A reason for Thanksgiving: “Slow steps of progress wrapped in grace”

 

Now, looking back to our pre-Lomalinda days in Seattle, I see the ways God gently, lovingly persuaded me to be willing to relocate there.

 

I was scared—so scared—of living in a remote location in a strange-to-me land.

 

Terrified.

 

Filled with cold-sweat dread.

 

So scared I couldn’t think rationally about “Fear not” and “believe” and “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

 

The unknowns were unnerving. So God set out to change some of my unknowns into something a little more known—a little more familiar.

 

I’m so grateful God didn’t lose patience with me. In His gentle grace, He prepared me ahead of time by, among other things, leading me to the public library where I studied the geography, culture, climate, politics, and agriculture of the place I’d soon call home. God used that information to shine light in the darkness—Colombia no longer seemed like such a black hole.

 

And He led me to books Wycliffe missionaries had written and magazines Wycliffe had published. Stories are powerful. Through those stories, I delved into the hearts and minds and faith and experiences of those who had taken wild-eyed leaps of faith into other-worldly realms (both physically and spiritually).

 

They were spunky folks, using ingenuity and creativity to make a life for themselves and their families.

 

At times they lived with hardships most of us can’t imagine.

 

Sometimes they faced terrors.

 

They chose to live with courage. Tenacity.

 

They chose to live sacrificially. Faithfully.

 

As I read, something started shining off the pages of those books and magazines. I beheld those men’s and women’s love of God, their love of His calling, their sense of purpose and fulfillment.

 

Little by little, through those stories, God helped me take a steady look into the mysterious, dark unknown of Lomalinda.

 

God helped me contemplate doing the unthinkable by breaking my panic-stricken fears into small pieces.

 

Through other people’s stories, He acquainted me with specific coping mechanisms I could apply to my own situation.

 

By walking alongside those people within their stories, God showed me what living by faith means.

 

And that made all the difference. By getting me accustomed to the idea of living in Lomalinda, He also increased my willingness to move there.

 

As Lysa Terkeurst once said, “There’s this beautiful thing called imperfect progress . . . slow steps of progress wrapped in grace.”

 

And when I arrived in Lomalinda, on my shaky, wobbly, mystifying, discouraging first few days, I would do well to remember how God prepared me ahead of time to live there. How good He was to do that for me!

 

God does “prepare His people for works of service” (Ephesians 4:12).

 

Sometimes it’s astounding to recognize—or at least begin to grasp—that we are God’s workmanship, that He has created specific things for us to do, and that He prepares them in advance (Ephesians 2:10).

 

He prepares things for us to do,

and then He prepares us to carry them out.

He offers us an abundant life.

 

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good;

His love endures forever.

1 Chronicles 16:34

 

“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).

 

In the “fight or flight” mode

Last week I told you about the onset of my meltdown in Lomalinda, an out-of-the-way missions center near the equator in South America.

I had yelled at my husband, “We should not have come here. We made a bad mistake. And I’m Not Unpacking One More Thing. We Are Leaving! We Are Going Home!”

And then everything went from bad to worse. (Click on that link if you missed it.)

A black panic threatened. I felt caged, unhinged, alone. A sinking, cold sensation overtook me, despite the tropical heat. I struggled even to breathe.

“When we’re in a crisis and need help,” writes Dr. Henry Cloud, “our brains have instantly changed.”

“When we are under threat,” he continues, “our higher brain’s ability to think clearly, make judgments, find solutions, solve problems, and calm down is being interrupted by a bath of stress hormones that take us to a ‘fight or flight’ mode.

“We get anxious,” he said, “and can be more prone to reacting than thinking.”

Dr. Cloud was describing me and yes, I was in the “fight or flight” mode.

In Chapter 8 of Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go, I wrote about the aftermath of the noon-time portion of the meltdown:

That afternoon Dave returned to school, the kids went to play at a friend’s house, and I continued unpacking and praying, Please, God, get me out of here.

