I Believe, because I Tried so Very Hard Not to.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a friend whose wife was killed in a car accident. She was young. They had a baby boy not even a year old. We found out on a Thursday night. It was jarring, unnerving. I went to bed feeling anxious as I tried to rationalize why things like that happen. I (as usual when things like this happen) was filled with questions and doubt. Questions about why God allows these things to happen? Does he make them happen? Does he pay attention when they happen? Does he really care about us? I had asked all these questions before as well as worse ones than that.

Then these past few weeks in Sunday school, we have been discussing why we believe what we believe, and how we came to our beliefs about Christ and God? Strangely, I had been wanting to blog about my struggles in my faith for the past few weeks, but I knew it would be more than a simple sit down and write sort of thing. I was going to need to really think about how to express what I feel and see.

I guess the question of belief and why one believes is a common one? Why do you believe in God? Millions have been asked these questions, and have supplied answers about hope, encounters with death, a oneness with the people and things around them. I don't think I have ever been directly asked that question. So if someone were to say, "Jeffrey, why do you believe in God?" I would honestly have to start with this answer, "Because I have tried so very hard to not believe in him."

It is kind of a scary thing for someone like to me to admit--that I have tried to not believe in God, to lose my faith and disprove what I know about Christ in my own life, and to admit I have done this dance on more than one occasion, but it is true. At several difficult junctures in my life, I searched for unbelief. I ignored; I denied. I hid; I angered. I slinked away from the truth and blessing I had experienced, because I couldn't rationalize it in the context of questioning and tragedy.

It's hard for someone like me to admit that. I grew up in church. I have worked for churches and ministries. I was involved my whole life in things involving Christ and sharing belief in him. It seemed like everyone (in all those situations) around me never doubted Christ, never doubted the existence of a loving omnipotent being.  But at very specific times I did.

For example, in high school, when new to my faith, at least new to my faith that made a difference in my life, I remember thinking about what came before God? And how was God made? I had asked those questions for a long time, even before high school, but had always pushed them away behind my blank glazed eyes that couldn't find and answer.  I remember coming to a conclusion that what I had felt in my heart from the Lord must have been a comfort that I had created for myself, to ease those questions. I had resolved myself to this quietly, and kept it secret from my parents, FCA friends, youth group for a time. I would go to sleep at night, and I would find myself desperately wanting to prey to God. It was a strange phenomenon. It was like I couldn't control my heart, as if I was breathing prayers to God, all the while my mind was telling my spirit to stop. And I would hear the verse from Romans 8 (8:26) about the holy spirit groaning for us, intervening for us with God, when we don't have the words to express what we feel and want.

I woke up one morning, after several nights of this, simply sat up and felt it in my heart. God was real, whether I wanted to believe it or not. Christ loved me and this messed up world, whether I wanted to believe it in my heart or not. But the thing was, even though I really didn't want to, I believed. And I was happy (if that makes any sense) about my belief.

This sort of occurrence happened a few other times in my life, always in the face of something I couldn't explain. In college age 21. After a string of bad decisions, bad friendships and relationships, an inability to reconcile with myself about who I was and would be, I became very sad. I wondered why wouldn't God give me things I had prayed for for years, or why wouldn't he make the changes in me that I had prayed for for so long. I was hurt. I felt dark inside. I couldn't rationalize the way I saw myself, the way I saw others treating each other and me, the great chaos of everything around me with a loving God. If I could stop my belief in God, then the world would make sense, because it would all simply be my bad choices and bad luck. But one night lying in bed in a particularly black state, once again I found myself praying even though I didn't want to be.  I found myself utterly helpless and honestly begging to be let go. I wanted to be let adrift in the vastness of my sadness, like a forgotten lifeboat at sea. I remember that dorm room and how empty I felt. It was so cold.

And in that silence I simply heard a voice say "You're going to have to get over it."  And I knew again that no matter how badly I didn't want to believe, I did. I knew the truth, and thankfully I knew the God who made promises that he did not break, one of which was to never let go of me in any situation. The next day, I prayed for forgiveness, and still quite sad, started going to class again, started doing my homework, calling my parents, resound to the fact that I loved God and he loved me, and that changes would come if I just accepted that.

And there have been brief moments of that since. When Addison died, the wife of my friend a couple weeks ago, moments where I have wanted to let go of what I know to be true, so I could find easy answers and not struggle with reconciling each of those things with a loving God. But to claim I didn't believe, or to claim that I didn't love a loving god, or to claim that I didn't trust an ever relevant and kind Christ would simply be a lie. I believe in them. I fail in trying to honor them every day. I am a good non-example of Christ on many, many days. But I realized it makes no sense when trying to reconcile Christ with the world, because Christ is so much better than this world, and this world is not how he wants it, and this world is not how God had wanted it.

