This past weekend was my high school reunion.  I didn’t attend.

There was a time that I would have attended, indeed, I did attend the last reunion.  But I’ve just finished looking through 141 pictures posted on Facebook from this past weekend and I am reminded why I have no place attending.

Not that it wouldn’t have been good to see everyone.  Not that it wouldn’t have been “fun”.  But in truth, those days are not days that I reminisce upon with feelings of nostalgia and longing for the “good ‘ol days”.  Not even close.  They are days filled with uncertainty.  With fear.  With anger and confusion and alcoholism.  Why would I want to relive those days?

The pictures from the reunion’s “festivities” I viewed were chock full of drinking.  Of people “flipping” the cameras off, as if that was a very cool thing to do.  Years later, and not much has changed.  But I have changed.  I am different.  I am reminded of that tonight.

So all of this has me thinking about the act of “remembering”.  There are many places in scripture where we are told to “remember”.  One huge such instance is the Lord’s Supper–“Do This in Remembrance of Me” (Luke 22:19).  In Isaiah 46:8-9, we are told to “remember the former things”:

8 “Remember this and stand firm, recall it to mind, you transgressors, 9 remember the former things of old; for I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me…”

But these kinds of “remembering” serve a purpose.  They serve as a marker.  A marker points to something much larger than itself.  In these two cases above, the marker points to God Himself.  We “mark” birthdays, because they point to another year of life.  We mark anniversaries of events because another year has passed.  In a few days, another year shall have passed for a difficult, tragic event in my life.  How will I mark it?  Will I mark it with sadness and grief?  Yes, there is that.  But I hope to mark it pointing to something much larger than that–and that is to mark it with acknowledgement of grace.  Is this an easy thing to do?  No.  It is very hard to do, actually.  But what is the purpose of remembering if not that in remembering we press forward to Home, where all that is lost will be made well again?

Which brings to mind a key scripture on this subject.  Phil 3:13-16:

13 Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, 14 I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. 15 Let those of us who are mature think this way, and if in anything you think otherwise, God will reveal that also to you. 16 Only let us hold true to what we have attained.

I used to look at verse 13 and 14 as overused.  Cliche.  But there are many verses I once classified as such, that, when really studied in context, it is revealed that they are far from being just that.

So tonight in thinking about class reunions and remembering, I am reminded that there are things to mark and things to forget.  It does me no good–none whatsoever–to return to behavior of former days, though admittedly that remains a very real fight on some days.  It does me no good to fondly look back on those days.  They were not good days.  They were hard days.

I love the image of “straining forward”, because that is it exactly.  It is straining–“to exert to the utmost”–that’s exactly what it takes, at least in my experience, to move toward what lies ahead.  To press on toward the goal of the prize.

This states that the prize is the “Upward of God in Christ Jesus”.  What does that mean exactly?  I’m not sure exactly, but what I’ve read in my Logos Study software is that it points toward Home.  The ESV Study Bible has this to say about it:

The prize is the fullness of blessings and rewards in the age to come, most especially being in perfect fellowship with Christ forever.

So tonight I want to be sure that I am remembering the things that I am to remember, and properly forgetting what lies behind and somehow, some way pressing forward–straining forward, with everything I’ve got.

***Here’s a quote from C.S. Lewis regarding markers:

When we are lost in the woo the sight of a signpost is a great matter.  He who first sees it cries, “Look!”  The whole party gathers round and stares.  But when we have found the road and are passing signposts every few miles, we shall not stop and stare.  They will encourage us and we shall be grateful to the authority that set them up.  But we shall not stop and stare, or not much; not on this road, though their pillars are of silver and their lettering of god.  “We would be at Jerusalem.”

 

 

I have some good news regarding my current job.  Great news, actually.  With the addition of new government contracts, my hours have been increased to near full-time status for now.  This is huge.  I am so relieved.  Also, the company has decided to provide me with a top of the line Dell laptop to work on, even though I am not an employee, only a contractor.  Not as awesome as my beloved Mac, but pretty darn near as awesome.  I took possession of the computer this week and it has made a tremendous difference—it is so much faster and eyestrain has been reduced significantly.

Next week is a long, full week of meetings here in the area.  I’m looking forward to meeting my co-workers from across the US.  A few weeks after that I will do some traveling for the company.

