Two claw-like hands grasp my arm tightly, maybe because she’s unable to let go, or maybe because she’s afraid that she’s going to fall over as soon as she attempts to stand up. Her shriveled face is gaunt, with a vacant expression, while her body is stiff and permanently bent.

As I look at this woman, my mind automatically goes back to what she must have been before…before her mind left, before her body was wasted and crippled, before she was reduced to a helpless invalid with a child-like mind.

I have never seen her when she was other than what she is now—a shriveled, stiff old woman incapacitated by an invisible disease that slowly eats away at her mind and daily lessens her physical capabilities. But there were those who knew her then—when she was a capable doctor who organized departments, mobilized teams, ran her home, and raised her family.

Is she really the same person? I wonder, smoothing her hair out of her eyes and gazing thoughtfully at the gaunt, vacant face. What makes a person a person? If we become severely ravaged by disease…if our mind is gone…do we cease to be—essentially—who we once were?

In caring for this woman, there are many questions that have been raised in my mind. What is it to love someone forever, for better or for worse? This is a question that I often ask myself as I see her husband’s frustration with her. It saddens me that he seems to blame her for her current state—that he’s passively aggressive, or even openly aggressive, in the way that he responds to her increasing physical needs.

Could I do any better? I wonder quietly. Am I selfless enough to serve someone like this year after year without recognition or prospect of relief? Maybe not.

Is it ever right to starve yourself to death to avoid being a burden on someone else like this? Is this what old age is really about—being helpless, incompetent, dependent…to be a shadow of what you were, to be out of your mind, to waste away gradually and exist as a pitiable wreck? Why do I dread that? Are dependency and helplessness the worst things possible? When someone is in this state, is God using the condition to sanctify them, or to build character in others? When two people vow to each other to stay together for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death separates them…does that mean that you fight to keep your spouse’s body alive long after the mind has gone? What makes the person who they are? How do you practically cope with being married to someone who is nothing like the person that you married?

All of these are things that I wonder…and sometimes the questions themselves frighten me, because I can’t always answer them. But in caring for this elderly man and his ailing wife, these are, nevertheless, questions which cross my mind...

It’s an overcast, cold, windy afternoon, and the sidewalks of Liberty University are bustling with thousands of students, most of whom are clearly absorbed in their own little world.

Yes, I confess—I watch them. It’s fascinating to me to observe the ways that students interact—or don’t interact—as they jostle through their daily routines. Often times, they’re elbow-to-elbow with hundreds of other men and women just like themselves…men and women whose names they don’t know and whose faces they probably don’t even recognize—because sadly, college campuses are home to some of the most sobering incongruities of our generation. College students are daily demonstrating the fact that it is entirely possible—maybe even probable—to live in close physical proximity to thousands of other individuals who are in approximately our same stage of life…and yet be incredibly isolated—almost as completely alone as Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, the sole human occupant of a lonely island, whose isolated stretches he wandered alone for years.

As college students, we spend prodigious amounts of time talking—moving our mouths—and very little time communicating. We long to be heard—and yet we rarely take time to truly listen and ask thoughtful questions. We yearn to be considered intelligent, significant, sophisticated, mature, and respectable—and yet we feed our minds with trivialities, mediocrities, and frivolities, and are completely oblivious to the fact that what comes out in our behavior and our words is a reflection of what we put into our brains in the first place.

We are eager to find people we can follow—people who will lead—because we ourselves lack direction. We want others to make all or most of the important decisions in life for us—because we are mortally terrified of failing…of messing up…or—horrors!—of having to reap the consequences of our own actions. We desperately seek for intimacy—for that magical someone who will love us unconditionally—and yet we fail to understand that we ourselves lack the capacity and the maturity to love in the ways that we demand others should love us.

We point angry fingers at the Church, and accuse her of frightful shortcomings and egregious moral failures—and yet we are incognizant of the inconsistencies and shortcomings in our own spiritual lives…and oblivious to the fact that we ARE the church…ignorant of the reality that truth must be lived honestly before it can be spoken powerfully.

Does it frustrate me to witness this on a daily basis? Sometimes. Does it hurt to see humanity wrestle—and often fail—in their struggle to begin to understand what it means to live in community—to live fully, and joyfully, and righteously, and well? Yes. But that’s probably the wrong question.

Maybe what I really need to be asking is, what part do I play in all of this? Am I part of the problem or part of the solution? And what does it look like to be a part of the solution?

It costs us nothing to point fingers. It solves nothing either.

But what would happen if we talked less…listened more…read more…thought more…asked more questions…realized that it’s ok to mess up as long as we’re willing to get up and try again?

I guess the only person that can really answer that for me is…me. And the only person who can really answer that question for you is...you. But I’m willing to venture a guess that when we make the decision to live as we would have others to live around us…life looks a lot different, both inside and out.

Are we willing to be the change? To live the difference?

I was in line at the post office this morning behind a young mom and her wee daughter—an adorable little munchkin with huge brown eyes who must have been about 18 months old. Her fuzzy brown mop of hair stuck out crazily on all sides as though she’d stuck her finger in the power outlet in the not-so-distant past, and her tiny red mouth was perpetually formed into a wonder-filled O.

