Today’s the day I’ve been dreading. But I’ll put on my brave face and wield my trusty kitchen scissors and march down the front steps and over to where the bay window juts out from the house like defiant hope, and I’ll do it. I’ll clip off all those browning, shriveled-up daffodils.

Later I’ll sing worship in the kitchen. Loud and badly, like yesterday and the day before. I appreciate that Alexa displays the lyrics but yesterday there was this one phrase I couldn’t quite put my heart into.

“God never let me down.”

Um. Whelp. Never? What about the countless times I’ve had my hopes lopped off—at least, in the short term? Haven’t I had to crouch low and remove the spent blossoms of bountiful seasons ended? Haven’t I watered this here ground with buckets of tears?

Of course, down the lane a ways, and by that I mean laaaaater, I’ve often looked back and seen a divine glimmer over those letdowns. In my unanswered prayers, I’ve eventually found the better answers.

But clearly God allows disappointments. In fact right now I’m heavy-burdened by the trials of so many loved ones. These are my peeps, struggling. This is my inner circle, weeping.

Letdowns, every one. Some days it’s hard to believe that what befalls us is not going to fell us.

Still, I’ve gotten pretty good at jutting out my chin in defiant hope.

No longer do I pray to a savior-in-a-bottle and then give it a rub. Rarely do I use many words. I’ve learned to simply peel my fingers away from another thing they were never supposed to be superglued to, and pray to the scarred hands that always, always pick me up.

I say, Father, heal my people.
But also, Help us suffer well. With purpose we can’t yet comprehend.

 

 

Wooden Shoe Tulip Festival, Woodburn, Oregon.

Today I’m remembering how life began in a garden and life is a garden, and some days we’re deadheading daffodils. And maybe the better question isn’t so much, Why do flowers have to die? But, How do they even bloom?

How do we?

I think of how a meager seed, discarded by a dying flower, then wild-tossed on the wind and resituated in a new patch of ground, is in a state of becoming–throughout the entire process.

In a garden, letdowns are never the end of the story. Disruption and even death are catalysts for renewal and resurrection.

We know this of course. We just don’t like it. This wasn’t the way the original twelve disciples wanted things to work either. But Jesus flipped the script on suffering, assigning it life-giving power. Transformative energy. And this is the drenching, the summer rain to our parched and questioning hearts. Somehow . . .

This is how we rise. This is how we become.

So next time life hands me letdowns, when my happy habitat is upended and I’m wild-tossed someplace new and different, I’ll cry if I want and pray if I can.

And when I’m ready, I’ll peel away those tight-clenched fingers—because I’m going to need that free hand. It’s the one my Rescuer will use to lift me up.

Which is why I’ll never stop defiantly hurling the music of praise toward the kitchen ceiling, daily and badly. Raising my arms and shout-singing a better lyric . . .

God has never left me down.

Hallelujah!