Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.
I was baptized young. I remember emerging from the warm pool, hair pressed down by the water, voices singing “Praise Him from whom all blessings flow!” A hand reached to help me out of the pool and a white towel was slung around my shoulders. Congregants gathered around me to pray. Looking up, I saw tears in my father’s eyes.
I didn’t know then that even more baptisms would follow. Each one submerging me deeper and deeper into the wonderful mystery and goodness of God’s grace. Each time, it’s like stepping out into the crisp sunlight and wondering how you could ever have mistaken your jail cell for freedom.
In September 2014, one of several seasonal weather formations evolved into a typhoon in the western pacific. Over thousands of miles and many weeks, rain poured from a vault of endless grey skies and gale force winds.
I watched these events unfold from the patio of a large stone house located in San Mateo, a few hours east of Manila in the Philippines. I thought I was safe from my perch, but the storm found me in the end. I wasn’t spared it’s rushing power.
That month we lived with a wonderful Filipino family who have established relationships with the street boys of Manila.
Manila is endless miles of sprawling roadways leading to progressively smaller and smaller alleys flanked by multi-storied apartment buildings clustered together. The buildings seem to lean in over you as you walked between them. Criss-crossing up above were webs of power lines and satellite dishes.
Those back alleys are hard to forget. The boys would sleep on the concrete, or else in shacks tucked away in odd corners.
I remember feeling completely unable to love these kids. It was nine months into the World Race and I had run out of emotional energy. I looked at them and felt only a superficial sense of obligation. They are all alone Zach. They need you. They need help. You have to love them. What kind of missionary are you if you can’t love them?
So it went for a few weeks. I labored on each day. Playing endless games of rock-paper-scissors with these beautiful kids who lived on the bare concrete. At night I stared at a blank ceiling and felt horrible, inadequate, shameful, broken and tired.
Meanwhile, the wind began to blow and dark clouds filled the skies. it began to rain.
Raindrops accumulated on the mountain. Little trickles turned into gushing rivers. Water heaved itself over the steps and poured onto the grassy lawn just below my window. The typhoon was upon us. The road outside my house had become a waterway laden with debris. People everywhere began scattering to high ground.
It was too much for me. I hated that I couldn’t feel more compassion and empathy. I hated that I was simply putting up an act. It was like I’d encountered a dead spot in my own heart. Not a drop of love in my soul. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. Staring up at the ceiling I release my own torrent of frustration…
How could you make everything so broken, God? Why do I feel like I’m the only trying to fix all these problems? Where were you today, huh? What’s your excuse?
I don’t recall all I said in the darkness. At some point, I ran out of air. I didn’t have anything left to say. This was it. It was all I had. I’d shown my anger. I sat in the silence, crying in my bed. Raindrops pattering off the windows. After a minute or two, God’s response settled into my heart.
Thanks for being honest with me Zach. You’ve been angry about many things for a long time. I want you to know that it’s okay. I won’t leave you.
The days following were more disorganized than usual. The water took several days to drain out of the city. People escaped their homes in boats or makeshift rafts. The cobblestones around our house had to be swept clean of branches and dirt. Roads had to be smoothed over or rebuilt entirely.
I remember sitting in my chair after the flood. Beyond lay a bright green forest, freshly laundered by the typhoon. The scenery was incredible.
My own heart was a disaster. But I wasn’t angry or upset anymore. It was like an old building had finally been torn down.
Looking into my own imperfect reflection formed in the floodwaters, I realized I wasn’t a great person. I was flawed.
And that was okay.
I found the wreckage of my fabricated personality to be incredibly peaceful. I think God likes it when we are authentic, even if its ugly. Our masks might make us feel safe, but they’ll also keep love from reaching in to the inner places of our heart.
May God’s grace find you in your struggles. May you have the courage to be authentic. May God’s love reach into the inner places of your life.
Amen.