And even through these seasons of my struggling self, where I tried to distance myself from what I knew and know, God still blessed me, still blesses me today, with so much more than I ever could have deserved or even wanted for myself. I know many people would see my little life and not think much of it. I teach, my wife subs, I have a baby girl in a small house that isn't very new, with two Ford Taurus's in the drive. But this seemingly shabby existence is so much more than I ever could have dreamt for myself, more than I would ever let myself believe was possible, and God still honored me with everything I had every really prayed for and wanted. That is for another blog, which will come.  But I hope this helps answer the question that was asked of us in Sunday School, about why we believe in God? How we first came to our faith? I believe, because I tried so very hard not to.

Kanye, Kimye, Maeve, me, and other parents

Last night at 2:00 in the am I was rocking my sick child. She has a terrible cough, mucus from ever orphus, a sore throat, etc. I was tired, but she couldn't sleep when laid down, so here we were. Me and the mrs. were taking turns, and although not ideal, it was ok. She made it to the doctor today. I sort of slept walk dreamily through my teaching, and none of us were worse for the wear. When I came home, I had to give her some tylenol. Our little Maeve hates taking her medicine, and much like llamas, ostriches, and vultures, her body has created a unique, and very effective manner of protection from taking it. She gags and vomits. Today it was after her 4 o'clock milk, so the puke came out in curdled white lumps of dairy goodness. We stripped her down, washed her clothes, our clothes, gave her a bath, and not two hours later her diaper leaked...diarrhea. Her antibiotics causing her loose movement and amidst her playing rings and with her baby dolls, her diarrhea leaked on our carpet, kitchen floor, it was over her hands, her legs, our hands, then over our bathroom mirror, sink etc. Once again, we stripped her, we washed her, us, etc. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed and disinfected looking the excrement right in the eye.

Now I mention all of this, not only as a motivator for my kids to be abstinent, but also because for the past 3 days, I have been thinking about little Kimye Kardashian West and what her upbringing is going to resemble. I don't know the Kardashians. I don't watch their show. I don't know Kanye West either. I did watch some of his reality shows on the MTV where he was hiring, firing, yelling, putting young singers through greats amounts of emotional stress, so I can't really say what little Kimye's life will be like. I picture her coming into the world with diamond encrusted cloth diapers, and armada of nannies, wet nurses, doctors, etc. I picture Kanye diligently interviewing thousands of potential nannies and eliminating poor men who can't lactate on demand, or sing every lyric of Rock-a-by-Baby, who forget to pull the tongue of the Baby J's out from behind the pant legs of some skinny jeans.

Who knows, maybe it will be a very average, typical rich kid upbringing. Lord knows they have a large  family that is very involved with each other, and they will have tons of resources and network to help support them, but it is just so hard to picture Kim or Kanye rocking their baby all night, or cleaning up  diarrhea out of their carpet. I see them buying new carpet, or ordering that poor women who holds 5 cell phones and walks 3 steps behind Kanye at all times, to clean the diarrhea.

I can't really say why I have been thinking about this. Maybe because announcing a birth of a celebrity child at 3 am on Twitter reeks of narcism. Maybe because it was late, and I was tired, and what am I to think about sitting in a dark room with no tv, books to read, etc.

What I hope is that little Kimye will feel more than well provided for, will feel more than entitled to good things, that she will feel like more than simply an excuse for an Hermes baby bag and reality tv drama. I hope she feels desperately loved and wanted. I hope Kanye has stories to tell her of colic, of driving her around at night to help her sleep, of being puked on, stories about her first steps, what annoying tv characters she was in love with. I hope Kanye and Kim can tell her these things, and not simply have someone send it to them in a weekly email recap. Because these are the things a child needs to hear, to know that their parents loved them, fought endlessly for them, bent over backwards rearing them. They don't need to hear about their mother's sex tape, and the millions of men and women who have intimate knowledge their mother's hootie-hoo.

So, needless to say it has been a rough 3 days in some ways; bodily fluids, crying, short tempers, exasperated patience, little sleep are all things that are not fun--I can't romanticize it too much. But I have taken heart in knowing that I think I am more capable of love than I used to be, that we will have stories to laugh about with Maeve, to embarrass Maeve when she is older. I hope this is the same for little big bootied Kimye, as I guess I hope it for any kid and for any parent, because that is sort of what it seems to be about--pushing yourself past your limits, all the while increasing your capacity to love, and  I think a little poop scoop is totally worth that.