She was remarkably active, toddling all over the place like a tiny little drunk person, much to the amusement of the elderly men and women who were patiently waiting in line to mail their packages. While her mother was distracted talking to the clerk behind the counter, the fearless little explorer took it into her head to see the great outdoors. As her pink diapered bottom tottered out through the doors into the street, however, her adventure was abruptly terminated by a fatherly-looking fireman who ducked out right behind her and swooped her up into his arms. There was some general laughter as he returned to the post office with the wee prodigal, she looking up at him curiously, fearlessly, while he returned her gaze with kindly amusement.
Her mother thanked him profusely, and apologized, but I think he was rather enjoying the little midget, because he offered to hold her until her mother finished at the counter.

Thirty seconds later, an elderly woman came in with two identical twin boys in tow. The boys were probably a few months past their second birthdays—they were walking well, and starting to experiment with basic English phrases in cute lispy toddler voices.
As they came in, both sets of little boy eyes latched onto the fireman right inside the door…and then both sets of little eyes noticed the wee girl in his arms. She looked at them curiously, as though she had never seen little boys before. The boys, however, had clearly seen little girls before. Huge smiles instantly appeared on their faces.

“Ooo!” one of them cooed, lisping in his amazement and excitement, “It’th cuuuute! Look at du baby!”

“Yeah!” his brother nodded enthusiastically. The two little dudes stood there admiringly, stock still, gazing up at this small female wonder.

I almost lost it at that point—it was SO funny! These two little men were hardly more than babies themselves, but clearly they felt that they had long passed the point that this chick was at.

I suppose it’s a lesson that broadly applies to all of life—we tend to look back at those who stand where we stood—emotionally, spiritually, or psychologically—just a few short months ago…and we make comparisons, and think to ourselves how much we’ve grown, or how much different we are from these others…when in fact, there is probably very little that separates us…and if we find that we are allowing ourselves to focus on the differences, we’re probably missing the real point of our life journey anyway. So many incredible lessons to be learned from the commonplace!

Incidentally, if it weren’t highly illegal and just generally unadvisable, I think I’d go kidnap me a cute little pair of identical twin boys tonight…but I shall exercise admirable amounts of self-control instead, and refrain.

Last night I had the privilege of sitting beside one of my best friends as we watched a number of men and women worshipping through poetry—poems that they had written, rap that they’d composed…it was fascinating. The audience and the participants were largely African American. I confess, I think I’ve grown up with a very ethnocentric, white Baptist view of what worship looks like, of what it is or is not…and last night was eye opening on several levels.

I remember watching one girl in particular—watching her more closely, perhaps, because I know something of her history, something of what she has struggled with, something of the ways in which she’s fallen in the past—and as I heard the words coming out of her mouth, I wondered to myself if this was her heart, or if this was simply words that she thought others wanted to hear.

The words of a Casting Crowns song came to mind as I watched: does anybody hear her? Does anybody see? Does anybody even know she’s going down today under the shadow of our steeple, with all the lost and lonely people, searching for the hope that’s tucked away in you and me…

How often do we force people to pretend to be what they are not in order to win the approval of those who don’t even really care? This is such a diminished picture of the rich reality of what relationships within the body of Christ ought to be…and yet it’s tragically commonplace.

I realized as I watched that I have often been unfair in judging people by their failures rather than choosing to value them and focus on their strengths. And I wondered to myself how often I really see people for who they truly are…

Some nights, sleep is elusive…

I stared at the ceiling into the wee hours of the morning yesterday, listening to the muffled sounds drifting up through the floor boards from the conversation of the couple who lives below me, trying to ignore the endless streams of thoughts and questions whirring around behind my sleepless lids.

Homework, job situation, the outline that still needs to be fleshed out for tomorrow’s evening Bible study…I push the thoughts resolutely aside, and close my eyes, trying to will myself to go to sleep.

Not so much going to happen.

I had been thinking all evening about the concept of discipleship, about what it means to disciple someone, or to BE a disciple—what makes discipleship effective…or not? So many questions in my mind about this Son of Man that we follow…so much to marvel at in considering His characteristic attitudes, emotions, and reactions, when thinking of the wisdom of God, and the situation of man—His broken image-bearer.

Somewhere in there, sleep drifted in for a few hours, because I remember waking at some point before 4 a.m., and being unable to drift off again.

Sometimes God wakes us during the middle of the night because there’s someone—or something—that He wants us to pray for. So I waited. And listened. And the names—and the faces—began to parade through like some kind of odd funeral procession.

They were smiling faces…hundreds of them…people that I know, and care about, and some that I have not thought of for a long time…but their eyes were haunted, deep pools of unspoken emotion, mute witnesses which spoke of the pain of existence, the uncertainty of life, the tremulous beauty of hope, the struggle of growth, the shame of failure, the unquenchable desire for that which is deeper, fuller, more meaningful, most real…

There’s a story behind every face. Many stories, actually. Some of them, I know…and many, I don’t. But it was sweet to know this morning that my Father knows all of them. That He cares more deeply than I am even capable of imagining…that He has a plan for each one of these men and women…that He holds their futures in His hands, that He sees the hurts, knows the pain, and longs to heal and restore each one of them, and that He yearns over them all with a father love too rich to have a mortal counterpart.

It is an incredible thing to be upheld and undergirded by the hands of the Living God.

But right now...I think I'm going to go brew some tea, and head to my 7:40 class. Might be needing an awful lot of tea to make it through today. *laugh*