’ll come back to repeatedly. It’s a “faith-inhibitors” that cycles in and out of my mind.

For suffering to be good, which the Bible says it is — we are to rejoice in our suffering, after all! — it must be purposeful. That means there’s a reason for our suffering, a good reason. We must get something out of it that makes it worthwhile.

So, what am I getting out of this trial? I don’t have a definitive answer to that question.

I know that suffering has revealed weaknesses in my character and faith which must be confronted and dealt with. Many of these weaknesses are beyond my capacity to fix. God has to deal with them for me because I cannot deal with them for myself.

Here are six weaknesses that this trial has revealed to me.

First, I am weak when my prayers are insipid or fearful. I know I’m praying to the living God and yet it doesn’t often feel like God is listening or caring. Prayer should be a conversation, not a monologue. But when I get quiet so He can respond, I don’t often hear His voice. Instead, I hear my own mind jostling and scurrying about, as it always does, not the Divine mind of God. So, one of my weaknesses is effective and efficacious praying. I need to pray better. More effectively. More often.

A second weakness is this — I rarely know God’s will in a suffering sort of situation. Since prayers aligned with His will are answered, the remainder must be “iffy.” So, it’s important to know what God thinks about things because what He wants is what I should be praying for.

A third weakness is glaringly obvious — I still do not have a spiritual gift. It feels like every Christian I know has identified their gift except me. Perhaps I do not pray effectively or know God’s will because I have not been able to transcend earth-bound thinking. I don’t seem to have that extra dollop of spirituality. Those of you outside the faith won’t understand this or why it’s so important.

I also need to know God more intimately, to be more aware of Him, not me. There’s no place for self-awareness in the Christian life. None. It’s all about Jesus. Intimacy is predicated on two behaviours — first, truly believing what He says about Himself in His word, the Bible, and second, having extra-biblical experiences such as feeling God’s love.

A fifth weakness is primarily intellectual: I doubt His word, at times, because I have been over-educated and am somewhat of an expert in hermeneutical theory. This has made reading the Bible devotionally very difficult.

Knowing and believing God’s promises seems more crucial, now, than it had before this crisis. Clinging to the promise that God would vindicate and deliver me means I must actually believe this will happen, that God will answer my prayer. Believing that God will protect me, for example, is predicated on God’s general character as revealed in scripture as well as His specific promises. So, that’s my sixth weakness, a biggie — I waffle on His promises.

God just used suffering, pain and injustices to get me to cling to Him more tenaciously. When in pain, the normal thing to do is to try to figure out how to stop that pain, right? Well, this suffering has done this. I still beg God for this trial to end, but I’m also digging into the Bible and trying to pray better. I’m trying to seek God qua God, that is God for Himself, not for what He will do for me. Selfless worship in a time of suffering is very, very difficult, yet this is what God is asking me to do.

I must seek His face, not His hand.

I know many of you will instantly respond to this title by denying it. You sincerely believe that God does not make Christians suffer.

“God doesn’t give pain,” you say. “God is good so suffering must be the consequence of the fall, not His will; suffering must be an outgrowth of weak faith because we know that He only wants good things for his children … never a serpent!”

But there are plenty of other verses in the Bible in which God doesn’t just PERMIT suffering — a verbal sleight of hand — but CAUSES or CREATES suffering. He limits our suffering, however, to that what we can withstand. The problem here, as I see it, is that suffering builds character just as lifting weights builds muscle, and that once we have suffered, we have been strengthened and therefore can withstand even more suffering. God raises the bar. Our next trial will be more painful. It never seems to end.

Suffering is cyclical. It comes, wanes and comes again. Like a tide, it overwhelms the shore and then, without your conscious awareness, slowly recedes. God has purposes in our suffering though we may not ever know what those purposes are. Some people say that we can induce our own suffering by doing stupid things. I agree, but who would want that? Normal people try to avoid suffering. No one I have ever known enjoyed suffering.

—

I have been in a situation for about a month, now, in which my suffering has been particularly intense. It’s a circumstance I did not cause and do not deserve, but this matters not. What matters is that God has NOT taken me out of the crucible. I’m still there. Burning off dross. Building character. Begging to be delivered and for justice.

There’s no guarantee in the Bible that I’ll end life on a high note. The stoning of Stephen is instructive in this regard. Stephen was a good man, honest and trustworthy. which is why he was in charge of the social welfare programs of the church. He was the guy who took care of the elderly, orphans and widows and distributed food to those who were hungry. When he was dragged by the government to be persecuted and maligned in court, the Holy Spirit came powerfully upon him; he then spoke eloquently about apostates, the powerful and those who persecute others without remorse.

