God loves a fixer-upper

I hate being sad. Okay, that may be obvious, but even worse than the part of being sad (which isn't too peachy to begin with) is the conviction I feel that I must be doing something wrong. I must have made some wrong/awful/selfish/life-shattering decision (which is sometimes true) somewhere down the line that has left me in a place of heartache. It must be my fault. And I must be the one to fix it.

The day that God told me to write my love story,--the story of his love for me--I was in church and I was really sad. I felt disconnected from friends, disconnected from work, disconnected from God. My life wasn't following the script I had written for it, and I was quickly retreating into anxiety and isolation. I was anxious about work, anxious about being anxious about work, and yet even more anxious that I didn't know how to fix it.

I pleaded with God to fix me. To fix my anxious heart. To fix my discontent. To fix whatever was wrong with my brain that was blocking me from figuring out how to fix myself. To fix the brokenness. To fix the sadness.

His response, in a clear-as-day-fit-of-unwarranted-compassion:

"Aly, I don't want to fix you; I want to comfort you."

The revelation shot through me with a jolt of awe. My polite church worship became a snot-fest as he continued to echo to me, "I want to meet you in the sadness. I am here with you. I am sorry you hurt."

What? It's okay to hurt? It's okay to be sad? To grieve lost dreams? To feel overwhelmed?

Hope began to stir.

I was not alone. I am not alone in this.

And then God said something even stranger, "Write my love story."

Even as I questioned the logistics and the cheesiness of writing God's love story--and perhaps my sanity--I was struck by the fact that I did, in fact, have a love story to write.

I did know he was moving.

That he was there. That he never left.

And a strange thing happened: I felt comforted.

Not fixed, but comforted.

I was hopeful that I would see past the darkness and the anxiety and the fixing. I was hopeful that I could write the story of all the times that I had been broken, depressed, angry, confused, or heartbroken, and completely unable to fix it myself. I could fill a book with stories of all the things I didn't fix. Of all the things I couldn't accomplish without his love and his grace.

Tonight as I write this, I pray for the courage to release my fists from their grip on blame and their stronghold on fixing. To allow myself to be comforted and rejoice in all of the things I couldn't fix, but he did.

Un Regalo Para Mi

A Guatemalan Fit of Unwarranted Compassion

Okay, okay, I've gotten some feedback that the term "Fits of Unwarranted Compassion" is confusing. Am I talking about my own compassion towards others or God's compassion toward me? And if I am talking about God's compassion, doesn't the word "fit" seem a bit too sporadic and haphazard to describe something as constant and pervasive as God's compassion? Well, the answer to all of those questions is yes. Yes, these Fits of Unwarranted Compassion describe unexplainable feelings of compassion I've felt for other people. Yes, they describe God's compassion towards me. And, yes, the term "fit" is too careless a word to attribute to God's compassion.

The fits describe my own view of God's compassion, at first. In the midst of anger and despair I started experiencing this beauty and this meaning and this purpose and this joy that I couldn't explain and felt I didn't deserve. I eventually came to call them (because I love to title my life) Fits of Unwarranted Compassion. For a long time I viewed them as unpredictable bursts, fireflies of meaning in my otherwise dark night of the soul--fits. I didn't see them as connected. I didn't even see them as God. The fits more accurately describe my own fitful recognitions of God's hand at work.

I guess the only way to explain it is to describe one to you. I'm going to tell you about a more recent event in my life, when I'd already identified these fits as God's love. But I'm hoping it will help explain what I mean by these fits and why I am so profoundly grateful for them.

This summer I had the chance to lead a mission trip to Guatemala with a group of college students from Point Loma Nazarene University. Guatemala has long been a place I have wanted to spend time in--either visiting or living there long term. For a million reasons, this trip was a gift from God. For now, I'll share just one of these reasons.

For five entire weeks, I didn't have to produce anything.

Nothing.

I work as a grant writer for a great organization where production and polished writing and attention to detail means not only personal satisfaction but critical funds for our programs.
As much as I love my job and the people I work to support, I needed a break. And God knew that.

He literally handed me this trip on a silver platter, forcing me to take the breather I so desperately needed but never would have taken had I not been offered this trip.

And breathe I did.

For five weeks I turned into an inarticulate, Spanish mumbling, VBS kid song humming fool.

And it was wonderful.

There was nothing to produce. Nothing to polish. My thoughts and ideas could remain unfinished, unexpressed, unanalyzed, and unclassified.

There was no grant to be proofed and no blog to be wrapped up nicely. No catchy punchlines or taglines. No persuasive arguments or marketing campaigns.

No to-do lists. No feelings of being behind or inadequate.

Five weeks of simply soaking it all in.

And it was glorious.

It may sound selfish, but I believe God knew exactly what he was doing. I came back from that trip with new vision and hope and excitement for my job, my relationships, and the ways God is living and moving and breathing in me even when I can't explain it.

One of my favorite quotes from Henri Nouwen (sheesh, three Henri mentions and this blog is only a week old!) says, "If we lack the strength to carry the burden of our own lives, we cannot accept the burden of our neighbors."

I believe that is true with all my heart. When I'm overwhelmed with work or questioning my relationships or obsessing about how good I look in a bathing suit, there's no way I can reach out to others. When I can't even get a handle on prioritizing a to-do list, how am I supposed to care for others and carry them?

While I believe this truth with all of my heart, I only know it in fits. Luckily, God knows it all the time and he knew five weeks in Guatemala was exactly what I needed, not only for me, but so that I can be the best steward of the life he has given me.

It is experiences like these that I call Fits of Unwarranted Compassion. And all I can say is gracias.

Getting Fit

So how exactly did God woo this girl? If I had to sum up five years (all almost-25 years would be too hearty a task for even this expert introspecter), six journals, and who-knows-how-many ontological crises, f-word splattered questions and snarky comments, and countless more moments of unexplainable joy and thankfulness, this would be the synopsis for the Cliff's Notes version:

Ironically, it took having my entire world crumble before me to release my fists from their tight and self-righteous grip on legalism and purity. Only in the aftermath of anger, hopelessness, and numbness did compassion begin to show its surprising, redemptive, and mischievous face.

And those fits of unwarranted compassion are what I now call God—if I had to put a name to it.

At the risk of turning into my own smiley face sporting, life-is-rainbows-and-butterflies worst nightmare, I will occasionally be posting about some of the gifts of grace and friendship, love and lessons, second chances and joy (stop your groaning) that God has freely and mercifully given me. I apologize in advance for my lack of wit-filled cynicism in these posts, but I will not apologize for the goodness of a God that turned this scoffing cynic into a devoted daughter.

These posts I will title "Getting Fit" to stand for "Fits of Unwarranted Compassion" (I was going switch it to Unwarranted Fits of Compassion to get the hip acronym "UFC", but apparently that name is already taken and I wouldn't want another WWF/WWE type lawsuit on my hands, and the alternative, "FUC" is even more unfortunate. So stay tuned for my thoughts on Getting Fit. I'll try not to use too many exclamation points.