What Shall We Wear?

[Excerpted from The Return Of The King. Frodo and Samwise have just destroyed the Ring of Power and collapsed in the volcanic aftermath. Sam wakes up to discover that they have not died, but are alive, regaining health, and in the care of Gandalf.]

     "...you were brought out of the fire to the King. He has tended you, and now he awaits you. You shall eat and drink with him. When you are ready, I will lead you to him."
     "The King?" said Sam. "What King, and who is he?"
     "The King of Gondor and Lord of the Western Lands," said Gandalf; " and he has taken back all his ancient realm. He will ride soon to his crowning, but he waits for you."
     "What shall we wear?" said Sam; for all he could see was the old and tattered clothes that they had journeyed in, lying folded on the ground beside their beds.
     "The clothes that you wore on your way to Mordor," said Gandalf, "Even the orc-rags that you wore in the black land, Samwise, shall be preserved. No silks or linens nor any armour or heraldry could be more honorable..."

Confession moment: I cannot read the above passage aloud to my children without my voice cracking and a stray tear or two (or three) leaking from my eyes. All hopes of keeping a straight face fail me at about the point where Sam asks what they will wear, and Gandalf answers, "The clothes that you wore on your way to Mordor..."

The kids of course can make no sense of my weepy ways at moments like these, but I have no trouble at all knowing where these tears come from. No trouble at all.

I cry because sometimes I feel like I'm on a weary journey too. Sometimes I feel like I'm wearing orc-rags. And sometimes I feel like my journey is doomed to failure. To be reminded that one day even my orc-rags might prove worthy of honor is unspeakably encouraging.

There must be a thousand reminders of Christian life lurking in The Lord of The Rings, but few for me are more near and dear than the ones so thinly veiled in this passage. What Christian, when reading it, is not reminded of Jesus Christ, his long journey to the cross, and the orc-rags which to this day Jesus wears to commemorate the culmination of his journey through Mordor?

John 20:26b-27a
...Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side...”

When Jesus rose victorious, his first stop was not at the home of a Hollywood make-up artist. Jesus did not undo the evils visited upon his body by evil men. Far from it.

Jesus reigns forever...

...With nail holes in his hands...

...And a gaping spear hole in his side.

To paraphrase Gandalf, "No perfect skin or touched-up beauty could be more honorable..."

Yes, orcs may do what they will do. But God redeems and makes beautiful even the scars from the worst events in our lives. Thanks to the mercy of Jesus Christ, we will one day share in a great victory over evil. One that will far overshadow the epic victory over the Dark Lord Sauron which Frodo and Samwise took part in.

...And on that day, we will wearing the marks and orc-rags we acquired on our own long journeys.

So bear up, Mr. Frodo. Tolkien is not the only one who knows how to bring hope from despair. Tolkien is not the only one who can snatch victory from a death march toward certain doom.

Tolkien is not the only one who can redeem even your orc-rags.

Jesus can do it too.

Lessons On Love From A Runt Hamster

One night a man had a dream. He dreamed he was
walking along the beach with the LORD.

Across the sky flashed scenes from his life.
For each scene he noticed two sets of footprints in the sand:
one belonging to him, and the other to the LORD.

When the last scene of his life flashed before him,
he looked back at the footprints in the sand.

He noticed that many times along the path of
his life there was only one set of footprints.

He also noticed that it happened at the very
lowest and saddest times in his life.

This really bothered him and he
questioned the LORD about it:

"LORD, you said that once I decided to follow
you, you'd walk with me all the way.
But I have noticed that during the most
troublesome times in my life,
there is only one set of footprints.
I don't understand why when
I needed you most you would leave me."

The LORD replied:

"My son, my precious child,
I love you and I would never leave you.
During your times of trial and suffering,
when you see only one set of footprints,
it was then that I carried you."


Footprints In The Sand, I'm not ashamed to admit, is one of my favorite poems. I've brazenly shared this fact with enough people to know that many consider the poem to be rather schmaltzy and maudlin. So be it. For me, the poem has never lost its beauty.

The reason why is simple. I've been through enough sorrows and enough lonely stretches in life to have an insatiable desire for Presence. To have someone with me, and to know that I am not alone precisely when I feel most alone.

