My Psalm of Surrender

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God both gives and takes away.
Will I hold tight on take-away day?
I choose my plan instead of God’s;
It’s blessing-suicide, Christian fraud.

My thoughtful choice is often me,
Though Scripture details history
That tracks God’s ownership of all,
Unbridled power at his call.

Stubborn, prideful, dare I be?
It’s filthy sin. God would agree.
So what’s to do? Is there no hope?
I’m at the end of my frayed rope.

The only plan that yields success
And promises to clean this mess
Is stopping short and kneeling down,
Before my own sin makes me drown.

I crumble, cry and want just him.
I get it now. My mind’s not dim.
He gives and takes for just one purpose,
For our good, and not to hurt us.

Life on earth is one big test,
Losses, gains, my sins confessed.
I long to learn to go God’s way,
To make no plans by what I say.

God’s every move is made with flare.
I’m awed and can’t do more than stare.
When I relinquish my control,
He puts his peace inside my soul.

“Oh Father, let me try again
To be your daughter, be your friend.
I want you to be pleased with me
But know that this can never be…

Until I take a step you’ll show
Without demanding that I know
The total trip and where it’s going.
It’s yours alone to do that showing.

Remind me often, awesome Lord,
That you’re in charge. And I’ll lean toward
That one small step you let me see.
I give back all that you gave me.

My stress, my angst, my fear – they’re yours.
Please take those, too. My heart just soars,
As eagerly I wait and look
For signs of you. I’ll read your book.

I offer up this psalm today
And want to try to walk your way,
Surrendering my plans, my ways,
And walking your path all my days.

Psalm of Surrender

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We all know the familiar Scripture passage from the Book of Job that’s been repeated so often people think it’s folklore: “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.”

This verse is Job’s response to unspeakable loss: his ten children, his herds, his home, his employees and his health, all gone in just a few minutes. The loss of life alone was enough to overwhelm even the strongest believer in God.

The Lord still gives and takes away today. He took Nate from us but then gave us Micah, Evelyn and Thomas. He took our house in a sale that was necessary but then gave us the Michigan cottage full time. He took everything from Job but then gave it all back later.

That, however, isn’t always how it works.

Sometimes God takes from us in multiples (as he did from Job) but doesn’t give anything back. It’s never without good reason, but when we’re in a loss-phase that makes no sense, we plead with God to make it end.

Our family refers to the year 2005 as “the year of death” because of the six precious family members we lost in eight months. In January we traveled to California for the memorial service of my Dad’s brother, Uncle Edward. In mid-March, three died on the same weekend, one only 23 years old: my Aunt Joyce who mentored me, my cousin’s daughter Amy in a hit-and-run accident, and my mom’s brother, Uncle Jack. Two weeks later, on April 5, Mom died, and that summer my brother’s father-in-law also passed away. We wondered, “Who’s next?”

None of us could explain it then, nor can we now. But the alternatives are either to surrender to the mystery of what God is doing or trust in our own short-sightedness.

Sometimes the Lord asks us to undergo losses less significant than death but nevertheless important: a job, a house, a friendship, a boyfriend, money. My own family members experienced multiple losses in 2008-2009, even before Nate had cancer. One day during my prayer time I had nothing to say to God, no questions, no praises, no thank you’s.

As I sat completely depleted, not knowing what to do, he put a thought into my mind: “Write Me a Psalm.”

I wasn’t sure if it was my crazy idea or God’s good one. After looking at a few of the biblical Psalms, I realized many of them were written about losses: of reputation, health, friendships, power, safety, homes, physical strength and more. Although the Psalms were Spirit-inspired, if I wrote one it would be un-inspired. Still, I knew I could write something from my heart.

The biblical psalmist often began by detailing his burden of loss, but then ended with a personal surrender to God. I decided to follow that model and hoped my words would honor the Lord. And since the Book of Psalms is described as poetry, I also decided to use rhyme.

Tomorrow I’ll post my un-inspired but very sincere “Psalm of Surrender.”

“The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” (Job 1:21)

Skipping stones eventually sink.

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After we’d had five children in ten years, I felt stretched to the limit and had gradually morphed into a bad mother. I saw myself like a skipping stone nicking the surface of parenting, in, out, in, out, giving each child only tiny bits of time and attention. If things didn’t change, I knew I’d end up like the stone: sunk.

One day when the kids were 12, 10, 8, 4 and 3, we’d had a compilation of mini-crises (i.e. spilled juice, a cut finger, a broken toy, lots of teasing), and I was frayed at the edges. If I heard the word “mommy” even one more time, I’d thought I’d crack.

Then, as I tried to make dinner, the four year old began peppering me with new questions, and not just any questions. These I had to think about. He not only called me “mommy” with each question but decided to begin and end with it.

  • Mommy, why does Papa ride the train, Mommy?
  • Mommy, why doesn’t Papa drive the train, Mommy?
  • Mommy, when can I get on the train, Mommy?
  • Mommy, where should we go on the train, Mommy?

His questions came from a bottomless well of healthy childhood curiosity, and on a non-stressed day, dialoging would have been fun. That day, though, I couldn’t handle it.

By his tenth question (or so), the three year old joined in:

  • Mommy, can I have a cookie, Mommy?
  • Mommy, can I have a drink, Mommy?

Like a skipping stone on its last landing, I whirled around to face them and said, in an angry voice, “Stop calling me Mommy! And don’t ever call me Mommy again!”

Even as the words zipped through the air, I knew they were idiotic and hurtful. Instantly God reminded me of a conversation 12 years earlier with my firstborn: “C’mon, honey. Say Mommy. Mommy. You can do it! Mom – my.”

And suddenly I felt terrible. These little boys loved me with all-out adoration, everything about me. They wanted to be with me, talk to me, listen to me, hug me… and say my name. I was their mommy, the person above all others.

In relation to parenting, I often think with amazement that I’m a child of God. He and I have a precious Father-daughter relationship, and he never gets tired of hearing me say his name.

Instead he responds, “Come to me. Any time. I’m here for you. Always. I love you.”

And best of all he adds, “Now that you’re my child, you can call me Abba.”

That’s the equivalent of Daddy. He tells me I’m as much his child as Jesus, and since Jesus calls him Abba, I can, too. This privilege makes me weep, because I know I don’t deserve it. Yet he says, “That’s exactly how I see you, Margaret, as my daughter.”

On that difficult day with my children, I dropped to my kitchen floor (just like a sinking stone) and gathered my two little boys into my lap, hoping to undo the damage. But I wonder…

“Because we are his children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, prompting us to call out, ‘Abba, Father’.” (Galatians 4:6)