Hoarders

I don’t watch a lot of TV. If I do, it’s usually when I’m at my parents’ house, and that hasn’t been consistent in the last four years of college and one year of living overseas. But I’m home again for a three-month stretch, and there’s one show that has captured my attention. It’s a sick fascination, actually. The show is called Hoarders. Each episode shares the stories of two people who have filled their houses with stuff, usually from floor to ceiling. After watching one episode, I was so disturbed that I went and cleaned out my closet.

One show featured a woman who had over 50 dogs and cats in her house. She didn’t just love animals; you could tell she was desperately lonely.  One man hadn’t been able to access certain rooms for years because they were so full. He bought a little mini-fridge to keep in his bedroom because he couldn’t get to the main refrigerator.

It seems insane, and these people often need professional help, but I realize that these hoarding tendencies usually start after people experience a significant loss. There is real pain; they cling to the past, look for security and fulfillment in objects that others would deem as worthless, unusable trash. They dumpster dive and Goodwill shop, looking for steals and deals. And their houses fill.

Hoarders interests me because it’s not a show that parodies these people’s problems. They bring in expert organizers, but they also bring psychologists to help tackle the mountains of emotional issues often linked to the mountains of possessions. They want to bring real change. The problem is, most of the time all they can offer is therapy and a team with three Got Junk? trucks.

I can’t help but liken this show to my own life, my own heart. You may have heard the analogy of our hearts being like houses, and over the courses of our lives, we accumulate things and pack them away, filling up our heart’s rooms. These could be hurts, memories—haunted or treasured—along with idols we use to fill up the emptiness. Our reconciliation to God is likened to us moving out of our “house” and Jesus moving in. We give him the keys to the house and make him Lord of our lives. Still, though he might now have keys to the front door, sometimes there are rooms locked away, areas where we just don’t want him to go. We have places in our hearts like the West Wing in Beauty and the Beast.  Off limits. Too painful, too private, too compromising, too shameful. And maybe blocking the way is a whole hallway full of junk.

I watch Hoarders, incredulous at how some people exist in such squalor, but I ignore my own “house”, filled to capacity with trash. Except it’s not milk cartons, cassette tapes, clothes, knick-knacks, and animal feces. It’s fear, pain, lies, false gods, and pride. And I’m hoarding them.

The good news is, Jesus doesn’t show up with a dump truck or filter through piles of my trash, asking what to keep and what to chuck out.  He knows I need healing, a deep purge of everything in me that’s not of Him. And when I truly surrender my life, I’m giving him the key to every room in my house, however painful it is, because I can finally see that he himself is all I’ve ever wanted. Those things I looked to for satisfaction and fulfillment and purpose—they don’t even come close to what He offers.

Psalm 139:23-24 says, “Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”  I’ve read these verses many times, but Hoarders gave me a new perspective on it. I can see that therapist inch his way around mounds of boxes, or the team with protective masks as they rid a kitchen of rotten food. God searches out every hallway, every corner, and he removes the ruined clothes, the broken things, the offensive smells. He leads us in a better way.

Suddenly there’s no more room for fear, or lies, or pride; they’re replaced with the light of his presence, the depth of his detailed, specific love, the beauty of who he is.

He fills every room.

More Than Words

My mom recently told me the story of how I learned to read.

“We’d be driving down the road, and with every sign we passed, you’d chime from the back, ‘What’s that say? What’s that one say?’ After a while you could sound them out without help.”

I’ve always loved words. Sometimes I’ll play this game when traveling: I’ll look out the window but I’m not allowed to read any signs. It’s really hard. I’m one of those font nerds, too; I’ll see a billboard and think, That looks familiar…oh, it’s Century Gothic. To take this obsession even further — “words” is the theme of my upcoming wedding. We’re even having a Scrabble cake.

Words play a substantial role in my life. But lately I’ve sensed God challenging me on how much emphasis I put on their meaning, especially words that I deem true about His character. If someone asked me, “So what’s God like?”, I could easily rattle off a list of His attributes: loving, faithful, holy, just, sovereign, unchanging, gracious, strong.