I have, of course, always identified with the man in the poem: the one looking back at his life's journey and remembering those times when he was most hurt and most anguished. Recently, however, I was reminded of the poem by an experience that gave me (however slightly) a glimpse into God's perspective... the perspective of our God who says, "My son, my precious child, I love you and I would never leave you.."

A few months ago we mated our two hamsters intentionally. (I have a few rodent-hating friends who might find this clarifying adjective helpful.) Every now and then human parent gets things right, and such moments are to be celebrated precisely because they are so few and far between.

The decision to allow our hamsters to reproduce was a huge hit with the kids, and there was hardly a more excited moment in our home (for children and adults alike) than when the first hamster baby came toddling out of his mother's nest.

For those not versed in these arts, it must be understood that hamster moms can and do consume their children (literally) when they feel stressed. So the arrival of a "live one" into the open air of the cage was cause for sighs of relief all around. As the days passed our joy increased with each new healthy baby that tumbled out of the nest.

All in all, we eventually discovered that there were ten baby hamsters in that unbelievably small nest. And they grew. Quickly.

Before long our beloved and tired hamster mom bailed on her kids with increasing frequency, trying to catch a few winks of sleep in any place of refuge she could find. Corner of the cage... on top of her little wooden house... Watching a sleepy mom trying to get some peace and rest was truly a hilarious sight and, I think, the tipping point for my wife to truly fall in love with our little rodents. There are some things only mothers understand; shared trench experiences make for lasting bonds.

But all did not go without a hitch. Some days after the baby-sightings began we noticed a stunted runt flailing about helplessly outside the nest. With food as bait we enticed Mamma near to the "lost soul" and were apprehensively relieved to see her lug the little one back into the nest. Would the child get life-restoring sustenance there? We hoped against hope.

That night my wife asked me to do one last spot-check downstairs. Was the baby safe in the nest still? No. Mamma hamster instinctively knew this one was heading down fast and, following the laws of the wild, had re-deposited him outside her nest.

Thus began our struggle to save a dying runt. And dying it clearly was. This one was clearly smaller than his nine siblings and quite malnourished. My wife gave as only a mother can. She got up regularly throughout the night, dropper-feeding warm milk to the famished little one. The below picture, taken the next morning, showed a markedly improved hamster.

Our hopes began to rise, but on the second morning we woke to find the little one in a fetal position. When I picked it up, little Runt (so named by the children) breathed its last right there and then, in the palm of my hand.

I made my peace with the outcome quickly, but over the next few hours found myself reflecting on our loss of, in the eyes of the world, such a very small thing. What struck me most was how very different my feelings for this hamster were, as opposed to how I felt about the nine healthy ones still puttering about in the cage.

This hamster's own mother had rejected him. His nine siblings didn't in any real sense even know he existed. Or care. Runt was abandoned by all. All hamsters, that is.

But beings much greater than hamsters had taken him (and him in particular) into their concerns in a way that vastly overshadowed our care for the other hamsters. The needs of nine hamsters were met via daily additions to one food dish. Runt, in contrast, we hand-fed on an hourly basis throughout the night. Yes, if love is expressed in action, we loved Runt not least, but most.

There were of course ten babies. And they were all wanted and loved. But it was the one that died in my hands that I loved most and worked hardest for on that day.

It was hard for my thoughts not to be drawn back to that Footprints poem in the midst of these reflections.

Does God care when we suffer?

Do we even need to ask? God cares beyond anything that words can express.

And yet... And yet... we are tempted to wonder where God is when we suffer. We look at those who are not suffering and wonder why God loves them more.

Could anything be further from the truth? Nobody has more of God's attention or more of God's affections than those who are suffering.

We don't have easy answers to the question of why our omnipotent and loving God allows us to suffer, but my short time with Runt served to remind me well of how very much our God adores us and dotes on us.

"My son, my precious child,
I love you and I would never leave you.
During your times of trial and suffering,
when you see only one set of footprints,
it was then that I carried you."

Lessons On Prayer From A Gift Catalog: Epilogue

Note: This reflection is a continuation of Part II

I am thankful to report that my journey with the gift catalog had one more stop before the end of the line.

A few days ago while at lunch with a friend I poured out my sorrows regarding this child of mine who had expressed no interest in the gift catalog. My friend's response was constructive and encouraging. He challenged me to realize that there were ways to broach the topic without putting my child in the judgment seat. Ways to open the conversation without condemnation.

