Unthinkable

I have spent considerable time lately reading about and discussing the significance and importance of becoming what the famous British educationalist, Charlotte Mason, described as a “Keeper.” A Keeper, is one who notices beauty and truth, writes and shares thoughts, insights, and experiences of various sorts into hand written notebooks – to treasure and remember, to make personal connections, to learn from, and sometimes even to pass on. We all have stories to share. I have been a journal keeper, for much of my life, and though most of what I have written has simply been my way of sorting out and praying through the trials and confusing mess life can be, I occasionally have been struck by something perhaps worth sharing. The rest I hope will burn. This week I read a paraphrased version of the verse Deuteronomy 4:9, which says, “Be very careful never to forget what you have seen the Lord do for you. Do not let these things escape from your mind as long as you live! And be sure to pass them on to your children and grandchildren.” With this exhortation and desire to share some of the truth or beauty I see, I begin this blog.

This week is the beginning of Lent, and though this blog entry is by far not my best story to share (as it is a painful memory), in my heart this story relates to this season as I again remember the cross. There was a time, a few years back, when my dear mother was ill – ill with the awful disease of Alzheimer’s that had confused her mind, and ill with some flu bug that had swept through the home where she was living. She was furthermore, because of the illness, quarantined to her room – alone, frightened, and confused. I was contacted because of the illness and fever, and came over to take her to the doctor. When I arrived, mom was sitting on her bed. She had a strange expression, and she had torn up her bedding and moved (or more likely thrown) things around in her room. To make matters worse, I am quite convinced now, that she had probably refused her medications, creating further confusion and paranoia. When I entered, she seemed to recognize me, but she was not happy to see me. As I tried my best to cheerfully greet her, and prepare her to come with me to the ER, she grew angry and kicked at my efforts to put her shoes on. She asked for my hand, and when I offered it to her, she tried hard to break off my fingers. She had this awful, awful look on her face that chilled me to the core. She had turned on me…my own mother, who’d only always loved me. Always. It was one of the worst moments of my life. Thankfully, it was brief. Mom was clearly hallucinating; seeing and hearing things. She was frightened and paranoid, because of her illnesses. But, I knew she was sick. I knew I could call in help. My kind husband, Steve, drove quickly over, shifted the atmosphere and focus, and mom relaxed. We were able to get her to the hospital and she became cooperative, even appreciative. She showed her sweet temperament once again, and even repeatedly thanked us. But the moment of having a parent turn from love to wrath (or hate) as she looked upon me, was simply awful. This experience spoke to me deeply when I read in Luke 22:41-44, “And he withdrew from them about a stone’s throw and knelt down and prayed, saying, ‘Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will but yours, be done. And there appeared to him an angel from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down to the ground.’” It’s hard to wrap my mind around what Jesus was experiencing here. But as I read about Jesus praying in agony to His Father – the one who had always, FOREVER, loved him and then faced willingly to drink the cup of God’s wrath (meant for me, yet turned against him), I remember that dark, awful moment with my mom. But in my case, the wrath was diverted, help was found, and the story ended in my being rescued, and my mother’s attitude of anger, hate, and displeasure was changed. Not so with Jesus. He walked into the face of the wrath of his father—of almighty GOD. He became sin, and God hates sin. But even more awful is that that wrath was meant for me. MY sin. Not his. He was sinless, but took the hit for me and you. He had every right to turn his tearful eyes to us and say, “It’s your sin! You drink it!” I really cannot imagine what Jesus experienced by his choosing to allow God’s wrath to be poured out on himself; the wrath that was meant for all of us. It seems really unthinkable.   How Jesus endured this for me, I do not know, especially when he had the power at any moment to stop it and shout back, “You’re responsible for this – I quit!” to me – to us – yet he didn’t. I can barely hold my hand still for a pin prick or needle at the doctor’s office, even when I know it will hardly hurt, be for my good, and maybe bleed a drop. There’s no way I could willingly hold still for nails. When Peter lashed out with his sword, cutting off the ear of the servant of the high priest who had come to arrest Jesus, Jesus responded by saying, “Put your sword back into its place. For all who take the sword will perish by the sword. Do you think that I cannot appeal to my Father, and he will at once send me more than twelve legions of angels? But how then should the Scriptures be fulfilled, that it must be so?” (Matthew 26:52-54) Legions of angels were at his disposal. At any moment Jesus had the power to stop this insanity wrongly being brought against him…yet he submitted…to the wrath of God. For me. I hate the disease of Alzheimer’s, and how it affected my sweet mother over those last few years, and particularly on that awful day. I am also thankful for how it helped me learn to love and care for her in a new way, and even on that especially dark day, I learned a little of something more important and truly beautiful and amazing – the sacrificial love of God. Lord Jesus, you are so worthy of my worship – every moment of every day, for all eternity.

Blog Archive - Original Post February 2015