When he was done giving this fantastic speech, did the Spirit protect him from those who wanted to harm him? Were armies of angels charged with surrounding him and protecting him?

No.

Stephen was murdered. Brutally stoned to death after being wrongly charged and unjustly condemned by the government.

Stephen prayed after his condemnation, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”

Then he fell on his knees and cried again, “Lord do not hold this sin against them.”

And then, he fell asleep.

—

So, God let a good man die at the hands of his persecutors. He sent the Spirit to give Stephen brilliant rhetoric, but didn’t save his life. He let Stephen suffer greatly and didn’t relieve that suffering until his death, that blessed and gentle death which shut his eyes forever.

Those of us who are suffering, then, should not expect God to rescue us even though we are innocent and undeserving of the hostility of our persecutors. God may treat us as He did Stephen, not as Paul whose chains dropped off his body as he was escorted out of prison. We don’t know what to expect — death or deliverance. It could be either. We pray and hope that God will rescue and deliver us, but there’s always that little voice in the back our our heads saying, “What if mine will be a Stephen moment?”

—

“When they bring you before … the rulers and the authorities, do not be anxious about how you should defend yourself or what you should say, for the Holy Spirit will teach you in that very hour what you ought to say.”

But the Spirit spoke through Stephen. He taught Stephen what to say … before he died.

Help me Lord understand this!! Help me trust You and believe in Your deliverance!!

—

“The blood of martyrs is the seed of Christians,” wrote Tertullian around 200 AD at a time when the early church was being brutally persecuted by the Roman government. Christians provided entertainment for those who did not believe. Pagans cheered as animals ripped Christian bodies apart. But something strange happened. The death of Christians prompted conversions. No one seems to have been dissuaded by the suffering these early Christians endured. The church grew rapidly, not in spite of the martyrs but because of them.

Jesus Himself was a prototype for early martyrs. Jesus willingly laid down his life not for good people, but for evil people who hated and then killed Him. There’s a principle here, one that frightens me but I’ll say it anyway. It is this: out of death comes life.

Jesus said: “unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit.”

That’s exactly what happened. The suffering and deaths of the martyrs miraculously led to life. Eternal life. Many came to know God after observing the brutal deaths of early Christian martyrs.

Out of death came life.

Out of suffering came the Christian church.

There’s a code of silence I learned as a child sometime around the age of twelve, one which my father told me to keep to myself “at all cost.” It’s a code that comes from his side of my family, but not my mother’s. My mother was Scandinavian. My father is one-hundred percent English. He has retained the old Puritan ethic.

Certain ideals and values have been passed down, but only to one child. Most of these ideals can be summarized with a phrase, or even a word.

— My father, not his older sister, was that one child.

— I was that one child, not my sister.

— Now, his grandson is that one child, but not his two siblings.

I honestly have no idea why it’s done this way, why only one child wears the Puritan mantle and not the rest.

So, what Puritan omertà did I break?

First, there is a Puritan phrase that has to do with how a man relates to his family. It can be summed in one word — “covering.” As a man “covers” his family; the one child who has been given his heritage — me — must obey him. This is not something I debate, but something I just do. When I was a child, I rebelled against this, but not now. It has become a tenet of my Christian faith, a deeply held belief.

Because I am a Christian, I believe that God honors my obedience to my father because He commands such obedience in the Fifth Commandment. I must honour my father (my mother is dead). If I don’t, I sin. So, it is one of my deeply held religious beliefs that I must honour him, which means obey him — in turn, he covers me, which means he protects and is responsible for me.

As my father’s ability to “cover” wanes with advancing age, his responsibility is being passed on to my son. My son will be my next cover. Unless I marry — I have not met any man who comes close to being a viable candidate so I’m not expecting to marry — my son will cover me and, in turn, I will respect and obey him.

That’s one of the omertà of my family, my extended family, that is, the family that stretches back generations to Pennsylvania Quakers, New England Congregationalists and Virginia’s Anglicans, to Princeton (grandfather, great uncles, great-grandfathers, etc.) and Yale (me) and Harvard (great-great grandfather). I’ve been thinking recently about how I was raised and all the secrets told only to me. Our family was divided — my sister was raised by my mother and I was half-heartedly raised by my father. Unlike most contemporary Puritans, my father’s idea of child-rearing was to impart codes of ethics and social behaviours without imparting the faith that made them possible. And rational.