But do I really believe that about God?  How do words lose their power and end up just marks on a page?

In his book, The Knowledge of the Holy, A.W. Tozer makes a bold claim: “The most portentous fact about any man is not what he at a given time may say or do, but what he in his deep heart conceives God to be like.” He explains that our life and choices stem from how we view God. This tells me that words true about God need to be true in my day-to-day existence, not just nice sounds coming out of my mouth or artsy fonts sprawled across my blog.   

Ok, so I pick a few words and hold them up against my everyday reality.

Trustworthy.  God is trustworthy, I can say that. It’s biblical. It’s true.

But if God really is trustworthy, then why do I worry? Why do I stay awake at night, plagued by what-ifs? Why do I let fear make my decisions?

Another one: powerful. I believe that, right?

Then why don’t I pray—about everything? Doesn’t he say that all things are possible with Him?

Strong.

God is strong? Then why do I use my weakness as an excuse when He’s calling me to a higher road?

Generous.

Then why don’t I ask?

Healer.

Then why do I hold my wounds up to the world’s false remedies?

Holy.

Then why do I treat sin with such a casual attitude?

Loving.

Then why do I approach His throne with anything less than confidence, secure in His love and in what Jesus did through his death and resurrection?

How do I view God? Do I see these words as His outfits, something He can put on and take off, something true about him sometimes but not at other times?  Or do I see them as His very nature, as who He is?

In John 18:37, Jesus tells Pilate that “for this reason I was born, and for this reason I came into the world, to testify to the truth.” I think he means the truth about what God is like. He came to a world very confused about who God is, and he lived a life of demonstration. It’s as if he took one word at a time, and he didn’t just say them. He showed them.

 “God is compassionate.” So Jesus went out and healed the blind, lame, leprous.

“God is holy.” He drove the money changers and merchants out of the temple.

“God is sovereign.”  He baffled Mary and Martha by letting Lazarus die, a greater purpose in mind.

“God is loving.” He took our punishment upon himself.

Are these just words to me? Or do I see them as truth about God that I’m desperate to imitate?

I’m drawn to words, and I love that God made me this way. I can’t wait until my own children ask me about those words flying past the car window. But I’m in constant prayer that the shapely ink marks and rich sounds won’t fade into meaninglessness or render me callous to the reality they represent. I need their truths about the Living Word to shape me into His likeness and propel me into worship.

Help My Unbelief!

This will be a short post, but I wanted to share something God has been speaking to me. Lately I've indulged worry and anxious thoughts, about wedding plans, about work, about my future. And Jesus was right: worrying doesn't add any hours to your life. And I'd say it ruins those hours you do have.

So I've been praying that God would help me to trust Him. I was reading in Romans 3, and verse 3 seemed a font size larger than the rest of the page.

"What if some did not have faith? Will their lack of faith nullify God's faithfulness? Not at all!"

Short yet deep.

What's it saying? God is still trustworthy even if I struggle to trust Him. His character does not change just because my feelings do. The depth and purity and fact of who He is does not depend on whether I feel it to be true or not. Thank the Lord that our lack of faith doesn't nullify His faithfulness.

Faith isn't just believing that God will do what He said He will do. It's also believing that He is who He says He is. When feelings contradict the truth of the Word, I can cry out like the father of the demon-possessed son did: "I do believe; help my unbelief!"

Every one of my days needs this reminder, that in the fluctuation of my emotions and circumstances, God is still the same.

Hope for the Change Averse

I'm on the bank of the Thames watching Tower Bridge watch the tourists. Change sits beside me in the absence of Helen, my partner in crime (i.e., cooking and cleaning).  I'm on our Thursday night walk alone. In about half an hour I'll return to my apartment building where my friends are not.

I know change can be good, but this change messes with me in a way I've never felt.  A year passed faster than it should be allowed to, and I'm left reeling from one teary goodbye after another.  I still wake up to the neighboring construction site's drills, hammers, shouts, but there's no one left to hear my noisy rants about the noise.  

