Lost and Found

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Today’s beach trip revealed a surprise, literally. When Birgitta and I came over the dune ready to enjoy a hazy but lovely afternoon together, we saw that someone had dug a giant hole in the sand. And sitting in the middle of it was the previously-buried blue kayak that I watched sink below the sand many months ago. (1/25/11 – “Hidden Away”)

During winter storms the beach’s configuration had changed, and the shallow covering of sand I remembered had grown a foot deep. Seeing that this “lost” boat had been found was very satisfying. The fact that someone was actually hunting for it meant even more.

All of us feel lost once in a while, and when we do, we ache to be found. I remember feeling lost at 13, that awkward age between childhood and adolescence when kids struggle to find their place.

My parents viewed me as a child, but my changing body (pimples and other surprises) told me otherwise. Having moved to a new neighborhood, I’d lost my old friendships and felt like a bottom-feeder at school. My older sister was a beauty, my younger brother a prince, and I longed for a label, too.

Everything came to a head one Sunday morning at Moody Church. I’d asked a Sunday school pal to come home with me for lunch, but she couldn’t, and I took it personally. I started to cry on the church steps, and when Mom arrived she said, “What’s the matter?”

Feeling like I couldn’t possibly summarize my many woes in one sentence I said, “Nobody loves me.”

Now that I’ve mothered seven children through being 13, I see how that conversation was doomed. What statement could possibly have offered the comfort I needed at that moment?

“Oh honey, that’s not true.” Mom said. “Your father and I love you, and so does…” (glancing around) “…so does Caroline!”

Caroline was my brother’s pal, 4 years younger than me, just a little kid. Mom’s “comfort” only deepened my conviction that no one loved me, and my life was without purpose. I felt lost and ached to be found.

God is in that exact business, finding the lost and lavishing his love on them. And he even goes one step further, allowing us to find him, not only when we seek him but even when we don’t. His desire is that none of us feel lost but instead all of us know the delight of being found.

I’ve learned since my crisis on the church steps that most 13 year olds feel as I did, and it quickly passes.

As for this afternoon’s newly visible kayak, if it could talk it would say, “I was lost but now am found!”

“I revealed myself to those who did not ask for me; I was found by those who did not seek me. To a nation that did not call on my name, I said, ‘Here am I, here am I’.” (Isaiah 65:1-2)

Caged

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When our son Nelson was 19 months, we moved him from the nursery to a second bedroom, because another baby was on the way. Even though we put him in a second crib, he was excited about his new room because of a big-boy-bed waiting in the corner.

Just after we moved him, he learned to climb out of his crib. And like most toddlers who figure that out, he began refusing to stay in his room. After a story and prayer time each night, we’d sing, then tuck him in. But when we got to the bottom of the stairs, he’d be right behind us.

This dilemma grew from cute to exasperating, and nothing worked to keep him in his room. Eventually we decided to gate him in. That worked for about 10 minutes until he learned to scale the gate. Nate made a trip to the store for a second gate, and with one above the other, we finally penned him in.

We paid a price for success, however. Rather than surrender quietly, Nelson used his room as a giant playpen, emptying drawers, pulling them out to use as ladders, removing sheets from the two beds, tearing pages out of books. When he tired of playing, he’d fall asleep at the door, often with one arm and one leg outside the gate.

No one likes to be locked in a cage, whether it’s physical or emotional, but sometimes confinement is good.

I remember learning of an experiment at a big-city grade school. Its playground bordered a busy street, and during recess the children played only near the school building, fearful of fast-moving cars. After a fence was built at the edge of the road, the children took advantage of the entire playground. They even played near the fence, just inches from dangerous traffic.

Little Nelson saw his “bars” as a prison. The school children viewed theirs as freedom. Why the difference?

It’s probably a control issue. We told Nelson, “You must stay in your room.” There was no negotiating, and his determination to get out was the result of a desire to buck the system.

The school children were told, “You can play anywhere on the playground.” There were no restrictions. When they hovered near the building, it was because they chose it. When the “bars” went up, they were relieved.

Many people reject religion because they see it as a set of non-negotiable rules that take the fun out of life. But if they understood that God’s structure protects them from harm, they might view it as a relief.

God is the one who gave us free will in the first place. We can fight against his laws (which include natural laws) or submit to them, believing his fences actually bring freedom. Within his boundaries, he gives us unlimited choices, but doing things our own way just to buck the system is foolish.

No toddler understands the importance of going to bed at night. But if we would have taken down Nelson’s gates and let him fall asleep wherever he chose, maybe he’d have chosen his bed.

“The trouble is not with the law, for it is spiritual and good. The trouble is with me, for I am all too human, a slave to sin.” (Romans 7:14)

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Spa Day

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None of us go to the hospital if we can help it. But this morning I checked into one for a routine colonoscopy.

After being escorted to my private cubicle, a sixty-something nurse with gorgeous, swingy, red hair recorded my health history on a complicated computer program. She typed on 15 different screens while simultaneously conversing with me. “Colonoscopy prep is rough,” she said, “but today you’ll have a better day. Think of it as your spa day.”

She wrapped one wrist with an ID band and put an IV in the other. When she asked if I’d finished drinking the liquid prescribed for the evening before, I was able to say yes, to which she said, “Good! You’ll absolutely sparkle in there.”

Becoming chilly in my thin hospital gown, I asked for a blanket. She walked to a stainless steel refrigerator that looked like it belonged in a designer kitchen, opened the “freezer” section, and grabbed a pile of hot flannel. Spa-time had begun. When the first blanket cooled, she brought me a second.

After checking blood pressure (98/65), temp (97.3) and pulse (71), I was wheeled to my colonoscopy destination. The doctor introduced himself and rattled off a description of the procedure, ending with, “Any questions?”

“How many colonoscopies have you done?” I said.

“I stopped counting at 3000,” he said. “As soon as you turn on your left side, we’ve got your good-time-drugs ready.” (Spa-lingo, for sure.) Quickly after that, through a happy haze, I saw my innards fly by on the TV as if I was riding the “tube” in London’s underground.

In a look-back analysis of the day, it struck me how willingly I’d abandoned myself to medical personnel I hadn’t met before. They “seemed” competent (15 screens, 3000+ procedures), but that’s all I knew. The question is, do I just as readily abandon myself to God?

My actions often say, “Lord, I can handle this problem better than you, but I’ll let you know if I need you.” That’s the opposite of abandoning myself, even though he’s the all-powerful expert in every field, the only one with the answer to every dilemma.

Although God probably wouldn’t have come to earth to perform my colonoscopy, he put together my whole gastrointestinal system in the first place, so no one knows more about it than he does. He also designed my heart, soul and mind, which is why I should eagerly abandon myself to his sovereign care in those categories, just as I put my physical care in the hands of medical personnel today.

God may not physically walk a hospital’s halls each day, but today I learned one way he does show up there: by bringing new babies into the world. At this hospital every birth is announced with a music-box version of Brahms Lullaby over the “spa” speakers. And today I heard that lovely tune 5 times.

“I waited. God looked. He listened. He lifted me. He taught me. People see this, abandoning themselves to God.” (parts of Psalm 40:1-3 The Message)