I had to find that faith for myself. I thought my way into Christianity.

A second omertà is the idea that all human relations are essentially hierarchical. The egalitarianism that defines contemporary, secular gender relations, for example, is a farce — to us. Fundamentally, we believe all relationships have an over-and-under, a person who dominates and one who submits. We consider this the immutable, natural state of humankind. The idea of covering, above, fits under this.

A third omertà is the phrase “the multiplicity of generousity.” It’s a phrase father has whispered to me for years, one that he claims “always works.” In Christian terms, it’s the idea that when we give God both notices and “rewards us” perhaps here on earth, perhaps in heaven. No good deed goes unnoticed by God.

There’s also a secularized version of this belief, one imparted to my father by his father and grandfather, that when a person is generous, such generousity “pays off.” My father, recently, gave me a couple examples of how he had given either money or advice and then received, in turn, help in other ways. Someone stood by him, someone supported him, someone opened his rolodex and offered him a contact … though no money was exchanged. Right now, that someone is me. I support him freely.

I am tired, admittedly, but still have promised him — and will keep this promise, God willing — that I will be with him when he dies.

I have promised him that he will NEVER be institutionalized, that I will devote my life to making certain that the end of his life is as good as it can be. I have told him that I want him to die either in my arms or peacefully in bed. My biggest fear is that he falls or gets sick and must be hospitalized. No one goes to a hospital at his age and survives the horror of that experience. Hospitals are government-run death traps. For this reason I watch my father like a hawk making certain he doesn’t teeter or turn fast. Again, my goal is to have him die at home, in my arms, with Kyle next to him as well.

So, the code of omertà that I was forced to tell someone tonight has been abridged in these three ways. It has been broken. Revealed. I’m very uncomfortable with this but it is what it is. I’m sure the woman to whom I spoke didn’t understand what I was saying for no one seems to understand our social background, faith, intense loyalty and generousity toward each other. Our class is foreign to American culture today.

The old, American upper class, one defined by these values and ideals, phases and words, has been secretly mine for many years. My son has taken this identity, too. My father is quite proud that his grandson, whom he essentially raised as a son, has eagerly adopted the code. When my son has children, he’ll choose one to pass on these values and beliefs, faith in God, and identity with a particular social class that lives and breathes like his Puritan forebears.

Prayer. Efficacious prayer. Prayer that moves mountains. Prayer that percolates up from the depth of my raw soul to the ears of God.

I want to pray “better.” I want a spiritual gift that would deepen my prayers, such as speaking in tongues. I want to hear His response, feel His presence … to connect with God as one.

I want to pray His words back to Him: “The righteous is delivered out of trouble… ” I don’t just want to say these words but have them come to pass. I want deliverance. I want God to hear my prayers and deliver me from my persecutors.

As I look at my dear father who sits in the same messy chair surrounded by his stuff, day after day, he seems to have not a care in the world. He has developed, over the decades “mind control.” This enables him to push thoughts out of his mind that would normally disturb him. He doesn’t acknowledge the existence of things he can’t do anything about.

I am the opposite: I pray about things I can’t do anything about. Evil things. Harmful things. Things out of my control. I do not seek to control my own mind but to empty my mind before God. I am burdening God with my burdens — by exchanging my burdens for His which are lighter.

I often fail at the moment at which His burden and my burden are exchanged. I pray the words, “Take this from me Lord; it’s too much … protect and deliver me,” and then doubt He will answer this prayer. I shouldn’t be like this. I should pray in confidence, knowing that He hears and answers. Always.

Why are you fearful, O you of little faith?

Good question. I’m fearful because I’m sinful. I’m fearful because I don’t have the spiritual maturity, yet, to completely trust God when a crisis occurs. I should be confident in Him right now, but I’m suffering needlessly instead. I should be full of joy no matter what my circumstances, but I’m vomiting because of tension. The past few weeks have been the worst of my life.

I passed the test, so far. I have been clinging to Jesus, begging him to rescue and deliver me. I turned to God, not in confidence, but reflexively. At least my faith has risen to this elementary level!

I did not pass the test of confidence in Him. That’s a level of faith I haven’t yet reached. Perhaps, if and when this trial ends, I’ll be stronger in Him, more confident.

Confidence is expressed in one way — inner peace. That peaceful trust in God. The peace that goes beyond human understanding. The peace that God leaves us.

Jesus: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

Lord, give me Your peace.

