Why do so many of us have small faith and small dreams? Part 3

 

We don’t have to settle for small dreams and small faith, but so many of us do. While I’m not an expert on the topic, here are some thoughts. (If you missed previous posts, click on Laughing at impossibilities—or not: Why do so many of us settle for small faith and small dreams? and Why do so many of us have small faith and small dreams? Part 2.)

 

Small dreams and big dreams, small faith and big faith—these have to do with the desires of our hearts. More on that later.

 

Those who have faith like Uncle Cam, and like those Ogilvie described, set aside worldly distractions and pursuits each day to spend quality quiet time with God, studying Scriptures, praying, and listening to Him. He says, “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

 

Those who hope to ever come close to being spiritual giants—people of big dreams and big faith—recognize they are made by Him, for Him, and for His glory (Colossians 1:16, Isaiah 43:7, Psalm 86:9, 1 Corinthians10:31B,  Romans 11:36).

 

As Elisabeth Elliot said, “. . . As believers, it is not about us. It is not about my happiness, my joy, my wellbeing. It is about the glory of  God. . . . The only means to real joy and contentment is to make His glory the supreme objective in my life.”

 

Those who hope to ever come close to being choice saints—people of big dreams and big faith—recognize and want above all else to seek God’s kingdom and His righteousness and His purposes (Matthew 6:33). Rather than pursuing the pleasures of the world, their hearts desire to pursue Him and His ways of doing life.

 

Spiritual giants probably don’t see themselves as spiritual giants. They’re humble people. When Jesus said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” He was talking about those who are humble. Lloyd John Ogilvie writes, “The Hebrew word ani . . . was used for the humble and faithful. J.B. Phillips translated this first Beatitude, ‘How happy are the humbleminded.’ . . . Throughout His ministry, Jesus affirmed humility and warned against pride. He knew that religious pride blocked growth in greatness. . . . True greatness begins with and never outgrows humility.” (Silent Strength for My Life)

 

It’s all about our hearts. Those who hope to ever come close to living by faith like Uncle Cam and my Lomalinda friends will crave this: to love the Lord with all of their hearts, souls, minds, and strength (Mark 12:30), the first and most important commandment.

 

Lord, make us people after Your own heart!

 

Next week: 

More stories on the inspirational big faith and bold prayers 

of Uncle Cam and Lomalinda pioneers.

 

Would God look at me and say, “I’m not sure what to do with this one”?

 

At the end of that day, Rufina’s first day of working in our house, I was embarrassed that I’d struggled so much to understand her Spanish and mortified that I’d cried—more than once. I scolded myself for acting like a big baby.

 

Rather than admit my failures to others, my initial instinct was to keep my struggles a secret, and to lecture myself, “Pull yourself together!”

 

At that time, I could have used words from dear Chuck Swindoll, who reminds us that God keeps track of our tears. “Each tear [is] entered in your ledger, each ache written in your book” (Psalm 56:8, The Message).

 

Chuck says that usually tears “appear when our soul is overwhelmed” and that “a teardrop on earth summons the King of Heaven. Rather than being ashamed or disappointed, the Lord takes note of our inner friction when hard times are oiled by tears. He turns these situations into moments of tenderness; He never forgets those crises in our lives where tears were shed.

 

“One of the great drawbacks of our cold, sophisticated society,” Chuck continues, “is its reluctance to show tears. For some strange reason, men feel that tears are a sign of weakness . . . and many an adult feels to cry is to be immature. . . . How unfortunate!

 

“The consequence,” Chuck continues, “is that we place a watchdog named ‘restraint’ before our hearts. This animal is trained to bark, snap, and scare away any unexpected guest who seeks entrance.

 

“The ultimate result is a well-guarded, highly respectable, uninvolved heart surrounded by heavy bars of confinement. . . .”

 

Chuck says we must “impound restraint and let a little tenderness run loose. You might lose a little of your polished respectability, but you’ll have a lot more freedom. And a lot less pride.” (Charles R. Swindoll, Growing Strong in the Seasons of Life)

 

Chuck nailed it. Pride. I’m okay with helping others with their burdens, but . . . not comfortable with admitting my needs and asking for help. However, the Bible tells us to bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). That means sometimes I need to be on the receiving end. To do that I’d have to swallow my pride and admit my flaws and failures. And in the end, I gave in and asked for help—God Himself led me to call Linda Lackey to help me understand Rufina. What a relief!

 

That evening, I berated myself for my poor performance throughout that day. I was disappointed in myself, ashamed of my weaknesses. Why hadn’t I done a better job of wrestling through my panic and confusion? Why had I acted like a wimp?