I pictured myself hiking over to the hangar and demanding a flight out—but that wouldn’t work. The pilots would make a fuss and report me to somebody and in the end, I’d have created a kerfuffle and would still be stuck in Lomalinda.

I had to find another way. Another way.

Before long, Eureka! I stumbled upon a comforting thought—bizarre but comforting. If all else failed, I did have a way of escape. I could walk away, unnoticed, and keep walking, from Colombia through Central America and Mexico and California and Oregon and Washington and eventually arrive in Seattle. I wasn’t sure how pedestrians crossed the Panama Canal, but there had to be a way.

Oh, but wait—I didn’t have my passport! It was locked in some safe in the Bogotá office. I was trapped.

I’d never found myself in such a panicked state. I didn’t know what to think, what to do, what to pray.

I couldn’t even give myself a pep talk. At a time like that, words didn’t exist.

I can’t recall what I did next but now, years later, I am comforted by Bible verses that tell us: “the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. . . . The Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God’s will. (Romans 8:26-27, NIV)

The New Living Translation words that last part this way: “the Spirit pleads for us believers in harmony with God’s own will.” That was what I needed so badly when I felt powerless to know what to do.

God didn’t seem distant during those dreadful hours that day. I sensed Him close by me in the room, but He remained silent, standing firm while I whimpered and stumbled around in my distress. I could only groan and reel.

But in the midst of my temporary insanity, somehow—somehow—deep down I comprehended that the Spirit was praying for me, pleading on my behalf with groans my own words couldn’t express. I was rattled and confused and desperate, but He was not.

My crisis reminds me of Jacob wrestling with God in Genesis 32.

God had told him to leave the land he’d lived in for twenty years and return to his home country, so he set out in the direction God’s finger pointed, even though it could put him and his family in grave danger.

Verse  7 says it was a time of “great fear and distress” for Jacob. He must have been worried sick. Stressed almost to the breaking point. Anxious. Maybe in a panic. Desperate.

And it was in that place Jacob wrestled with God all night, despite receiving a wound to the hip. Continuing to fight while injured had to take great strength and steadfastness. He didn’t give up. He persevered, and he came through it—with a limp, yes, but also with God’s blessing and a new name. “Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome” (Genesis 32:28). The name Israel signified his change in character as well as what God intended to do with and through him.

Similarly, in Lomalinda that day, I feared for my wellbeing and that of my family, even though I’d discerned months earlier that God had given us His blessing to go there.

For several days I’d been grumbling, wrestling with Him and my new surroundings, questioning His wisdom and goodness:

I had prayed: “God, You got this all wrong

when You sent us to this place.

What could You have been thinking?”

During those first few days I had felt increasingly broken—perhaps something like Jacob’s wound to the hip. Exhausted and afraid and desperate, I fought, I persevered.

Was it wrong for me to get steamed up and question God’s leading?

Was it sinful to wrestle with Him? 

Joy Smalley writes, “I used to believe that my need to wrestle with God came from a place of distrust and a lack of faith. . . .

“There are so many feelings, actions and desires that cause shame but wrestling with God should never be one of those.

“In fact, facing the truth of our perceptions about God, who we believe he is or isn’t and questioning him is an act of faith. It is an act of love. It is an act of trust and courage.

“This visual of Jacob on the ground, refusing to release God and demanding that he be blessed . . . reminds me of myself,” Joy continues. “I find myself wrestling in the dirt with God often, demanding that he show himself to me, demanding that he stay with me, questioning his sanity and care.

“Yet this fight isn’t about turning my back on God, it is about facing him, gripping him and refusing to let go.”

Joy has a point.

I wonder if I can extend a little grace to myself.

Can I believe that, like Joy, I wasn’t turning my back on God

but instead, I was facing Him, grabbing Him,

holding on for dear life?

She goes on to say, “Faith in him is an ever-changing, ever-evolving journey that is intimately personal with hills, valleys and deep deserts. But I still hope in him because of how he met with Jacob in the dirt. How he allowed Jacob to man-handle him, to throw him, to grip him and demand of him peace.