Amen

I am very grateful for my father. He stuck by me through my horrible divorce, and, in turn, I am sticking by him as he ages and dies. I would have done this anyway as it’s the right thing for a daughter to do — it honors him, my surviving parent.

We talk openly about how difficult it will be for me to live life without him. Though he gets to die, I’m left behind with a gaping daddy-size hole in my heart. Yes, I have learned to love him.

I pray, often, that he dies at home, in his sleep, peacefully and silently. I pray that I’m with him at the moment he takes his final breath, that he dies in my arms. I pray he accepts and submits to the truth of the living God before he dies so he has the promised experience of eternal life.

Today, as we sat together after lunch, I told him how grateful I was for his emotional support during my divorce. I wanted him to know this. To really understand the depth of my appreciation. He smiled in response and said he was glad to have been here for me. He also said that he was quite grateful that I stuck with him to care for him.

I have promised to stick with him until he dies so he will never be put into an institution. Yes, it’s getting more difficult. My son K helps out when he can and has rushed down here to help out when needed. I know I can count on K. He has been utterly reliable and faithful, rare qualities in a young man.

We have been planning to move house. I want to sell this ugly house, or rent it, and move near Glacier Park, a healthier, happier, less-congested place to live. Hopefully, we will be able to meet people who share our values, ideals and outlook. It would be so nice to put on a small dinner party with those who read or understand the things we enjoy. It’s quite isolating here and we’re lonely. We need to expand our circle of acquaintances in ways that fit us.

So, please pray with me that God opens a door of escape, that my father’s last days and weeks, months and years can be spent in a beautiful place among “our kind.” And, most importantly, pray for his salvation.

Circumstances exist in which Christians can be plunged which cause great pain and suffering for no apparent reason. Such is happening to my family now.

I don’t know what will happen to us.

I am grateful to God for the time I have had with my father. I love him more now than I did as a child or young adult. I have taken the time to get to know him, as a man and a person, not just as a father. Our personalities are very different — I’m nothing like my mother either, so must be some sort of recessive fluke that reappears after many generations. I appreciate him for what he is.

Father is an exacting man. Very ritualized and patterned. Here’s an example: He told me that while taking swimming lessons as a freshman in high school, he learned to dry off his body with the minimal number of towel motions. He decided, then, that this was the best way to dry off and has NEVER deviated from it … not once. He has dried Himself the exact same way for more than eighty years. Don’t you find this amazing?

This is a sort of personality that I can’t identify with on any level. Yet, I love and appreciate him. And, I now believe, for the first time in my life, that my father loves me, too.

Christians have a tendency to project their relationship with their earthly father, good or bad, to their heavenly father, God. I know how difficult it is to feel God’s love when human love has been elusive. So, loving my father, as I have learned to do the past couple years, has been a stretch of faith, too.

For readers who don’t know us, we are a family of three — three generations. My father, me and K, his grandson. We are intensely loyal to each other and have learned to love each other deeply through these difficult years.

What has become more clear to me, is how different we are than the prevailing culture, particularly the people who live in this area. To sum, we are upper class. We have upper class values and an upper class mentality. We value things like conversation and learning, non-fiction and politics, limited forays into the culture while indulging in fine arts. Our values include treating people honorably, always being anonymously generous without expecting any kudos or thanks, and giving back … always giving back, to the society which spawned us and has given us so much with which to work.

As the culture coarsens, it’s increasingly difficult for people like us to find a niche within it. Most of us have withdrawn. I’ve withdrawn into this little, ugly house where the three of us hide from society as our love and support for each other intensifies.

My support for my father has been intense and totalizing. For years, I have cooked, cleaned, entertained, laundered, conversed, nursed, taught and watched over him. This has been a full-time job. Much has had to be given (up) to love him including my own career, dreams and desire to love and be loved.

My father’s support for me can be seen in his personality and stability. He has always been a plodder in life and has lived in this little house for many years. He moved here, originally, because my mother was very ill. They sold the house they had been living in in Florida and moved here to be near my brother-in-law and sister. But in short order, mother died. The house he had bought as a temporary residence while he built another one, was memorialized in mother’s memory. He didn’t move. He didn’t build a more appropriate house. Nothing in this house could be thrown out or changed. Recently, however, father has been willing to get rid of disgusting old couches, for example, so progress is possible!

Both of us support his grandson, my son, K, in any way we can. K, in turn, helps us. For the past twelve years, K has driven more than a hundred miles to mow his grandfather’s lawn, do all the fixing and repairing in the house, get advice from his grandfather about his business (he’s an entrepreneur), shop and so much more. My father has six grandchildren — K is the only one who dotes on him, loves him and has been loyal to him. Now, because his grandfather has recently fallen twice, K takes him to all his doctor’s appointments. This responsibility used to fall on me, but I’m not strong enough to pick up and steady my father. So, this responsibility, too, is one that Kyle assumed, uncomplaining and always willingly.

As all of us age, our physical and emotional needs rapidly increase. What my father can do is a small fraction of what he used to be able to do. And without his wife, he depends of me to meet his emotional and intellectual needs. We have long conversations about all sorts of things — these conversations seem to sustain him. I read him books and the Wall Street Journal when his eyes tire. We argue about politics — he’s a neo-con, I’m a libertarian — and tear over the arts. Father loves anthropology, which is odd for a scientist, so I’ve had to learn about this so we can converse. His mind is sharp. He always follows the train of thought and contributes quite a bit to the conversation. It is NOT like talking to an addled mind, as some errantly think. Not at all.

So, where is the suffering? For me, it’s in opportunity costs, what I have given up to love him — marriage, good jobs, travel, friends, a congenial environment, fellowship and so much more.

Would I do it again?

Yes.

For one, it’s commanded of all Christians to honour their parents. I’m obeying that command. I treat my father as a whole man, respect his wishes and even — drum roll, please — obey him! After being a rebellious child, I have finally learned to do what he tells me to do. This protects his dignity, which many people, particularly health professionals, social workers and others, seem not to care.

I care about my father. I respect his dignity. I see him as a whole man, a complete person. When he can’t recall a word, I gently insert it into the conversation. This is the way I love him, my father, my dear and beloved father. I would never disobey him at this point in life, in part because it would be so demeaning for him.

As the world around us “goes crude,” the three of us draw closer. Among us, we’ve created a sanctuary, a place of peace separate from the disgusting values and language of the Western world. We see ourselves as part of a shrinking remnant of what used to be the finer aspects of civil society. When this society collapses, which it will, we’ll be there to do our part to quietly pick up the pieces and set America moving forward on a better trajectory. We’re not alone, but are rare. There are many others.

Outsiders to our values and beliefs are harming us, now. They’ve accused us of things we have not done or would ever do. This is very, very wrong. Borderline evil. Our values are being “investigated.” Generosity, a core trait, is being questioned.

God is in this and will deliver us. He knows our values and innocence. We will continue to give to each other in the ways we are able, to serve each other and do whatever we can to support each other.

Such is love.

Love within suffering.

God is love.

I confess …

… that I find it difficult to feel God’s love and give Him mine. Other qualities of God, such as His sovereignty, are easier to handle because they are more like intellectual constructs than emotional ideals. Since, as the Bible says, “God is love,” don’t you think that I should feel His love, just as I can feel the love of a human being? Love, after all, isn’t a math problem. It isn’t an intellectual construct. Love cuts deeply into who and what I am.

Premise One: God is love.

I can love God because God is a person. That lovely 19^th C hymn, “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God Almighty …” ends with the theological statement, “God in three persons, blessed Trinity.” He is three PERSONS. Persons. I must relate to God as a person, then, and not some theological abstraction. And, I SHOULD experience God, that is.

I want to give and take God’s love.

Premise Two: God is a person.

This means, that to love God and be loved by Him, my heart must be involved. But, practically, what exactly does this mean? What must I do, not do; think, not think; feel, not feel; to love Him?

I’m not sure.

Premise Three: Divine love is emotive as well as intellectual. It’s all encompassing.

This is the faith-issue that I’m going to explore in this blog during these next few weeks: How to feel God’s love, to really believe He loves me, and give to Him my love.

For the past several months, I’ve been dry. No words. No thoughts. Just … thinking. At this point, the old ways of thinking are lifting. It is a bit like Elijah, who after sitting by the stream and watching it slowly desiccate, finally got new instructions from God, except, of course, I have no instructions!

Instructions or not, I’m eager to start moving again.

God is good. He’s with me, in me and around me. His power and sovereignty is over all. He gives peace. He promises strength. He bears my burdens and will comfort me when troubled.

During these next few months I’m going to talk about the struggle to “feel” God’s presence. I’m moving from the mind to the heart, from intellectualism to the realm of intuition, feeling and spirit.

If my faith means anything, it’s got to be deep. Very deep. Soul deep. Yet even as I write this, I’m not even sure what it means.

Lets explore together, okay?

Keep in touch.