 

And spiritually—where was I? Did I have a faith problem? If my faith had been stronger, would I have not made such a mess of things? Was even God disappointed in me?

 

It’s easy to beat up on ourselves when we mess up. And yet, Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened. . . . Learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart” (Matthew 11:28-20, NIV).

 

Or, as The Message words it: “Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live. . . .”

 

Hope When It Hurts writes: “In those moments and seasons, we can come to know the heart of our Savior, simply learning to rest in his presence. . . . He’s not distant in these moments, snapping at us to get our act together.”

 

“No, he clearly tells us that he weeps with us in our tears and receives us in [our] weak and needy state. Even though he sees the bigger picture and knows our pain won’t be wasted, he still grieves with us in our pain as a perfect Father or Mother would with their hurting child. 

 

“. . . Though you may feel weak in faith, trust that he sees and knows your deepest sorrows and is the only One who is able to comfort you with a complete and perfect love, compassion, and comfort. . . . Christ sees and understands even better than we do. Instead of running from pain, let’s rest in his comfort” (Hope When It Hurts).

 

Though I was stressed and oh-so-weary, somewhere deep down I knew I should take a deep breath and just rest—not try to accomplish much that evening. I told myself to embrace—to welcome—the fact that God was with me, He was not mad at me, and He would help me do better the next day.

 

“If the mountain seems too big today then climb a hill instead. . . .

A day is not a lifetime. A rest is not defeat.

Don’t think of it as failure, just a quiet, kind retreat.

It’s okay to take a moment from an anxious, fractured mind.

The world will not stop turning while you get realigned.

The mountain will still be there when you want to try again. . . .”

Laura Ding-Edwards

 

Elisabeth Elliot so wisely pointed out that “It’s not the experiences of our lives that change us; it is our response to those experiences.”

 

How true. Tomorrow what would I do about the rough day I’d just had? What should be—what would be—my response to my failures, my tears, my disappointment in myself? 

 

“Do the best you can until you know better.

Then when you know better, do better.”

Maya Angelou

 

Looking back now, all these years later, I recognize I had done what Maya Angelou said: I did the best I could that day. If I’d known how to do it better, I would have. What grace Maya Angelou’s words offer us: When the time comes that we do know better, we can and will do better. I love the way God enables mere humans to find words to illustrate His principles.

 

“God is not in the business of leaving things broken and messy. He’s not a God that sees a hard situation, shrugs, and says, ‘I guess I’m not really sure what to do with this one!’ He’s a God that brings life from death, beauty from ashes, hope from despair, light from darkness, and healing from the most broken, mixed up, and messy situations” (Stephanie May Wilson, The Lipstick Gospel Devotional).

 

I would rest that evening and then, the next morning, I’d make a fresh start—I’d leave behind my self-criticism and despair and instead, I’d reach for hope and a can-do attitude, believing God was always with me, cheering me on, urging me to trust Him for the ability to do better—mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and physically.

That reminds me of the poem Thomas Chisholm penned in 1923 that was later made into the dear old hymn that I love so much:

 

Great is Thy faithfulness!

Morning by morning new mercies I see.

All I have needed Thy hand hath provided.

Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me! . . .

 

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,

Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide.

Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,

Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside.

All I have needed Thy hand hath provided;

Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!

(“Great is Thy Faithfulness,” written by Thomas Chisholm; in public domain, based on Lamentations 3:22-23)

 

I could rest assured that night, confident that, 

come morning, new mercies I’d see.

An opportunity to work among those who turn the world upside down

 

I’ve always remembered that day, the day “When a door opened . . . that let the future in.”

 

And I stepped through that open door.

 

It was as if God said to me, “It's okay to admit your mistakes and regrets and hurts, but don't get stuck there. I am ready now to heal them.”

 

It was as if God said, “I am not limited by your failures, weaknesses, feelings, thoughts, or fears. Always remember I love you just because I love you, not for any other reason. Nothing can change that fact.”

 

The time had come to believe that God's everlasting arms never get tired of holding those who are bruised.

 

The time had come to receive each new morning with joy, as a gift from God.

 

The time had come to follow this good advice: Don't grow weary of doing what is good and right, because if you don't get discouraged and give up the struggle, ultimately God will bless you for your efforts (Galatians 6:9).

 

It was as if God said, “Look and listen. 

I sent you here to work with extraordinary people. 

Some have brilliant minds, 

while others are just ordinary people with valuable skills 

I‘m using to carry out My work in Colombia. 

Every one of them has a good heart 

and an uncommon commitment to serve Me 

and the indigenous peoples of this land. 

The time has come for you to get acquainted with them—

and soon, in a few days, to work alongside them.”

 

It was as if God said, “I sent you here to work among those who turn the world upside-down” (Acts 17:6).

