Dreaming Beneath the Spires

Anita Mathias's Blog on Faith and Art

Wriggling towards Shalom

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When I find I am stressed, or distressed,  I like to pause there and then instead of going through the day with undefined, subterranean unease.

I take the question to which I do not know the answer–how to be more productive perhaps. How to read more. How to help someone. How to get our business to flourish further–and ask Jesus for the answer. And keep asking the question, sort of saturating the question in prayer.  If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you (James 1:15). And I keep asking, and keep asking for God’s answer–his surprising out-of-the-box answers, and eventually, as James promises, guidance, answers and wisdom do come.

  • * * *

Sometimes, I sense a vague fear and unease. Do you? I like to slow down and ask: What is it? What’s bugging me? What is this nebulous dark cloud? Sometimes, the fear, anxiety or annoyance is quite rational, and sometimes not so.

But whether it is a rational fear, or just a vague sense of unease, it does have the same solution.

I mentally put the fear or worry or annoyance into the petri dish of prayer, and invite God’s power to surround, saturate and irradiate it.

I surrender the possible dark outcome I dread to God. Put it in his hands. If it does happen, He will still be there. He will still love me. He will still give me the ability to be happy through it all.

And then I ask him to avert the outcome I dread. Ask him for wisdom for what I am to do today. Ask him for a game plan for the months ahead.

It’s in his hands now, whether things work out just as I prayed for, or just as I dreaded. It’s his worry.

I then just rest in his presence, rest in his love.

It’s not magic, nothing about the spiritual life is …or perhaps everything is!!

But I do get up from the place of prayer so much lighter in my spirit!

 

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A Little Bit of Theology for Victims of Burglaries (Which, Alas, I Have Just Been)

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jewellerySo my grandfather, Piedade Felician Mathias, a distinguished surgeon, had invested his life savings in gold jewellery, because gold in India then, as now, rose faster than anything else.

And my grandmother, trusting and sanguine as I am, left this on her dressing table. The maid vanished–as did the gold.

Everyone wanted my grandfather to report the maid to the Parish Priest, which in the interconnected Catholic town of Mangalore would mean that she would never get married in the church, and would eventually be caught.

He shrugged. My father, remembers him saying in the words of Job “The Lord gives, the Lord takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord.”

* * *

Many years later, when I flew to India, with Roy, my very-new husband, he, carelessly, foolishly, put my 24-carat gold jewellery in an unlocked suitcase—which did not arrive in Bangalore.

I was exasperated. “Roy, who puts jewellery in a suitcase rather than hand luggage? And what kind of person does not lock the suitcase?” I scolded.

“Sshh,” my father said, for he wanted my marriage to work. He told me the story of his father who said with Job “Should we accept good from the hand of the Lord and should we not accept evil?” when he lost his entire life’s savings to date.

I had recommitted my life to following Jesus a little before we married, 24 years ago, so I decided to echo my grandfather in the face of annoying financial loss. However, I put that missing suitcase on my prayer list—“even now”–and continued asking God to find it.

After 90 days, we got our $500 compensation form TWA. And on the 91st day, a phone call. Roy had not bothered with an updated luggage tag, but there was an old one from Johns Hopkins University where he had got his Ph.D. TWA called Johns Hopkins, who gave them our current address in Stanford University, Palo Alto, where Roy was doing a post-doc. And we got the suitcase, 3 months later, and yes, all that pesky precious gold was still in that unlocked suitcase.

We live in a world of magic and miracles. Never forget that.

So we were richer by $500–and one lesson in trust and faith and miracles.

* * *

And my grandfather? Did good come from losing his life’s savings? Well, he no longer invested in gold, but in land, and died with three houses–two in the centre of Mangalore, and  one in Cubbon Road, the posh heart of Bangalore, near the erstwhile Residency, now Raj Bhavan, the Governor’s residence; and the granite Vidhana Soudha, the state legislature–houses that when sold provided part of the down-payment for my first house.

He worked harder as a result of the theft, and realised more deeply that all his wealth came from God–for, unlike my scholarly maternal grandfather, he was a self-made man, who made a fortune through uncanny brilliance.  When his private practice dropped, he’d scold my grandmother, “Josephine, are you giving? Give. You are not giving; that is why I am not getting.”

