Scars

Another year here at Moody Bible Institute has begun. My goal is to advance in my knowledge and wisdom of the Lord and practically apply it to my personal life. New classes and new friends lie before me, but I am learning a lesson that I should have learned years ago. Nothing about this new challenge is directly related to a Moody class or theological book. I do not discount that the classes and/or the reading will contribute to my approach of this predicament, but the scar I bear stems from childbirth.

I was born with pectus excavatum. This is a not-so-rare chest deformity that causes the sternum to be concave. Growing up, I was strangely attracted to the swimming pool. I can neither sufficiently swim nor can I achieve a thorough bronzing of the skin. In fact, the sun hates me and has told me through both the burning and poisoning of my fair complexion. Nevertheless, I had my shirt off at the pool as a little boy and was the object of laughs, gawks, questions, and physical poking and prodding. As a result, my mother was bombarded with questions about why I was how I was and why I couldn't be seen as normal. It can almost bring tears to my eyes thinking about my mothers loving words that soothed my small, broken heart.

I am far past that point in my life. I don't say this for sympathy. Obligatory condolence after an emotional story is, in my opinion, cheap and of no help to the problem. What I am trying to parallel is the state of my heart before the Lord and the tear filled eyes of my Savior as He looks upon me with unconditional love.

I was made in God's image. I still struggle with how people can say God made me just how he wanted me while my body is, in fact, functionally imperfect. He doesn't desire imperfection. Yet, I must trust that, in His divine power, God is using imperfection for His glory. My imperfections cannot thwart His ability to be praised.

Some time ago, I was speaking with a friend and the issue of liking oneself came up. Consequently, she asked me whether or not I liked myself. At that time, I could honestly say that I did not like myself hardly at all in the physical sense. Now, I still don't know to what extent that I should really "like" myself, but that can be saved for another time. That night I laid on the floor of my room and wrestled with God. I had some choice words for Him that shook Him to the anthropomorphic bone, I'm sure. Through my anger and confusion He saw the source of the problem and addressed it.

God spoke that night. Yep, I said it. God still speaks and I am absolutely firm on that. I will tell you what He said. It wasn't long winded; it was perfect. The Holy God assured me and said, "I have been glorified." These words screamed in comparison to my blubbering about "why this" and "why that". You see, God spoke in the past tense. He had already been glorified. Nothing healed faster than those words. My soul's tent had already been used for His glory! Why was I so concerned about others not giving me affirmation of my being? I was not made for them.

Those wounds were still open on that night but are now healing. The scars still remain as does the deformity. However, I have glorified the King who created the entire universe! No greater joy have I ever known than being confident that the Lord has taken pleasure in me if only for a moment. I am made for Him and Him alone. If anyone else on this earth appreciates me for who I am, then I am richly blessed. I don't deserve my mother's love. I don't deserve my God's love. Knowing unwarranted love allows me to take delight in the One who gives it. Otherwise, I have been consoled due to a sad story of insignificant pain and my wounds remain open. I know that God is not shallow or cheap. His grandeur knows no limits and His eternal presence will cost me everything.

Poisoned Apple

The other night I went to a Nickel Creek show. The raw talent that was exhibited simply blew me away. Fiona Apple was a special guest singer for the evening and I was quite curious to see what she was all about. Her lyrics were honest and her voice was good even though severe trilling is not my personal taste. However, during the entire show Fiona was dancing and wiggling in the most odd fashion. Her second to last song seemed to scream truth as she declared, "When I get low I get high."

From the crowd it was easy to make fun of her lack of chreography. In fact, I was amused at the spectacle. However, after the show my attitude towards her completely shifted from one of mockery to absolute sorrow.

The Nickel Creek members signed autographs and I was one of the giddy fans who received a morsel of attention from the fiddle player, Sara Watkins. Fiona came out and offered her name upon any parchment that would suit the fancy. My heart was wrenched when I saw her up close. She was a frail little woman with a sagging face and a glaze over the eyes that probably once sparkled. I was cut deep by the pain that she was experiencing. Obsessed admirers screamed and yelled out superficial and fleeting I LOVE YOU's. As she signed my ticket, I became ashamed. My actions were no different than those of anyone else.

You see, what she needed to hear was that Jesus loves her and that the drugs and impersonal appreciation will not heal the true problem. She would manage to show a slight grin when a picture was taken and a thank you was muttered, yet the smile would fade as quickly as it had come and she fell immediately back into her lostness. I could sense that she hated the true state of her soul. Nevertheless, the praise came to her despite her pain so there was no reason for change. No fan cared deeply enough; they all wanted to gaze upon her celebrity. To see her heart would be to see someone in need and, of course, our most acclaimed heroes cannot be in need for they must fulfill our own.

But, there I was getting her autograph, taking her picture, and adding to her despair. I went home broken for the hearts of the lost. Fiona Apple was no longer an untouchable celebrity to me. I prayed for her as I would for a homeless man on the street. The truth is that she is no better than me and I, being saved, am no better than her for we both need Christ and we will both bow before Him one day. The question changes from whether or not I am worthy to pray for someone so popular to whether or not this child of God will be seen as worthy before the throne. The subject of my prayers do not constitute their validity but rather the sincerity of my heart as I lift up my requests to God.

I sincerely desire to see Fiona Apple come to the Lord and experience healing. Even broader than her, my heart is continually broken for the lostness of this world. My prayers will not fall upon deaf ears. To think that someone else will most likely pray for the sick is to gloss over the impact of a young college student from a small town. God doesn't promise to use a certain age, only a certain heart. From Fiona to the prostitute on the corner, my prayers must equally go out. No one is entitled to their sinful life, not even someone who is praised for it. We all need to be washed in Christ's blood.

After all, it's just a piece of fruit. We surely will not suffer from of a little nibble...