“. . . Our God gives us space to question his character, his will, his goodness and his purpose. This is why my feet are still planted in faith because my God wants me to be fully exposed before him without shame. . . .

“This God of yours is inviting you to wrestle and I encourage you to join him for there is peace to be found in the dirt.” (JoySmalley, “Processing God”)

Yes, Joy has given me much to mull over. Did I, like Jacob, come out of the fight with a change of character? Were the battle and perseverance part of the training for what God planned for my future? Did my messy meltdown strengthen my faith and bring me into a more intimate relationship with God?

Getting back to the verses from Romans, above, my heart overflows with gratitude because “the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.” The next verse tells us, “And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them” (Romans 8:28, NLT).

That’s God’s grace. Mindboggling grace.

He offers it to you, too.
Claim those glorious Bible verses for yourself.
Let God's amazing grace rest on you,
fill you.
Remember: He delights in you!

You won’t get it right every time

I often feel ashamed when I think back on how much I struggled upon arriving in Lomalinda.

But now, in my old age, I am inclined to extend a dose of grace to myself. Instead of focusing on all I did wrong, perhaps I should give myself credit for doing some things right.

Despite my emotional, mental, and physical groaning on our first day—such a very long day!—I had smiled at a lot of people. I had made conversations with people. I had thanked a lot of people.

I had noticed and appreciated Lomalinda’s clean air. And safety—no need to obsess over thugs stealing our luggage.

I had watched over my two little kids as they got acquainted with the house, yard, and new friends.

I had worked—hard—to unpack and begin creating a nurturing home for my kids and husband.

I hadn’t given up.

And I had talked to God—often in gasping snippets, but at least I was aware He was near, had a listening ear, and cared.

That first night in Lomalinda, Dave and I tucked in Matt and Karen and then settled into our own bed—a handmade plywood platform with a thin foam pad for a mattress. The sheets felt damp and had a musty, fusty odor, but at least they weren’t cold like the sheets in Bogotá had been the night before—these were warm.

Exhausted, I took a minute to thank God for safe journeys and reminders of His presence during that long day of many new beginnings, relationships, and challenges. He had gone before us, cared for us as a parent cares for a child, and brought us to that place.

I thanked Him for the Rushes and the people who welcomed us at the hangar. I thanked Him for Lomalinda’s safety and clean air and David Hockett and the nice house and substitute aunts and uncles and Grandma Miller for my kids. And for the McIntoshes and Connets and Holteens. And for the beauty of the night sky. And I apologized for hollering at Glenny. (from Chapter 6, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go)

On that night, little did I know what the next couple of days held.

It wouldn’t be pretty.

But today, all these years later,

I think the time has come

to finally extend a little grace to myself.

“You won’t get it right, all the time,” writes Kelly Balaire.

 

“Some of us need to hear this loud and clear today: you won’t get it right all the time. You’ll yell when you meant to be sweet.

You’ll sweat when you should have stayed cool.

You’ll be anxious when you determined to have peace.

You’ll doubt when you determined to believe.

You’ll say to yourself, ‘Why can’t I do better? Be better? Act better?’

You may put your head down, in defeat.

Yet, I imagine, God lifts it up again,

whispering in your ear,

‘Child, I still love you. Even though . . . Always . . . .’

Let that relief sink in. . . .”

(Kelly Balaire)

Part Two: Standing in front of a mirror and yelling at kids

Last week I asked, “Have you ever been standing in front of a mirror when you yelled at your kids?”

If you have, you were startled at what you saw. And ashamed. The things we do to our faces when we get mad and scream—well, they’re frightful. Mean. Ugly.

We should never, never inflict that on kids, yet that’s what my face looked like to our new little neighbor, Glenny, on our first day in Lomalinda.

You see, he had surprised me by darting into my kitchen and holding a snake within six inches of my face and hollering, “Ya wanna see a real, live boa constrictor?”