Home-grown prosperity theology perhaps, but it worked. People got sick; he cured them, they rewarded him lavishly.

* * *

So my theological question really is: Can everything work for good?

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that it can.

Though at times, this faith has been tested.

One amazing day on holiday in Sweden in August 2011 I felt God speak to me about my blog, and his plans for it.

And the next day, the camper van in which we were holidaying was broken into and we lost both our laptops, including the latest version of the memoir I am working on; another book I was working on which I have consequently abandoned (I hadn’t backed up my laptop for months); Roy’s laptop with precious holiday pictures; a new iPad, which sadly, didn’t even work in Sweden; and a couple of the girls’ iPods.

We did not report visible signs of breaking in, so the insurance did not cover it all.

2000-3000 pounds of loss! How could that work out for good?

* * *

Well, the burglary convinced me that when I felt Jesus next to me on the rocks at Gothenburg, Sweden, and turn and smile at me and tell me about the future of my blog, it was real. This was the consequent spiritual attack and undermining.

I had four more days on holiday, sans laptop, so I prayed for my blog, but could not work on it. And regrouping through strategizing in prayer is far better than working with brute force. For the want of a vision, the people perish.

The lost laptop recalibrated my habits. Though my husband, Roy, a Maths Ph.D with 3 post-docs had retired in 2010, I still did the business accounts, and our personal investing and finances, obsessively. I checked on our business sales daily. I could tell you our net worth to a penny, and moved money around investing everything optimally. I did not believe Roy would do this, so I did it myself, first thing in the morning.

My therapist thought this was a waste of the precious first thing in the morning hour, and so it was. What an uninspiring timewasting way to start one’s day, checking on credit cards and bank statements and sales—necessary when we were running our business with the slimmest of margins, but I continued it though we had been well into profit for nearly 3 years then.

So I turned the finances over to Roy, and it’s a weight off my chest, more brain space for writing and spiritual thought. He does not do money or business as I do—perhaps he does it better, perhaps worse—we argue about this when we are cross!–but we are eating and living. Well.

What good came out of the theft? I berated Roy to our therapist for his fail-safe, highly recommended method of protecting our laptops—throwing a towel over them—and for leaving the girls iPods in full view. And possibly leaving the van unlocked. The therapist said, “Well, he’ll never leave the car or laptops unlocked again.” And indeed he won’t. (Though he did not pay the 1 euro protection fee to the car-guarding people in Sicily this December and 2 of his favourite coats, and my least favourite coat were stolen from the trunk of our locked car!)

And I’ve saved scores of hours probably by no longer checking on our business sales or our personal finances. That hasn’t yet been converted to money—but, God willing, one day it will be.

* * *

Well, I returned from holiday in the Loire Valley at six a.m. yesterday, and walked into a nightmare.

My beloved Chrysler Town and Country mini-van that we had bought in American in 2001 was missing. Irene used to call it “the bupper van,” because I proudly said, “SuperMom in her SuperVan” whenever I drove it.

My front door was wide open. A door had been smashed in, and burglars had entered stealing our large screen TV, the first we’d bought; both my daughters’ laptops (we’d taken ours with us); both their iPods; Irene’s Nintendo Wii that she bought with her own money; my beloved black leather handbag; our silver cutlery set; Irene’s beloved costume jewellery–though all my valuable stuff I had, providentially put in a bank vault a few days before leaving.

The CID have been out, and the forensics unit finger-printing the crime scene,

Okay then, how does one process all this, from a God point of view?

1 God can bring good out of ANYTHING. Ask him to bring good out of your disasters and stand on the ramparts and wait and see what he will do.

The whole of Scripture which I believe is brilliant and inspired—from Adam and Eve’s choices; to Joseph rising from slave to premier; to Christ’s death releasing his very Spirit to live within us—is based on the premise that God can bring good out of evil.

2a We omitted to get contents insurance, foolishly. A false economy. We will now get it.

2B Irene who had a half term’s work on her stolen laptop will learn to back up. She had typed her notes in class; perhaps she will move to writing, then typing them at home, which is a form of revision and more theft-proof.

We will get the girls Macs which are more reliable.

