I have just spent the last 20 minutes speaking with a bright young boy who came to the church this morning to learn to drum from another young man in the church. The child can’t be more than 11, but he is dedicated and focused, and is learning quickly. He is also learning the guitar. I asked him what music meant to him, how it made him feel. “Sometimes joy, sometimes sadness.” He shared also how his mother had died and he lived with his father. He longs to be a musician and travel to Spain.
It made me consider for a moment my life. Who would I be without the experience of my mother? Who would I be if I, like some of my squadmates, had never had a loving relationship with my father?
In the moment when he told me that, my heart broke. I suddenly felt that terrible awkwardness wash over me: what do you say to a child who has lost his mother? I shared my sadness over his loss, and my sympathy. I was reminded (and shared, with some redactions) the story of Matt Redman, whose father committed suicide, and whose mother remarried an abusive man. A young Matt Redman felt personally responsible for the tragedy, and felt trapped because he did not want to cost his mother another husband. Despite that brokenness, God worked, and last night we sang Redman’s music in our worship service.
I find hope in that story, hope that even in the darkness, light can still shine. I don’t always understand why we go through difficulties. The compassionate part of me struggles with the horrors of this world, and I alternatively rage against and embrace the circumstances which challenge me. The older I get though, the more I understand in my own life the verses from James, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”
That’s not said to be trite or glib, or diminish they incomprehensible pain that can overwhelm us. 5 minutes spent reading C.S. Lewis’ “A Grief Observed” should dispel any notion that somehow Christianity serves as a cosmic crutch: Christian hearts break just as readily as anyone else’s.
In my family we have all read Max Lucado’s book “On the Anvil,” and stating that we are “on the anvil” has become shorthand for expressing where we’re at spiritually in the moment: being heated, pounded, reworked in the hands of the Master. I hate and love the anvil. It hurts, it’s never easy, and it makes me face myself in new ways every time. I can go for long seasons between my times on the anvil; on the World Race, I’m lucky if I can get a week between bouts.
I am, however, grateful for it in the long run. God wrecks me, but when He’s done with the work, I find myself strengthened, sharpened, and more effective. I’m better. If He didn’t care, He wouldn’t spend the time working on me.
