A Sheep and The Shepherd

Learning to trust in the way of the Wise

I never intended to spend three weeks in a row waxing on and off about my son’s lost “lovey”. But when cracks and crevices are creaked open within us, there’s space newly made to work through our age-old obstacles.

For me, that question, should just happened to be the character of God.

It’s Sunday morning. Our fourth here in Pasadena. Monday I begin seminary. A three-year adventure into the depths of why I believe what I believe. And, as of last count, after a week’s worth of orientation from professors and former students, I’ve been told at least a couple dozen times my faith will be challenged. Stretched to the breaking point.

Only for it to be built back, they say, stone by stone.

Like a splintered bone. Bound up. Nurtured. Healed. Stabilized and secured.

Stronger than before. Sure and steady. As certain as faith can hold.

And already, these past three weeks have scribbled and sketched the map for what these next three years may hold.

Both in the doubt of darkness. And the confidence of Light.

In between mountain adventures and ocean day trips, Father/Son firsts and family outings to every neighborhood park Greater L.A. has to offer, there’s been this undercurrent of something else.

And I’m a decent writer. In general, I can think of ways to communicate what I’m feeling with at least a touch of elegance and hint of eloquence. Sometimes too much. Like that last little nugget. Sorry about that. But in this situation, there’s really only one way to say what I need to say:

Lately, I’ve felt neutered.

No. Not sexually, you middle schooler. Come on. Grow up.

The other side of that definition is to be “rendered ineffective; deprived of vigor or force.” Stuck. in. neutral.

I’m a pastor. And a personable one at that. I dwell in the depths and suck at the shallow. I know that about myself. I get strength and life from pouring into people and having them pry into me. But all I’ve been able to dip my toes into since I’ve been here has been the kiddy pool. No oceans deep. No sheep to shepherd. No big band of brothers to run with.

California’s in a water drought. I’m in a relational one.

And so, I’ve asked of God, more than once:

“What are you doing in and through all this?”

The other night, Amy and I were sitting out in our two chairs we have perched in the front yard. Under a tree. Looking out at the San Gabriel Mountains. It’s become one of my favorite spots. Especially in the cool of the desert night.

We were talking about this lost little monkey of Abe’s. And I told her,

“You know, on ebay right now, there’s about 20 of these same blue monkey blankie things with the words, “I’m Bananas!” stitched on their chest. We could buy one and have it delivered here this week! We could resurrect Nanas!”

And Amy, in all of her wisdom, said right back,

“But it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be Nanas. Abe would know.”

“And also,” and this is where she really got me thinking — I’d kind of dismissed her first point. I could con my 4.5 year-old into thinking whatever needed to be thought. I’ve got a vicious sneaky streak in me — “And also,” she continued, “I’m not so sure it’d be right for us to buy a new one. Even if we could.”

Whoa.

Now she was on to something. And it felt so wrong and so right all at once. Not wrong-and-right like Taco Bell at 2am wrong-and-right. More like waiting til your wedding day to consummate your marriage wrong-and-right.

You know it’s worth it. But it’s sure no fun in the process.

So…when do you teach your child about loss? When do you stop covering up the bruises of this world with man-made bandaids? When do you let them suffer the sour, in order to one day greater highlight their taste for the sweet?

Those are the questions Amy and I asked of ourselves. And as we did, we began to turn our gaze upwards. Beyond the mountains, and into the depths of the heavens.

What about God?

Why wouldn’t he just reveal Nanas? He’s all good. And he’s all powerful. So how could this story of loss be greater than the discovery of found. And in this situation, we were still talking about a stuffed animal!

Back home, right now in Arkansas, there are friends and family searching for a dear friend that’s been missing for several days. A real person. A husband’s wife. A difference maker in her community.

Where is she? Even more, where is God?

Amy concluded, in that moment of clarity, that it would be best of us, as wise, loving parents, to not fabricate the miraculous. To let life play out. And to see how the Greater Story unfolded. And shaking my head in the tension of understanding something I knew would be hard, I agreed.

And both of us, in some unintelligible, indescribable kind of way, both understood God a little greater as well. It felt like he was holding back on us. Me in this season of drought. My son in the absence of a friend. And my friends back home in the disappearance of Beverly.

But we still believed there was worth in the Wait;

Weight even as our hands felt empty.

I woke up particularly anxious this morning. Kids kicking and screaming like an angry Will Ferrell. Great comedy if you’re in the mood to laugh. Horror at its most horrible if not.

Somewhere, something inside of me pointed my feet towards by Bible. I picked it up. The program from last week’s church service still sticking out.

No wonder I was in a drought, I thought. I haven’t been to the Well in a while.

I sat down. Opened it up. And landed on Psalm 100. A blue star penned there long ago. Some other occasion when I’d walked through this door. A blinking sign prompting me to visit once again.

Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth.
Worship the Lord with gladness; come before him with joyful songs.

A beautiful sentiment for a bountiful season. But I was looking more for a breakup song. Rain trickling down the windows kind of stuff.

Coldplay’s first album.

But I kept reading anyway. Feet forward even when I wanted to stop.

Which led to a command.

Strong words. Secure words. Steady words. Sure words.

Know that the Lord is God. It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.

Immediately John 10:14 came to mind:

I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me

In the doubt of darkness, the confidence of Light burst through.

And in it, a command to Know. Not an idea. But God himself.

And his immaculate, unquestionable, incomparable character.