3 Big benefit. Both Roy and I will work a little harder and hopefully smarter to earn money to replace all this stuff –a TV, 2 laptops, a handbag, etc.

I am a big believer in enough. We had enough to pay bills, so were spending more time in getting a bit fitter and a bit healthier, and spiritually stronger. But I guess we will work on making money till we’ve replenished our savings after replacing all this—and work settles the mind and heart.

4 We will practice trusting God. Just as physical fitness is theoretical until put to the test—running 3 miles, say, we do not know whether we really trust God until tested, by financial reverses, say.

Some things we only learn by practising them. Praise God in all circumstances. Rejoice always. In everything give thanks.

Learning and practising these things is no small gain.

5 We are reminded that our life is not really ours, anyway.

Our life is not ours; our body is not ours; our health is not ours, our money is not ours, our blogs are not ours, our time is not ours. God gives us these things, God can take them away.

Our health, our wealth, and our success is in God’s hands. The money to buy all the stuff that was stolen we acquired through God’s blessing on our endeavours. We will continue aligning with him, continue asking him to bless the work of our hands.

6 It’s a great opportunity to practice humour.

I greeted the police with, “Forgive us; our house is not normally this messy.”

And everyone laughed.

We are dealing with this annoyance with ironic humour, a great coping tool.

7 And we will practise being happy in the Lord anyway, because we still dwell in the fountain of God’s goodness and mercy and it still flows.

We will rejoice in the steady goodness of God, because God can bring good out of even this. We will learn rejoicing by practising it.

So what is the proper response of the victim of a burglary?

My children are a bit frustrated with how calmly I am taking it –but it’s this:

Be at peace. Possess your soul in patience. Let nothing disturb thee. Let nothing affright thee, in the words of Saint Teresa of Avila.

Worship the Lord who has given so many good things

Worship the Lord who can turn all things to good.

Be at rest, oh my soul.

P.S. Please pray we recover all our stuff.

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Have you ever been the victim of theft or burglary? How did you cope?   

One Novelist’s Long Journey to Publication: A Guest Post by Rachel Allord

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When my son was born fourteen years ago, I loved being a stay at home mom. Truly I did. And yet at the same time, something inside of me felt restless, like my creativity was slowly drying up. I figured out how to nurse with one hand and hold a book in the other and, consequently, read a lot of novels the first year of my baby’s life.

In time, I also rediscovered another longstanding yet neglected love of mine: writing.

One evening I caught a news story on TV about a high school girl who gave birth in the bathroom during a school dance, hid the baby somewhere, and then went out to dance again. The birth experience still fresh in my mind, this startling story prompted a lot of what if questions—a great place to start for a writer:

What if the baby hadn’t died?

What if the baby had been adopted?

What if the birth mother—thinking that her baby was dead—unknowingly met the baby’s adoptive mother? What if the two became friends? What if the truth came out? 

And bannered above all other questions was:

Is God’s grace sufficient to remove the guilt of even this sin?

* * *

Head swimming, I naively began to draft out what would become Mother of My Son. While my own baby napped, and while I could have been (should have been?) scrubbing my floors, I poured out my story, and it was so fun, so satisfying, and at the end of about six months I had a…. skeleton. The beginnings of what could be a great story.

After sending out my manuscript to garner a few rejections, I bit the bullet and went to a writer’s conference to “find out what those experts know” where I learned, as far as novel-writing goes (in spite of my English degree) I really had no idea what I was doing. So I went home, reworked scenes, fleshed out characters, asked for honest feedback, prayed for wisdom, got a few articles published, read a ton on the craft, and seriously considered quitting before I was in too deep.

* * *

Ironically, adoption wasn’t even a blink on my radar when I began writing Mother of My Son. But life can be funny. My husband and I encountered secondary infertility and ultimately flew to China to adopt the sweetest baby girl ever. Life was full and wonderful and I set my story aside and didn’t look at it for three years.

But I missed it.

I missed the discovery—what will these half-baked characters of mine do next? I missed creating. Especially now since I was bolstered with experiences to flavor my story, and clarity that only comes with time.