Somewhere deep in my brain, I connected “boa constrictor” with “danger” and I was so scared I couldn’t breathe.

I bent down and glowered into Glenny’s sweaty, freckled, beaming little face and—when I could finally gulp in air—I yelled, “No. Get out!” pointing toward the door.

I’ve never forgotten how his bright smiling face dimmed, he blinked, caught his breath, turned, and sprinted down the hall. (Click here to read about that.)

Immediately I knew I’d done a bad thing. I grabbed my camera and ran after him, calling out, “Wait, Glenny, let me take your picture!” 

For all these years, I’ve been heartsick for the memories Glenny must have of me yelling into his little face. I’m sure I looked cross and dreadful and horrid.

Here’s where Part Two of this story comes in.

A year ago, Dave and I were at our granddaughter’s track meet and I snapped a picture of her. Then I noticed a man to the right of her. I stepped closer—it was Glenn! Forty years had passed since I’d last seen him, yet I’d have recognized his dear face anywhere.

Our granddaughter in red on left; Glenn on right in black.

I walked over to him. “Are you Glenn Gardner?”

“Yes,” he smiled, studying my face, trying to place who I was.

“I’m Linda Thomas, your neighbor in Lomalinda.” Both of us burst out laughing and gave each other hugs. During our visit, we met his adorable daughter and lovely wife and learned they live in a nearby town. His daughter was on the middle school team competing against my granddaughter’s team.

Dave, Glenn, and Linda

As we visited at the track that day, I reminded Glenn of the boa constrictor incident, and he admitted he remembered it—of course any child would—so I apologized and asked his forgiveness.

He was quick to assure me, wearing his great smile,

that he’d forgiven me.

That was one of the most important moments of my life.

For more than half of my lifetime 

I’ve grieved over what I did to Glenn.

After my memoir was published in June, I sent Glenn a copy and soon he sent me this:

“I received your memoir and am reading it. So glad you wrote this.

“As for the snake, rest assured I always enjoyed spending time in your home. I have very fond memories of you in your kitchen listening to the Carpenters, so much so that I bought all the Carpenters’ CDs once I got married and played them in our car, in our kitchen, etc., all the while being reminded of those wonderful years you were our neighbors. . . .

“Forever grateful for you, and this book has been and will be healing.” *

I wrote back to Glenn, saying I still felt bad he’d had to look at my ugly, screaming face. “THAT face is what you had to look at. THAT face is still in your memory. That’s why I’m overwhelmed at your forgiving spirit and your grace. THANK YOU.”

Glenn replied (and this still chokes me up), 

“Consider yourself loved and cherished. 

THE only face of Linda Thomas I know 

is one of love and comfort, 

so look in the mirror and smile. 

THAT face is in my memory.”

What grace! What forgiveness! His words still make me cry in gratitude.

I could write much more about experiences of receiving grace and forgiveness from God and others but instead, let me leave you with these words from Frederick Buechner:

“To forgive somebody is to say one way or another, “You have done something unspeakable, and by all rights I should call it quits between us. . . . However, although I make no guarantee that I will be able to forget what you’ve done, and though we may both carry scars for life, I refuse to let it stand between us. I still want you for my friend.”

“To accept forgiveness means to admit that you’ve done something unspeakable that needs to be forgiven. . . .”

           

“When somebody you’ve wronged forgives you, you’re spared the dull and self-diminishing throb of a guilty conscience.

“When you forgive somebody who has wronged you, you’re spared the dismal corrosion of bitterness and wounded pride.

“For both parties, forgiveness means the freedom again to be at peace inside their own skins and to be glad in each other’s presence.”  (Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking)   

All I can say is “Amen.”

And “Thank you.”

*About eighteen months after our family returned to the States, Glenn’s brother-in-law, Chet Bitterman, was kidnapped by Marxist guerrillas and murdered. You can read more about it in my memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir.