Completely Blessed

Beads of perspiration dripped down my neck and face, as I persevered toward the two-hour mark. I could tell I had entered an upper-class residential area, because the road became quieter, and smoother. The noisy passing cars which had seemed to smother me with exhaust fumes became more sporadic, and then seemed to disappear entirely. Stone walls lined both sides of the road, with giant gates appearing every so often. Villas or vacation rentals, I thought. Everything seemed so deserted, so void of movement or activity. And then I saw it sliding open.

It was a tall, polished wooden gate, and it slowly disappeared into the wall. Behind it stood a majestic, massive estate. Enormous bay windows, three stories high, with a spacious porch overlooking a deck pool and a perfectly manicured lawn. Stone pathways led to iron benches and wooden swings, while cascading tropical flowers covering everything. It was paradise, brilliant and breathtaking.

After three seconds of gawking, I glimpsed her back as she turned to close the front door behind her. The owner maybe? Or the wife or daughter of the owner, perhaps. I continued my exercise routine, picking up my pace. Those brief moments of staring had been enough to emblazon the images in my mind.

It started building slowly at first, and I didn’t even recognize it. As it strengthened, I felt my heart rate accelerate rapidly. Despite my sweat-drenched face, I felt my cheeks begin to burn. Resentment had reared its ugly head.

I searched for reasons why living in the lap of luxury could possibly be frustrating.

Nothing.

I began to think of why some people deserve to live like royalty, while others have nothing. Like me.

Again, I came up empty-handed.

The gap between their life and mine seemed to stretch for miles. Perhaps even worlds apart. And it was not fair. Not right. I work hard, I heard myself whining. But my entire life savings would be pennies in the pockets of millionaires like these, I thought with despair.

Ouch. It pinched hard and fast. I brushed it away as I would an irritating mosquito. It appeared again, this time scratching my arm and leaving a red mark. I refused to give it the satisfaction of my attention. Relentless, it jabbed through my flesh and pierced my soul, drawing the blood of remorse and tears of shame.

God, I cried out, forgive me.

I woke up this morning, and unlike others, I had a bed, with a mattress and sheets to climb out of. I had running water to wash my hands, and soap to clean myself with. Unlike millions of people in the world today, I had a refrigerator stocked with food. Milk and eggs, cheese and butter. Such lavishness that many people will only imagine. And then I had freedom—to go, to stay, to read and write and learn. I chose what to do today, just as I will choose tomorrow, and the next day.

And the next.

This is what some people search for their entire lives. What I am privileged to enjoy. What I dare to take for granted.

Such extravagant wealth. Such enormous riches. God, first make me see them. Make them stare me in the face, as I crumble to my knees with the overwhelming sensation of gratefulness.

And then make me give them away. Compel me to share them with others. Let a mindless passion for generosity overtake me, as I see my life for what it is. Completely blessed by you.

Beatitudes. (why do they even call them that?)

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God. –Matthew 5:9

The beatitudes are some of the most poetic teachings of Jesus. Beautiful, melodious, impossible to obey.

Become poor and meek, mourn, hunger and thirst, be merciful and pure, allow persecution, be a peacemaker.

In essence, Jesus describes himself, and then says, “its your turn.” Be like me.

Jesus, could you possibly be mistaken? I’m supposed to become rich because I love you so much. New cars and houses, and all that stuff. Since you are going to bless me, I’ll be laughing and singing, not mourning! Oh, and the hungry and thirsty part—I hope you know that I would really prefer a full pantry, a stocked refrigerator, and a little extra for going out. Mercy sounds painful and purity sounds boring. I’m definitely not signing up for the persecution part, and what the heck does the peacemaker thing mean?

A peace maker. To form or create peace? Sounds right. Within relationships: between families, between friends, between enemies. It could also mean to induce harmony and unity. Within the world: to promote amnesty, to solve problems without retreating to violence and vengeance.

But ultimately, peacemaking is about reconciliation.

And the heart of the message is once again, the cross.

Like when Jesus bent down to the prostitute woman, and claimed her multitude of sexual sins as his own. When he found the treacherous politician and asked to share a meal with him, or when he looked the cold-blooded criminal in the eyes and said, “you don’t deserve forgiveness, but it is yours.”

But how can I attempt the work of the Master? Ah, my most effective and often-used excuses are those full of self-degrading humility and false pretenses of lowliness. After all, I am nothing but molded clay. Dirt of the earth, scum of the sea.

Jesus prods gently. “Indwelled clay,” he corrects. Alive dirt, a pathetic human possessed by a force much more powerful and holy than I can comprehend. A molded being patterned after the very form of God himself. My status should not be of pride, but of profound awe.

You want me push people towards your Word, to nudge them in the direction of your salvation. You want me to take on the character of Christ, and become a reconciling witness. Leaving the ultimate choice out of my hands, but prayed over in my heart.

God, let your way be clearly shown and obviously apparent in me. I surrender. Make me a peacemaker.

Pray what?

I stood just a few feet away, watching her cry. I held my hands behind my back, nervous and feeling incredibly awkward. What do you say to someone who is about to lose everything? How do you comfort someone who has already seen the poignant face of death, and is now being called to rise in its honor once again? Life is so absurdly short, I thought. Barely a vapor in the wind.

I picked up on some of the conversation in front of me, and it sounded like preaching. Not now, I thought with frustration. Now is not the time to discuss ways to cope with grief, or the surest method to understanding tragedy that God allows. My palms began to sweat with anger. Back off, I mumbled under my breath. Maybe there is not a reason. Maybe we cannot grasp it in our finite minds here on earth. Maybe sometimes life just hurts.

And now is a time to cry. For every day that was lost, for every laugh that was never shared, for each moment wasted. For the plans, dreams and futures that are dissolved in front of our eyes. For the mistakes that cause pain and the conflict that creates walls. For the sadness that wells up deep inside when we think about how much we will miss them. Clinging to a hope of a “someday” reunion in the white clouds seems a lifetime away when you are standing together under the rain, holding their hand and pleading with them not to leave.

I stuttered my words of comfort, feebly gave an embrace and then walked away. My efforts of consolation felt so incredibly inadequate. I walked outside into a warm, muggy day. The overcast sky was cooperating with the sense of depression that settled over my soul. Another one was leaving. Another casket would be chosen. Another memorial service planned. Another few months spent counting down the days left until sickness claimed his life. Why, God?

And these were the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. They were strong Christians, leaders in the church, huge investors in the kingdom of God. Serious about their faith, fervent in their desire for God. One failure after another had sent them to their knees. But they had catapulted over the hurdles, holding onto Jesus. Believing in a plan much larger than themselves.

Now the test results had returned: lung cancer, third stage, six months left. He denied it, she crumbled under the weight of it. Their hearts were still relentlessly clinging to Christ, but that didn’t deter me from shaking my fist at God in anger and pathetic weakness.

I could pray. That was my job, my assignment, and the only thing that I could do to help. As if that would even help, my heart whispered. What a responsibility. I could almost hear someone saying in a patronizing voice, “Look, little girl, we want you to go sit in the corner and watch while we take this person’s life, make it a living hell, and then rip it away. Now go pray.”

Pray what, Lord? That you would heal him? Touch his physical body and remove the cancer? Or that you would simply be with him as he slips away? That you would comfort, console, and bring and overwhelming sense of your peace into his and her lives.

But that doesn’t make the hurt go away, Jesus. That doesn’t make me feel any more helpless. And if this is how you treat the best of your children, those who love you with their whole heart, mind, soul and strength, what lies ahead for my life? Hardship, heartache, loneliness? Do I even have the strength to trust you for the future?

Helen

There was a floor of black earth, and thick walls of dried mud. The intense African sun pierced through the doorway, as our eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. She sat across from us, on a faded, thoroughly worn-out couch that sagged until it was only a couple inches off the ground. Ancient yellow foam poked out from the threadbare fabric covering. The putrid stench of human sweat and excretion was suddenly overwhelmed by the light breeze that entered through the doorway. I inhaled with a prayer of gratefulness. Maybe this wouldn’t take too long.

We counted them. Little brown pills, round white ones, long red capsules. Yes, they were all there.

She took them with a brief nod, grimly smiling her approval.

“Helen weaves baskets,” we were told, and we politely bought two. Forty shillings each.

She was going to kill us a chicken, and I shuddered at the thought. The loud, gawking animals sputtered in and out of the house, some lean and others just starved. They ate from the piles of rotting garbage strewn about the landscape. Do not kill one of them for us, I thought to myself. There would never be a time when I could be hungry enough to eat such a rancid piece of meat cooked in such conditions.

So she gave us some melons. Fruit from her garden, I guess. I didn’t really ask.

Outside again, I welcomed the extreme heat that seemed to dehydrate my body in seconds. Although it was steaming, at least it was fresh air. She walked with us, and I noticed the bony elbows and ankles that protruded from her homemade dress. Her frame was frail, nearly decimated. But she had her pills, thanks to us, and they would help make her strong again.

She told us they would make her strong again.

“Goodbye,” we said, and I held my breath as I hugged her lightly. Momentarily feeling her body against mine made me tremble inside. There just wasn’t much of her.

She waved and called out after us until we were nearly out of sight. Next time you come, I will kill you a chicken, I think is what she said.

Drenching my hands with sanitizer, I wondered just one thing. Why me.

Helen had AIDS. She would not get strong again. She would not even live very much longer. The pills would help her system fight the symptoms of the disease for a short time, but they would not heal her.

She had contracted it from her husband. When he learned of her positive-HIV status, he abandoned her. But he had several wives, each with their own house. So he allowed Helen to stay on the land he had provided, but he refused to support her or the children he had with her.

And so Helen and her children did what they had to in order to survive. Helen wove baskets with dyed ropes made from straw. And she raised chickens, and sold the eggs to other families in their rural community.

The chickens. Her source of livelihood—that is what she was going to kill for us to eat.

I was amazed that someone with so little could have so much to give. But that was just it—she considered herself blessed beyond measure, and loved beyond belief. She was alive, and she was going to thank Jesus for every day that she breathed.

And so I asked myself, why me. Why am I the one with issues of self-pity and pathetic neediness? Why am I absorbed in my massive list of wants and desires? Why do I never have enough money left over to give to the church, or to a stranger in need? Why do I entertain myself with toys and things, ignoring the spiritual thirstiness of my soul?

Helen is most likely gone now. I don’t pretend to understand the social injustice and poverty she suffered. But Mercy was awaiting her just above the clouds.

Without reservation, refusing to hesitate, ignoring self and submitting to Christ. God, help me give it all.