How Can I Muscle Through with Such Flabby Arms?

by Alecia Klauk
(Chapin, SC)

Stupid, happy Christians. Sounds obnoxious, doesn't it? Not to those of you in real pain who are weary of hearing tired advice, cute quotes, and old antidotes. When you are dragging to just brush your teeth or refill your kid's juice cup, when work drains the life out of you, and when even church feels taxing, then what?

Stupid, happy Christians has become a label in my circle of friends for hapless helpers who do more harm than good in their attempts to "help" those in pain. Increase the pain, increase the irritation. So if those well timed Scriptures and brilliant nuggets of wisdom don't help, especially when you feel that you can't go another step, don't know which way is up, or even feeling that if you can't get a decent parking spot at Walmart, you're going to spit, then what?

Sometimes that sinking feeling is like a deep bog with long, tangled roots. Will he ever be trustworthy? What if we never get pregnant? Will they turn out ok? And perhaps the most universal, the simple but impossible: Why? We love Jesus. We know the Bible. We trust that every jot and tittle of the Word of God is useful and profitable, right? But let's be honest, there are times when we just don't want to hear it. Again, I ask: then what?

The short answer is that we just muscle through when it doesn't feel like any answer will answer anything. Let me be clear: this is no ra ra, go little sinner, try harder sermonette. I'm not suggesting that you hunker down, pray up, tighten your bootstraps, or loose your faith. The last thing any of us need when we are in great pain and distress is guilt.

What I am talking about is actually a total collapse. Sounds antithetical to muscling through, doesn't it? And there's the secret: it is only in God's economy that pushing through requires us to collapse in surrender. Don't be afraid of that word! We often have a visceral reaction to surrender, but there is great freedom in totally letting go. Only God can make that make sense. Sounds familiar though, doesn't it? The way up is down, the first will be last, in giving we receive. In His accounting, all is right side up while the world sees it as upside down. So we need to surrender. But how? How do we surrender our shattered hearts? What does God want?

What He wants is often very different from what we want. We want to be fixed, to not hurt, to feel ok. But what He wants, more than our comfort, more than our character, even more than our holiness is (drum roll please) ONENESS. Every drop of pain is a vehicle, an opportunity, an invitation to deep and abiding relationship with Jesus. Now, give me minute before you call me a stupid, happy Christian. This single truth changed my life.

I have a long history of brokenness. I've loved my Jesus for 25 years, and many of those years have been laced with incredible pain. I have walked through the wilderness of sexual abuse. There are too many of you who know what I'm talking about: the confusion, shame, sadness, theft of the sacred. Later, I was devastated when my parents divorced. It sent me on a self-destructive desperate hunt for significance. As an adult, I have faced the loss of two children, medical difficulties of another child, the loss of all of my grandparents, and other sometimes annoying, sometimes devastating, requirements of life in a fallen world. So how do we surrender in a real life like that?

We choose to. Pretty simple. We have a choice. Insanely difficult. And we hate that word, too. We don't like the responsibility that it implies. But in that word, in our choice, there lies great opportunity. Choose to crawl up in the lap of the One who made you, rest your head on His chest, hear His heart beat for you. Here's what you'll hear. "I love you. I made you. I'm teaching you. I'm right here. I won't leave. Cry as much as you want to. Say as much as you need to. I want to hear every word. I'm not leaving." He invites into His solace.

Here's one example of how this works. When I got pregnant a few months ago, I was thrilled and terrified. I had been told after the birth of my sixth child to not have any more because of the health risk, though we wanted many more children. It took me a while to allow joy to overcome the shock, but it did by the end of the first trimester. I remember one morning, laying on the floor, listening to Jeremy Riddle (he writes emotionally raw, spiritually compelling music that greatly appeals to my inability to muster any energy to fake anything), sobbing, begging God for the health of this baby. And what I heard was, "Sweetheart, will you love Me, will you trust Me no matter what?" My heart seized at the question. I can't lie well, especially to The Truth, so I grappled for a while before I answered Him. "Yes, Lord. I hold no claim to anything save Christ. My life is Yours. This baby is Yours. I will choose to trust." I felt that miraculous transformation of peace, got off the floor, turned on a Chris DuPre cd (very relational in focus), and literally danced all around the room with Jesus. Did you know He can rip up a waltz? I didn't even close the curtains this time! I just knew that He was holding me, that He would take care of the baby, and that I would trust Him.