How strange that your entire life can change overnight.

One day you're part of a close circle of friends doing a gap year together, and the next day they're homebound on their coaches and trains and planes, and you're an intruder in your own home. (That might be a bit dramatic, and the new teams here now are great, but that's how I felt.)

Why do I fight change so much? Why is it so easy to make routine and security and comfort and familiar faces my god? Something shifts, someone leaves, and my entire world disintegrates. I'm left wondering if maybe they made up too much of my world?

Characters in the Bible experienced change, which tells me we're to expect it in our own lives. Abraham was told to move countries. Job saw everything he loved snatched away. The disciples watched their hope die on a cross.  Life IS change, especially in this fallen place.

I know it's ok to mourn this loss. But I'd be fooling myself to think life stays the same. I'd be fooling myself to want that. 

New seasons bring new pain. But I can see that through every loss and heart-breaking transition, God brings good things, too. And it's encouraging to remember that the same God who brought those people through their most difficult times of change is the same God who brings me through it now. I may hate the noise from the construction site, but those workers aren't just over there getting paid to make noise. They're building something. (More flats, I think.)

It's the same with us. We're not built into Christ's likeness without change, without the noise.  But these words bring me comfort in the throes of change, whether the change dashes me to the floor or simply makes me sit less comfortably:  "In the hands of a changeless God, I need fear no change."

"[He who fears the LORD] is not afraid of bad news; his heart is firm, trusting in the LORD."

Psalm 112:7

London Calling, Part 2

“How was London?” Loved ones back home will ask.

How can I even begin to answer that?

These past eleven months hold much.

London is still crowded. Diverse. It was sunny most days, homesick some days. London was a lesson: how to tourist-dodge and power-walk, how to avoid Oxford Street on Saturdays, a lesson on how many people you can fit in a Tube carriage. 

London was a rush.

A rush of games/crafts/songs, kids with sticky hands, tired mums, restless teens.

It was cold.

It was jigsaws at midnight, bleary-eyed breakfasts, dinner feasts kitted out with candles and cake.  It was a rush of tea and probably too many biscuits.

London was a mad dash of a year gone too fast, and a quiet walk through God’s steady grace.

It was a group of strangers become friends...become family.

“How was London?” They’ll ask.

 Who could give that answer justice?

But as Seonaid would say, “It was a good laugh.”

Pray Big

The day before my fiance and I flew from the UK to the States for a friend's wedding, he left his passport on a train.

I got the text while shopping for a present for the bride. I stood there incredulous and teary, staring at nightgowns, as Jonny told me that the train carrying his backpack could be anywhere from central London to miles outside the city. The bag could still be tucked behind a seat, or it could be sat at any lost-and-found of any of the stations along the route. And we were leaving early the next morning for Tennessee.

The backpack also had his wallet, keys, security card granting access to his work building. Since there wasn't enough money on his travel card to get him home from work, I had to go to his office and give him cash. He walked me to an ATM; I punched in my PIN and tried to stop crying. I held out the £10, couldn't look at him. Anger was there, faintly. He's known for leaving things behind. But it was more disappointment than anything, the deepest disappointment I've known in a while.

I had to get to work, still sniffling on the bus ride back. I envy people who can hide their emotions. And I couldn't shake it, couldn't forget about it. I also envy people who can compartmentalize their emotions, put them aside. This colored everything I tried to do that day. I kept saying, "I cannot believe this is happening," over and over in my head.

Jonny called every train station on the route. He went to Waterloo, where the train terminated before going out again, and checked the ticket offices, Lost Property, and holding huts on all the platforms. Nothing. He was told that even if it was found that day, it would take about 24 hours to process through their recovery system. And we knew their security policy: any passports found must be destroyed.

The title of this article is "Pray Big", and I've said nothing about prayer yet. What's the difference between small prayers and big prayers, anyway? Maybe big prayers are those that seem most impossible to be answered. Or maybe they're the ones with the highest stakes.

