The Master Craftsman

"God is the Master Craftsman... God is also the one who 'chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise,' and whose 'power is made perfect in weakness.' If in our pursuit of excellence we conclude that God can only work through the highest art, we will be drawing a false conclusion." (1)

It’s a weird thing, wishing with all my heart the unfair stuff hadn’t happened to me, while simultaneously being incredibly grateful that I’m where I am because of it.

Appointments, loss, sickness, disappointments, sorrows, countless transitions, and layers of pain. I didn’t choose any of it. But I’ve learned to love it. And I learn to love it more every day.

Sometimes I have to blink to see if this is real. My life.

I whisper to myself, “I get to do this.” This life I never saw coming, not in a million years of planning.

It’s raw and real and layered. Each week there is fresh pain, a new unfairness, but learning happens together, in community.

I love my extraordinary friends and family so much I feel like I can’t breathe typing this. And I could’ve missed it. I could’ve missed them. If I had gotten precisely what I thought I wanted a million years ago.

I’m not a rides person, but picture yourself getting on a roller coaster. Part of the ride is waiting in line for a crazy long time. You’re sunburned and annoyed and the person behind you smells like the bottom of a garbage can. Sometimes it feels like the line will never move, but you watch the coaster loop around up ahead and know that it’ll be worth it if you just wait. When it’s finally your turn, finally, after all that waiting, you step into your little coaster car and ease into your seat. You fasten your seatbelt, and that harness thingy comes down over your shoulders. You’ve waited all this time, and now you’re feeling a little nervous. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Just as you think about running away, the ride takes off and you’re inching up a really steep hill. During the climb, you have nowhere to go and the terror crawls into your throat and you hear the car clack clack clacking to the top. The climb feels like forever. You finally make it to the top and feel like you’re going to barf. The car starts down, and for a moment you hang over the top until you plunge down, loop, and spin. The wind punches your face and your lips blow open into a grinning scream. Your stomach feels like it’s dangling out the back of the car. After plummeting to new lows and rising to new heights and spinning till you can’t spin anymore, you land back at the beginning with bugs in your teeth and a smile askew on your windblown face. It was terrible. And wonderful.

This is what I call the God-ride.

It’s waiting endlessly, feeling petrified, fighting vomit, miles of anticipation, and whirling, racing, plunging through the air.

It’s exhilarating, and you want to go again and again.

I didn’t choose this unexpected God-ride, but I love it with all my ripped-apart, sewn-back-together heart.

I’m so glad for every moment of the journey, even the moments when I thought I wouldn’t make it, because now I get it. Now I think I understand. All the pain. All the waiting. It was all for His glory, and it brought me to where I am today.

I’m not the same person I was when I started.

I’m still in progress.

I’m still a mess.

But I’m their mess. I’m their friend; their sister; their daughter. And I'm His mess.

And it took the whole journey to bring me here.

I want us to walk into a life of thankfulness and security in God’s grace.

Our circumstances may not change, but as we walk together, in community, we can experience joy. It’s not fair. It’s absolutely not fair. It’s hair-raising and occasionally stomach-churning. And it’s oh so exhilarating.

I’ve been changed by a God who created me to be His masterpiece, loved me through disappointment and continues to carry me through the unfairness of life.

I’ve discovered the intense joy that comes through the pain, through unfairness.

I’ve moved from desperation and desolation into gratitude and grace.

Rather than listing all the ways life isn’t fair, I begin to offer praise, and in the praising, I worship deeper, love harder, and experience God’s pleasure.

I just reread that last paragraph and am equal parts mm-hmming and wanting to gag myself with the nearest available spatula. It’s all true . . . half of the time.

The other half I’m still a big whiner. It’s a work in progress, blah blah something about the journey blah.

After years of telling God it’s not fair, I can now say that I’m grateful for my struggle. I would never, ever tell someone else to be grateful for theirs.

It’s not my place to tell people in their pain to be grateful. That would be the highest cruelty. But over time, after having raw conversations with God and acknowledging the life unfolding around me, I see the beauty of His creation.

It’s not fair. It’s different than fair. It’s new and unique and it’s mine.

Whatever you’re going through right now or whatever you’ve been through, it’s hard, maybe it’s awful, and it will leave a mark.

There will be times when you stare at a wall, and times when you wave your fist in the air, and times when you’ll feel like you’re tearing apart.

And there will be scars.

And there will always be those things people say or photos you see that will take you right back to that feeling of helplessness or desperation.

There will be triggers. You are marked.

But what I’ve learned and what I’ve seen in my own life and in the lives of so many other brave warriors is that we do learn to love our lives, as is, naked and scarred.

Scars can be beautiful.