 

It was as if God said, “Walk with the dreamers, the believers, the courageous, the cheerful, the planners, the doers, the successful people with their heads in the clouds and their feet on the ground. Let their spirit light a fire within you to leave this world better than when you found it. . . .” (Wilferd A.Peterson)

 

“Failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts”

I don’t remember much about the rest of that afternoon. 

I stumbled about the house in a fog. 

It was like living in an other-worldly experience. Maybe God was inviting me into a “Come away, my beloved” moment (Song of Solomon 2:10, 13). 

Life moved in slow-motion. But at least I was moving. I was living what Elisabeth Elliot had once experienced: “Sometimes life is so hard you can only do the next thing. Whatever that is, just do the next thing. God will meet you there.” 

Yes, He did meet me there. As the Old Testament saint, Micah, said would happen, God heard the cries from my parched heart. Though I’d fallen, I would arise (Micah 7:7-8). He offered me a hand up from the rock bottom I’d hit. 

The Bible records an utterly desperate time in Elijah’s life—he was running for his life, exhausted. When he hit rock bottom, an angel of the Lord came, twice, to encourage Elijah, saying, “The journey is too much for you. Get up and eat” (I Kings 19:7). 

Many years ago, Amy Carmichael wrote about Elijah’s dire circumstances, but she didn’t let the old guy stay stuck down there. She also pointed out God’s grace to help in time of need (Hebrews 4:16). 

Amy wrote of the times you and I fall into despair, when the “journey” has become too great for us. She wrote: “Is it not good and comforting to know that the angel of the Lord came again the second time? We never come to the place where we pass out of reach of the compassion of our God. ‘His compassions fail not. They are new every morning,’ never tiring of us, always strong for our help.” (Lamentations 3:22-23; Edges of His Ways) 

Though I could barely sense it, God was at work. In His loving grace, He can do His most profound work in our biggest struggles. 

Looking back now, I recall that day with a great deal of pain. No doubt you, too, recall pain from the past.

But did you know there’s good pain and bad pain? That suffering pain can hurt but it can also help? 

Come back next week—we’ll look at both destructive pain and valuable pain. 

In the meantime, take courage, get up, and get on with life. Remember Winston Churchill's words: "Failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts."  And find comfort from God’s words to Joshua: “I will never leave you nor forsake you. Be strong and courageous. . . . Do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:5-9).

 

Longing to get over the bad stuff

 

"My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going,” wrote Thomas Merton. “I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end.” 

Merton’s words sum up my state of mind that afternoon at Lomalinda, our out-of-the-way mission center. I’d been fighting to survive the next few minutes, and then the next few minutes. 

“Nor do I really know myself,” continued Merton, “and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. 

"I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it.

“Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost. . . . I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone." (Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude) 

Merton penned such encouraging, hope-filled words for desperate times.  I didn’t know him or his words back then but reading them now offers me comfort. 

Back on that unforgettable afternoon in Lomalinda, in my distress—flustered, discouraged, troubled, lost—somehow God impressed upon me what Elisabeth Elliot discovered and then shared with the rest of us: “Sometimes life is so hard you can only do the next thing. Whatever that is just do the next thing. God will meet you there.” 

So I kept doing the next thing, one baby step at a time—unpacking, arranging, cleaning, caring for the kids, and planning what I’d cook for dinner that evening.

And just as Elisabeth said, God did meet me there. Sometimes He remains very quiet, settled calmly in the background. He was on that day—but He was there. Oh, yes, He was there with me that afternoon. 

He was not angry with me. He would not reject me. I was His child in need of comfort and grace. A weary child of His in need of a new perspective that would lead to hope. 

To arrive at that new perspective and grab hold of that hope, perhaps I needed to grieve—grieve my loss of home and family and country, grieve my inability to properly, healthily carry out my responsibilities in my new house and to nurture my husband and young ones. And to grieve my meltdown and angry outburst at my husband. 

Even grieve the loss of who I had thought myself to be. “Nor do I really know myself,” Merton wrote. 

Dr.Henry Cloud says when we voluntarily enter into grief, it can lead to resolution. 

He says grief “is the most important pain there is. . . .  It heals. It restores. It changes things that have gone bad. Moreover, it is the only place where we get comforted when things have gone wrong.

 

“. . . Grief is the way of our getting finished with the bad stuff in life. It is the process by which we ‘get over it,’ by which we ‘let it go.’ . . .

 

“. . . It is the process by which we can be available for new things. The soul is freed from painful experience and released for new, good experience.” (Dr. Henry Cloud, “Why Grief is Different from Other Kinds of Suffering”)

 

Yes, looking back now, I believe I needed to grieve. Though I couldn’t have put it into words, I longed to move on, ready for new, good experiences in Lomalinda. I longed to be a happy wife, mother, and missionary. 