So in the nooks and crannies of motherhood and ministry, I rolled up my sleeves and quietly went back to work, letting our family’s adoption story flavor my work. Mother of My Son is not autobiographical but it does contain a big chunk of my heart. Some of my characters seemed far removed from me, like Amber, who leaves her newborn beside a dumpster. I had not walked in her shoes. So I got really quiet and listened, to her and to women who’d tread similar dark and desperate places. And I prayed and prayed and prayed for understanding and discovered that I was not so far removed from her as I had thought- we’ve all felt desperate at one time or another. We all have things in our past we wish we could undo.

Life carried on. My children grew. I kept writing. I studied my favorite authors. I sought feedback. I quit. A week later I unquit.

And as I plodded on, I realized a hard truth: getting my book published was my goal, not a promise from God. I didn’t want to be consumed with this crazy pipe-dream and get stuck in the what ifs and if only. I didn’t want to miss out on moments of my life while I was pining away for something that might never be. Was I “only” supposed to write for my church, my community, and magazines? And if so, would that be enough?

Yes!

I did not arrive there easily but yes; it would be enough. If that were what God had for my writing and no more, it would be enough. I pressed in harder to the Author of all grace and unclenched my fist. I learned how to hold the dream loosely and move forward.

And then one day, twelve years after starting, after what felt like a hailstorm of no’s, I got a sweet yes. Yes, Pelican Book Group would like to publish my novel.

It’s delightful to have a long time goal realized, to hold my book in my hands, to hear readers say they, too, love my imaginary friends but all things—even good things this side of heaven—come with a flip side. Even happy endings include complications and frustrations and disappointments. This is life on earth after all and the stuff of this life cannot fill us up. God, The Creator who’s created us to create, is our sole soul satisfier.

Dreams clutched too tightly die and beautiful hands are open hands, open to the surprises in store for us, and to receive and pour out grace upon grace.

 

Rachel Allord

Rachel Allord

Rachel Allord grew up as a pastor’s kid, vowed never to marry a pastor, and has been contentedly married to her husband, a worship pastor, for eighteen years. She holds a B.A. in English education and is privileged to be both a biological and adoptive mother. Her stories and articles have appeared in MomSense, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and various other publications. Mother of My Son, her debut novel, released in May 2013 through Pelican Book Group. She resides in Wisconsin where she avidly consumes coffee, sushi, and novels– preferably at the same time. Connect with her at rachelallord.com.

Here’s a synopsis of Rachel’s novel

Mother of My Son: College student Amber Swansen gives birth alone. In desperation, she abandons the newborn, buries her secret, and attempts to get on with her life. No matter how far she runs, she can’t escape the guilt. Years later and still haunted by her past, Amber meets Beth Dilinger. Friendship blossoms between the two women, but Beth’s son is a constant, painful reminder to Amber of the child she abandoned. When heartache hits, causing Amber to grapple with the answers to life’s deeper questions, Beth stands by her side. Yet just when peace seems to be within Amber’s grasp, the truth of her past and the parentage of Beth’s son comes to light and threatens to shatter not only their worlds, but the life of the teenager they both love.

 

“Nothing that you have not given away will be really yours.” The Breaking and Blessing of Dreams

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A mosaic in Ravenna, made of millions of broken tessarae of glass and enamel
The principle runs through all life from top to bottom. Give up yourself, and you will find your real self. Lose your life and you will save it. Submit to death, death of your ambitions and favourite wishes every day: submit with every fibre of your being, and you will find eternal life. Keep back nothing. Nothing that you have not given away will be really yours. Nothing in you that has not died will ever be raised from the dead. (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity).

 

“Christianity can only be caught, not taught,” they say. I caught a lot while I was discipled from 1997 to 2002 by a deep, sincere Christian writer and leader. He said that as he found himself becoming intense–a sign that self was on the throne, not Christ–he’d say, “Take that too. I surrender that to you, Jesus,” and so on, until it became a habit to surrender everything precious to him, everything he worried about, to Jesus.

 

We swapped my editing of his first book for spiritual guidance. He didn’t seem a naturally gifted writer, and I think I helped him find his natural speaking voice and rhythms in writing.

 

Interestingly, he said that he did not own his writing. He had given it to God. And whereas I wasted a lot of time on false starts, he wrote to just three publishers, one of whom took his first book. Several reviewers have said his next book was one of the best books on prayer of all time, and that’s because it sprung from the heart, spirit and experience, not from study, reading or the head.