I’m still hoping that this company will employ me full-time in the future.  Both Keli and I are without insurance at the moment.  I’ve been able to get my most critical medication through a patient assistance program, but that is a temporary fix.  The stability of full-time employment with insurance would be a tremendous gift.

I’m working so hard.  I am so tired.  That is a whine.  A grateful whine, but a whine none-the-less.

The timing for the increase of hours has been critical.  Which brings to mind Matthew 6:25-34–where Jesus is preaching and addresses anxiety for what one should eat or wear.  If it were only myself, I could live in my car, or backpack across Nepal. I am not one that worries about what I will eat or wear or where I will sleep.  But I have four children dependent on me to provide for them–even my oldest, though she helps out financially as much as possible, still needs shelter and support.  The key is, do I believe this passage to be truth?

It’s an easy passage to believe when our needs are being met.  It is not easy to believe when the electricity is about to be turned off, as was the case recently.  How does one become the sort of person who can believe this, and all scripture for that matter, regardless of the circumstances?  I really want to know the answer to this question.  I mean, I REALLY want to know the answer.

Jesus seems almost exasperated here in this passage, addressing his listeners as being “you of little faith.”  And when he makes that statement, I know that He is speaking directly at me.  And maybe He is speaking directly at you, too.

There are many, many people that I admire who seem to have this preternatural belief.  People that I look up to, both living and dead, that had or have this tremendous faith.  Faith that demands that scripture is truth.  Faith that demands that God is good.  Faith that demands that “all things work together for good”–and not in a cross-stitch it and hang it on the wall way.

Good grief, I want to be like that.  To be able to stand fast regardless of the situation.  To not fail in faith as I often do.

 

 

 

I recently reread the book “Surprised by Joy” by C.S. Lewis.  I don’t usually reread books.  Not my nature.  But this book had such an impact on my soul that I found myself pulled back to it in recent days.

I’ve had difficulty writing lately.  I’ve just not had any words.  I miss writing, though.  I hope to be able to return to it.  It’s disconcerting to not be able to do something that you love to do so much.

To return to writing, I’m going to attempt a short series referencing different quotes from the book “Surprised by Joy”.

Have you ever been told to “Wipe that look off of your face?”  What exactly does that mean?  Usually it means that there is a look of contempt, or sheer hardness and defiance on your face.  In your eyes.  Our eyes reveal so much.

Before becoming a believer, this is a look I wore well.  It was a part of who I was.  Questioning everything, believing nothing.  Shaped by the evil that is in this world.  Defiant.

This is the look that has crept back across my face and into my eyes in the recent weeks, I am ashamed to say.  Several weeks ago, the weight and responsibility of raising my crew alone–my four children–became inexorably heavy.  And, even beyond that, even larger than that, there appeared to be no hope for the future.  Even today, even tonight, hope remains elusive.

I share that not as an excuse for the return of “the look”, but rather as an explanation of how I came to be there, once again.  And there were several other factors involved as well.  They really aren’t important actually.  What is important is that my naturally cynical soul took over my heart of flesh (Ezekiel 36:26).

Why would anyone want to be cynical?  Why would anyone want to return to cynicism after experiencing life without it?  I don’t know.  It’s pathetic, actually.  But sometimes it’s just easy to be cynical.  Sometimes it’s easier to have a hardened spirit, then to have a spirit that is real.  That is in a relationship with God.  I don’t know why this is.  And now that I am mulling this over, maybe it is not this way for everyone, in fact, I know that it is not.  How I wish I was like many, many people that I know and greatly admire, for whom cynicism seems to be not an issue.

My uncle Lewis—for that is how I refer to C.S. Lewis–speaks about this “look”.  He, too, had the look.  He writes this about “the look”:

Realism had been abandoned; the New Look was somewhat damaged; and chronological snobbery was seriously shaken…..I was off once more into the land of longing, my heart at once broken and exalted as it had never been since the old days at Bookham.  There was nothing whatever to do about it; no question of returning to the desert.  I had simply been ordered — or, rather, compelled–to “take that look off my face.”  And never to resume it either.

I can not say that my heart–my soul–is at once broken and exalted.  I wish that it were. I wish that it were anything.   But I can say that to remain with this “look on my face” is also not an option.  I’m not sure how to remove it, other than to begin to push forward once again.  To return to study and prayer.   I am stirred–ordered–or, rather, compelled–to “take that look off my face.”  I can only assume that this discipline, or chastisement, is from God.  And well-deserved.