My prayers that day consisted of, "Please, God. Please." That's all I found the heart to utter because I knew this was a Big Prayer. The odds of Jonny getting his passport back were close to zero. If the bag was found, it'd take too long to process. If they processed it, they'd destroy his passport as part of their security policy.

Sadly, my Big Prayer of "Please, God" became a statement of resignation: "Jonny is not coming with me on our 10-day holiday to see my family and celebrate my friend's wedding. I'm going alone."

I know at that moment Jesus would've said to me, like he did many times to his disciples, "Where is your faith?"

Jonny resolved to take me to the airport even if we didn't find his passport. He left work and had one last chance to check Waterloo for his bag. Still at work, I walked around holding onto my phone.

It rang and I hit the answer button, dreading to hear the words that would put the last nail in the coffin of our vacation.

"Shan? I have it."

I almost dropped the phone. I started crying even harder then, pure relief plus the aftermath of being so upset all day.

"It had just been handed in when I got there," he said, "and my passport was about 20 minutes away from being destroyed." He'd managed to convince the worker not to process it through their system and just hand it over.

I suddenly felt very small. Incredibly humbled. Maybe a bit ashamed. It had looked impossible to me, so I'd decided it must be. Could I be any more arrogant? Who was I to decide what was or was not possible? Hadn't I learned yet that, with God, probability has nothing to do with possibility?

We left the next morning and had an amazing time. Although during the trip, Jonny gave me permission to ask him every hour or so, "Where's your passport? Do you have all your bags?"

I heard an anecdote on a podcast recently that fits with this experience. It may or may not be true, but the lesson resonates with me.

Alexander the Great had a trusted general in his army whose daughter was getting married. Alexander said to the general, "I'd like to help out with the cost of the wedding; ask me for an amount."

So the general wrote an amount on a piece of paper and gave it to the treasurer. The treasurer stormed off to the emperor and waved the paper at him. "Look at this! Look how much he's asked you for! Who does he think he is?"

"Give it to him," Alexander replied. He took it as a compliment. "With such an outlandish request, he shows that he thinks me both rich and generous."

That story made me ask some questions. What do my prayers say about my view of God? Do I think he's able to answer big prayers? I realized that it's glorifying to Him to pray big, to "ask for the nations", because it's saying something about how I see Him.

In the grand scheme of life, my prayer about Jonny's lost passport was a relatively small prayer. It's tempting to think that God sees it that way, too, to think, "God's busy with more important things, like war and cancer and missing children." I think that's why this answered prayer humbled me and literally drew me into worship. It wasn't that my love for God was dependent on the prayer being answered. He owes me nothing. I found myself in awe of Him, to know that Someone so great heard and answered a cry from someone so small.

I've never felt so loved.

As life carries on, I have this to hold on to: God answered my prayer. When it seems like He's distant and I feel unheard, I can remember that God answered my prayer. When a situation seems impossible, I can glorify Him by asking for the impossible.

I have learned, and am still learning, to pray big.

Written in Grammar Class, 2008

For Becca, one of my favorite proper nouns.

You are a comma in my life,

You make me pause before I speak or decide without thought,

You link parts of me together and

make sense of my complicated-ness.

You are a period sometimes.

(Called a full-stop in England.)

You bring my foolishness to an end.

You make new things begin.

You're an exclamation point

adding excitement and passion

to my monotony!

You're a question mark

You make me ponder my ways

Make me think?

and give me some intonation.

Maybe you're a semi-colon;

we talk about serious stuff.

No out of place jokes;

that's for when our interactions are essays.

You're the adjective to my noun, the adverb to my verb-

bestowing clarity and helping me explain.

How many times have you edited my life?

(Author's rights.)

You say:

Don't worry about being singular.

One of these days I will make you plural.

Don't write too much in past or future tense, and

don't live in the passive voice.

Now for the prepositions:

I will call you up,

call you out,

call you over,

call you near,

call you in,

call you down,

call you through,

call you beyond.