 

What impressed me was that someone who did not seem naturally gifted as a writer could so rapidly write two good books. Was not “owning” his writing a factor? He said he wrote as God provided time, whereas I was always trying to grab, steal, wrangle time, which caused me a lot of stress.

 

He said once that he owned the Christian charity he founded far more than his writing. And that, 13 years on, has never really taken off, perhaps for this reason.

* * *

 

If we are managing something–a career, a business, our parenting, a blog, then if we are competent and talented, we may well do well.

 

However, when we surrender it to God, he takes it, blesses it, and frequently breaks it–breaking our heart in the process. And uses those broken fragments to feed the 5000. Miracles happen!

It so makes me want to make sure that everything I have is owned by God. But there are no shortcuts to this surrender. It comes when the mind, spirit and emotions, together say the Fiat, Let it be done to me according to thy will.

Nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent, Yeats writes.

 

I wanted to surrender my writing to God, but it was so much a part of my identity. The only thing I have wanted to do since I was 21 was to write, and I felt that if I didn’t have a published book, I would be a failure. Having a husband who was very successful as a mathematician didn’t help either.

 

I tried and tried to surrender my writing to God. To say, “Lord, if I never get a book published, that’s fine. If I’m never well-known as a writer, that’s fine. If all my writing projects fail, are never finished, remain drafts on my computer, that’s fine. All I want is you.”

 

But I would get tearful as I said that—and had not yet reached the point where it was OK if I never published a book, was never read, never known. My whole identity and desire-life was bound up with success as a writer that I felt if that failed, I’d have failed.  I would be no one. Nothing.

 

And well, I needed a period of being no one and nothing for that dream to die. I discovered there is freedom in it. You just relax and enjoy people, and don’t have to bother about snicking into the conversation that you had won a $20,000 National Endowment for the Arts award, or a $6000 State Arts Board Award, or were published in the Washington Post, London Magazine, Commonweal, The Best Spiritual Writing anthologies etc. (See, I am showing-off here, and it’s making me feel tired!!:-)

 

Surrendering your dreams is no easy matter. The mouth may say: “I surrender all,” but the heart may shrink. I fancy people go through the same struggle with singleness, childlessness, with a terminally ill child or spouse, with cancer or terminal illness.

* * *

 

I definitely don’t own my blog. I started blogging because I felt God telling me too, and it is in his hands. I have relatively firm time limits for how long I spend on it—an hour a day writing, and another 15 minutes or so responding to comments. When I want to promote it, I pray as a first recourse, partly because I am too low-energy to do much else. And, the fact that the blog is God’s is my salvation, because there is so much potential for promoting a blog, the most egalitarian art-form, that I would otherwise exhaust myself.

 

My other writing? Well, of course, it now belongs to God. I do it as he provides time, energy and organization.

* * *

 

It did take that long period in which I could not write at all because I was establishing our family’s publishing business for the ambition of writing to die–for me to write because it is my vocation and calling, rather than my ambition.

 

The funny thing about giving your dreams to God, about not owning them is that it happens in its own time. You cannot make the surrender happen, no more than you can make yourself fall in love. It’s a funny mixture of the heart and will. I remember saying in a women’s breakfast speech at Williamsburg Community Chapel, how my struggle with writing was “Give it to Him, take it back; give it to Him, take it back.”

 

Well, that’s done with. It’s totally surrendered. I wouldn’t dream of taking it back (I think!).

 

“I truly can’t manage it, Lord; you manage it,” I say.

* * *

 

My other struggle, sadly, is with weight. And, to be honest, I don’t have a shadow of a chance of winning that on my own, either. I can only do it by putting it in God’s hands, and making it his problem.

Here’s a joke I heard Max Lucado tell in his audiobook, Travelling Light.

Tom walks down the street and meets Dick, who is grinning from ear to ear.
Tom, “What are you so happy about?”
Dick, “Well, I’ve met a man who promised to do all my worrying for me for $67,000 a year.”
Tom, “$67,000 a year. How are you going to get that?”
Dick, grinning, “That’s HIS worry!”

 

Yes, Lord, take my physical health and my writing. Please manageoth. The Lord is my personal trainer. I shall be fit. The Lord is my Literary Agent. I shall write well.