A few days later, something was wrong. The rest is a blur. Ultrasound. No movement. Quiet. Tears. Brian saying, "Oh no." More tears. "You need a D&C." Head between my knees, wailing. Telling the kids. Their turn to wail. Devastation. Heart screaming, "WHY?!?!?" Hospital. Tears with every insurance question, instruction. Staring at nothing. Waking up. Feeling empty. Refusing to open my eyes. Crying anyway. "Are you in any pain, Hon?" "No, just so sad." "We don't have anything for that." Tears until I fear dehydration. The floor of the closet in the dark. Fear, confusion, doubt, despair, depression looming.

Do you know that place? Every loss requires grief, and some are deeper than others. A lie revealed, a promise broken, a job lost, a friend betrays, a child dies. At those times the stupid, happy Christians do more than annoy. They injure. Like burn victims with no skin, we are raw, the pain visible. We become the pain.

We want formulas, but what we need is just Jesus. When my "Why?!" is the loudest, I need to be the closet. And that's where I find Him. Like He promised. Right there. Never moving. My tears do not tire or irritate Him. He wants to hear the story over and over. He knows what hurts, where it hurts, why it hurts, and even how to fix it.

There are no quick fixes, no easy way through. That is why surrender, even in the collapse, requires muscle. The real intimate Christian life is not for sissies! But here's the best part: it's not our muscle! Did you absorb that?! It is not your muscle that muscles you through! It is the able biceps of Christ that put you securely on one hip, drops His other shoulder, and pushes through the thickness of the pain. He takes the hits in the face while you tuck your face into His neck. Do you see where the intimacy is produced? It is in those darkest hours of pain that we lean in the most, find Him not only able but willing, and thereby experience an intimacy that is possible no other way.

The collapse, the tucking in, the surrender: it all fuels great oneness and weaving together of hearts. We will be closest to Him when it is darkest, and we are safest in the storm. And in that place, the mystery of "Why?" fades into obscurity. We learn that the why does not really belong to us, and that the trust that He is building renders the question moot. "Why?" I don't know, but I know He loves me. "But why?" I really don't know, but I trust that He will carry me through. "But seriously, why?!" I may never fully know, but I am choosing to tuck into His love and care for me. And then, and only then, is there peace.

We wait to obey until we feel like it, but it is in obedience that our hearts are changed and our feelings get in line. It is only in His incredible care, His perfect attention, His never ending intimacy that we find something better than the answer to "Why?" We find that we are no longer requiring an answer at all.

If you have never seen Rick and Dick Hoyt, google "Team Hoyt." Rick has no physical ability at all, and yet he has participated in scores of triathlons. Dick, Rick's Dad, pushes the wheelchair, pulls the boat, and peddles the bike. Dick does all the work. It all began with Rick simply telling his Dad that he wanted to run triathlons. Doesn't that sound ridiculous? It is! Impossible. But because of the relationship, the great love of his Dad, a way was found. Dick took Rick's "want to" and transformed it into great triumph. They are a beautiful picture of how little we can do, and how much Jesus can and will do. I want to run triathlons, too. Instead of running, swimming, and biking, I want to heal, love, and reach out. I want to speak, obey, and touch. I want to persevere, produce, and practice. Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? It is! Impossible. But my Daddy found a way through the blood of His Son to transform my "want to" into triumph.

And here's the best part: at the finish line, while he's done nothing but ride, it is Rick that feels the champagne on his face and hears the applause of the crowd. That sounds a little like, "Well done. Enter the joy of your Master."

Stupid, happy Christians aren't really stupid, but they are not really happy either. They are likely avoiding the very pain that changes us into something transcendent, miraculous, even holy. They offer advice from a place that feels shallow and insincere. But when the deep intimacy of Christ invades our soul, we can be honest, intimate Christians. Trusting, dependent Christians. Fruitful, giving Christians. Loving, growing Christians. Helpful, kind Christians. Happy Christians. Happy Christians indeed.