I think again of Thomas Merton’s heart-wrenching cry and how it captured my state of mind that afternoon: "My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end.”

But that’s not the end of the story. 

When we are disoriented, unable to look to the future, when we flounder, fail, and fall apart, we have many promises of God’s unfailing love and patience with us. One of them is this: “It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; He will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed” (Deuteronomy 31:8).

With the Lord going before me, I just kept taking one little step after one little step, doing the next thing.

 

“Do the next thing”

 

I was only twenty-nine years old—young as well as immature—and now, decades later, I still remember that day as one of my darkest, most desperate days. (See Fighting to survive the next few minutes.)

 

Living at that isolated mission center in the middle of nowhere in Colombia was not what I pictured, not what I expected, and I was not prepared for living there.

 

While I hold no hard feelings for our mission organization, I now realize that our pre-field orientation course in Dallas was not sufficient when it came to cross-cultural living and the possibility of culture shock.

 

I had taken notes during our training and I‘d written in my journal that I appreciated the information but, in hindsight, I wish our instructors had emphasized a couple of critical points: (1) that we should expect to experience at least some culture shock, and (2) that we should reach out to others—our administrators, our neighbors—to help us through culture shock and to settle into our new lives in that foreign land.

 

But there I was on the mission field, unprepared and unraveled. Dumbfounded. A failure. Numb, broken, and weary to the core of my being. I don’t remember much about the rest of that afternoon.

 

And I felt terribly alone.

 

Yet, God was at work. Only later would I recognize that I’d hit bottom and that with God’s help and the prayers of family and friends back home (who had no way of knowing my circumstances), I was on the way back up, out of the desert wilderness and its despair.

 

The reality of that—of being on the upswing, of arising from the ashes—was out of my sight, out of my thoughts, out of my grasp. I didn’t realize that words of hope from Micah in the Old Testament were already working out in my life that afternoon: “My God will hear me. . . . When I fall, I will arise; when I am in darkness, the Lord will be a light to me” (Micah 7:7-8).

If I’d listened carefully, I could have heard God say, “I am holding you by your right hand—I, the Lord your God. And I say to you, ‘Do not be afraid. I am here to help you’” (Isaiah 41:13).

When we hit rock bottom, God whispers things like, “I love you. Together we’ll get through this. You have doubts and questions and worries, but trust Me. You don’t need to figure out everything this afternoon. Together with Me, you’ll survive this.”

God’s Word encourages us with assurances like Isaiah 40:29, “He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.”

 

The legendary missionary Elisabeth Elliot, newly widowed with a ten-month-old daughter, returned to Ecuador and the work she and her murdered, martyred husband, Jim, had originally started together. But she was overwhelmed with carrying out huge programs and projects underway. She said, “I had to learn to do all kinds of things, which I was not trained or prepared in any way to do.”

 

As she described it, she was trying to do the work of what I estimate to be four people! She wrote, “You can imagine how tempted I was to just plunk myself down and say, ‘There is no way I can do this.’ I wanted to sink into despair and helplessness. . . .”

 

Elisabeth continued: “I remembered a verse that God had given to me before I went to Ecuador in Isaiah 50:7: “The Lord God will help me; therefore, shall I not be confounded. Therefore, have I set my face like a flint and I know that I shall not be ashamed.”

Then Elisabeth had a brilliant insight: “Then I remembered that old Saxon legend, ‘Do the next thing.’”

Then she said something profound, “You don’t have to do the whole thing right this minute, do you?”

Elisabeth Elliot also said, “Sometimes life is so hard you can only do the next thing. Whatever that is just do the next thing. God will meet you there.”

And that afternoon God did meet me there in my little brick house in South America. He helped me do the next thing. He helped me keep breathing, performing like a robot, unpacking, organizing the house, and figuring out what to prepare for the family’s dinner that evening.

I will forever be grateful to Him for that.

Elisabeth asks you:

“Have you had the experience of feeling as if you’ve got far too many burdens to bear, far too many people to take care of, far too many things on your list to do? You just can’t possibly do it, and you get in a panic and you just want to sit down and collapse in a pile and feel sorry for yourself.

“Well, I’ve felt that way a good many times in my life,” Elisabeth writes, “and I go back over and over again to an old Saxon legend, which I’m told is carved in an old English parson somewhere by the sea. . . . The legend is ‘Do the next thing.’ And it’s spelled in what I suppose is Saxon spelling. . . . ‘DOE THE NEXT THYNGE.’”

Finally, Elisabeth asks: “What is the next thing for you to do?”