Thankful for this input, I changed course. A few days later at an opportune moment I gently raised the topic with the child. Was there a gift purchase the child would like me to make?

To my surprise, the child recalled having opted for the surgery fund I had mentioned. We had obviously miscommunicated, since this was very much news to me, but it was good news. I had thought the child had opted out of the whole business. The child thought otherwise.

The child was clearly not so apathetic as I had feared. But to discover this good news, I needed to create space for it — space created by relationship and communication. It almost didn't happen.

Once again I am reminded of how priceless a good friend is — especially the kind that prod me and poke me when I need it.

Once again I am reminded that when I assume the worst (and proceed as if it's already reality) I can become midwife to the very outcome I dread.

But scriptures bid me do otherwise.

1 Corinthians 13:6-7 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Lessons On Prayer From A Gift Catalog: Part II

Note: This reflection follows on the heels of Part I

But my lessons on prayer from the gift catalog were not over yet.

Some days after several children expressed interest in "buying a cow and some chickens," I got on the phone to find out just how much each animal costs. It was a simple question, I thought, but the answer proved more complicated.

After getting a representative from the charity on the line, I soon found out that gifts "toward the purchase of a cow" essentially go into a pooled livestock fund. All well and good, except for the fact that I had really hoped to get pictures back of the cows we purchased alongside their happy new owners. I asked the representative if it would be possible for my children to receive pictures of recipients alongside their new cows?

No. There is no one-to-one matching between donors and cows.

Bummer.

She was making perfect sense, but it wasn't what I had hoped to hear. Could they send us a picture of someone receiving a cow, even if there is no exact mapping between donor dollars and any particular cow?

No.

Frustration. This conversation was not going according to plan. I changed the topic to the possibility of a life-saving surgery that we were also considering. Would we be able to know what that surgery would be? Know who it would be for?

No.

More frustration. Here too, however, the woman was making perfect sense. There were privacy issues at stake, plus the fact that surgery decisions are made pretty quickly, so they cannot predict in advance where the money yada yada yada...

The conversation was friendly enough, and I understood where the woman was coming from, but I got off the phone feeling rather frustrated and deflated.

The fact of the matter was, I had wanted to get some photos and stories to go with our giving. Adults can do without photos, but I felt that photos would make a big difference for my children. Photos would make more the reality of their gift-giving more concrete.

But a thought began to nag me. It wasn't entirely about my children. When it came down to it, I too wanted to know what surgery we had purchased, if we went that route.

I began to consider alternative options. In our home there were other gift catalogs of the same nature. Hmmmm. We could buy a buffalo for a family in India from that other catalog instead. Maybe they could accommodate my request for photos.

And in came the painful realization. New insights into my own brokenness.

I have no business approaching these gift catalogs like an American consumer, but that's exactly what I'm doing.

Ouch.

I had gone into that phone call with a shopping agenda. When I didn't hear what I wanted to hear, I started to consider shopping elsewhere. That's pretty arrogant and rude, considering what's at stake on the other side of this transaction. Families in need swinging in the balance of my own petty shopping preferences.

Once again, I began to see connections between the gift catalog and prayer.

• I should not have approached the gift catalog as a consumer.
Neither should I enter into prayer as a consumer.

• I was expecting the charity to tell me precisely what I bought.
Sometimes I expect God to do the same with my prayers.

• When I didn't perceive the charity to be fawning over my charity dollars, I was tempted to spend them elsewhere.
When I don't perceive God to be fawning over my prayer time, I am tempted to spend it elsewhere.

• The charity will put my money to good use.
God will do the same with my prayers.

• But I don't make the rules for the charity.
And God is in charge of the prayer business.

These thoughts were making me squirm, and probing questions from God began to surface in my mind.

Pilgrim, when you pray to me for someone else... Is it about you? Or about me and them?

Ouch.

Pilgrim, when I answer your prayers with a Yes, you often make it known that you were praying. Are you trying to claim ownership of outcomes that came from my hand alone?

Double Ouch.

But little Pilgrim, when I answer other prayers with a No, you get pretty silent. That isn't very consistent, is it?

Triple Ouch.

My child, I answer all of your prayers well. But my ways are not yours, and my reasons are not yours. Will you still trust me with the outcomes?

...Or do you expect me too to send you photos?

Note: This reflection continues with an Epilogue