The Grace I Didn't Want

My favorite Christmas gift from my mother is socks. Crazy, colorful socks. I believe this is because my parents sought to instill a spirit of gratefulness for every gift. Plus I prize utility.

But sometimes you want something other than socks.

For the last six months, I worked a temp job I did not want. I was an office gerbil in a seemingly endless cubicle farm, and I migrated webpages on the weirdest medical topics you can possibly imagine in a software environment I loathed (Shaaaarepooooint! *shakes fist*).

This job was supposed to end five months ago. Through various job search rollercoasters (the callback high, interviews, the protracted waiting, rejections, etc.), this was a constant. I jumped on the Schuylkill by 7, slid into my cube a tetch after 8, and at the end of each week I collected my paycheck, not knowing if I’d still have work after each Friday. And yet.
It is a grace I did not want. But it’s been what I needed.

In some ways, it had to happen. I’ll admit it, I did a Jessica Jones-level eyeroll when I wrote that sentence.

It’s a very strange dichotomy: to hate the situation you’re in, but also be simultaneously aware that it’s useful and for your ultimate good. I’ve had really amazing conversations with coworkers, a boss who’s been really kind, and the calming steadiness of a predictable corporate environment. The long drive gave me time to catch up on sermons and Turtles’ B-sides. No experience is wasted.

Now begins the next chapter. More hang-gliding with Jesus! Here's hoping for some awesome socks.

The Leather Jacket and Latent Brokenness

My moto jacket is my second skin. I bought it when I moved back to Philadelphia, and it’s accompanied me on many crisp, late-night walks. It survived a particularly fetid journey on the Paris Metro and a drenching surprise thunderstorm in Ankara.

It’s also shredded. Tiny rips trail up the sleeves, the bottom edges are worn down, I keep tacking down fraying stitches, and the leather’s gouged from years of urban spelunking.

It’s time for this thing to retire. But its shiny pleather successor, fortuitously snatched from a summer clearance rack, still hangs in my closet.

Because this jacket is useful. It’s softened and molded to my body. It yields.
I keep thinking about how hard times work in a similar way on our souls if we let the Holy Spirit do his thing. Life has a tendency to wear on us, and I wish we’d acknowledge that a bit more instead of pasting on a church-ready “I’m fine” smile. There’s a reason why blues music is so good—it strokes the deepest feelings of human existence. It resonates.

I was talking with a good friend a bit ago about the idea of latent brokenness: that as we get older, we become more aware that people are not as put together as we think (fear?). For every person visibly coming apart at the seams, there’s a bunch of people who suffer similarly in quiet.

But inside, as the Spirit mends throughout difficulty, the weak sectors of our souls get reinforced. The frayed edges get tacked down. He molds us so we become more like Christ. And then we can turn to comfort others. This is the exciting part. The latent brokenness suddenly becomes useful. And those who used to endure in silence find kinship together.

In this season, my heart/brain gets a jolt of thankfulness every once in a while. I see how God provides in the day, especially in small ways. My favorite sparks are meaningful conversations with coworkers, or an answer to prayer (especially when I didn’t ask for it). I don’t want these to remain short jolts. I want to rest in this. But all I have to offer God is my brokenness. And somehow, He accepts that and begins to shape it.

Aspiration Risk

This is not where I thought I’d be.

Almost a year ago I started what I thought was a dream job. I’d finally found a flavor fusion of writing and ministry with awesome people.

And then it wasn’t.

I’ve always had a sense of purpose, meaning and mission in my work. But all of that vanished. Without exaggeration, everything became meaningless. What should I do next? Would I be any good at it? Would I ever like my work again?

Around the same time, I experienced a personal struggle and loss so sharp that I still can’t quite find pithy language for it. So that’s not for here.

I’ve historically found my identity in my work; my circumstances. As a believer, I know that this identity cannot be the last say. But setting everything on something intangible is horrendously hard when you maintain a physical existence.

My brain and heart are frequently disconnected (I’ve been accused of being too Cartesian), so rational thoughts such as “you’ve survived hard seasons in the past, so you’ll get through this one” might plink on the top of the head, but don’t comfort.

Depression/anxiety is curious because it freezes time. Any idea of the future is horrible because whatever the possibility, it’s fated to be terrible. All that exists is the paralyzing present. For me, time feels like a drawn-out numbing tunnel, devoid of color and light. When feelings surface, they just hurt, often manifesting as physical pain. For a planner and formerly strategy/task-oriented human, it’s terrifying to feel so out of control. No plan. No vision.

Then comes the whispered self-reproach for feeling bad and being a downer because after all, other people have it worse. I’m being too dramatic? Fine.

The Reformed bent of my faith community isn’t helpful when you have thoughts like these.

Stiff-upper-lip sentiments about God’s will and sovereignty smack of quasi-fatalistic resignation, even if it’s unintentional. Much like Job’s friends, they feel uncaring and make the pain worse. I said to one friend (who, thankfully, is nothing like them), “I just need to know that God loves me and has good for me.” And on better days, I ask for hope for the ultimate future.

I can’t really handle much more than that right now. No insecure pastors bickering on Twitter or in the church about minute theological concepts, defending one’s rightness, or trying to pick apart the mysteries of God with man-made systems. Just Jesus, and to know that God’s Word is true. Anything else comes across as callous and indifferent to the Christ I know, who cared.

Dear friends (and the odd wise professional) have shown the Christ who cares to me. This is the main reason I’m walking forward.

Aspiration Risk is a terse hat-tip to the work I’ve been doing the past several months in medical articles. It’s provision for which I’m thankful.