Tag: Suffering Page 2 of 3

Living in Saturday

On April 11, 2020

We don’t talk much about Saturday. Friday, yes, because now, looking back two thousand years, we know that Friday was Good. But on that original Friday, they didn’t yet know that. All they knew was the horror, the trauma, the beatings, the blood. And Saturday, all they knew was hopelessness and despair. All their dreams nailed down in a torturous crucifixion. Their closest friend, their mentor, their Lord–the one who had calmed the seas and winked at small children–condemned, humiliated, despised.

And they figured they were next. So they spent Saturday in hiding. Hunkered down, the windows closed, in shock. This was not how it was supposed to be. The end was supposed to be a kingdom–power, praise, honor! And they would be right by his side, the conquering hero, leading the people, soaking in the praise by association. But in one horrifying Friday, all of that was decimated. What went wrong? Is God angry with us? How could we have been so misled? This is not how it was supposed to be.

We know better now. We know what’s coming on Sunday, so we don’t think much about Saturday. Yet, in a very real sense, we live in that Saturday.

Perhaps this year more than ever, the world is faced with the reality of that Saturday. There’s always been suffering, poverty, war, disease. But in my generation of relatively prosperous Americans, there’s never been a time in our lives when we corporately have felt more powerless, more isolated, more out of control. Here we are, on a planet that’s an infinitesimal speck in a universe of mind-blowing proportions. Yet seemingly immovable cultures and institutions are cut off at the knees by an even more infinitesimal speck that lurks unseen by all of us. We are very, very small, aren’t we? The breath that keeps us alive for another few seconds is not something to be trifled with. We are not as strong as we think we are.

Resurrection, restoration, redemption came on that Sunday. Life was restored. Death was conquered. The world was never the same again. Yet as miraculous as the Resurrection was, it was just the deposit. The down payment for That Day–not yet come–when all things will be made new.

Until then, we still live in Saturday. The earth groans under the weight of war and hatred and injustice. Our frail bodies collapse from a microscopic enemy. We are driven to our knees with the tangible reminder that this is not heaven.

Yet one thing makes us different from those who hid away on that dark, hopeless Saturday. Yes, like them, we grieve, we anguish, we fear. But we have hope. That’s the difference. We grieve, but with confident expectation of what’s coming. We are on our knees, but we look up. If God could take the worst day in history and use it for our salvation, can He not redeem all the other hard things? The tomb was empty on Sunday. One day, ours will be too.

Dar es Salaam, Tanzania (Gil Medina)

I Don’t Deserve Your Sympathy

By Amy Medina

On April 6, 2020

In Poverty

Leaving Tanzania suddenly was probably the most stressful experience of my life. Selling everything in our house, trying to get Johnny’s visa processed, having flights and airports closing around us, and worrying about all the people and responsibilities we would be leaving behind–all in a period of a few days–just about broke me. There were times when I found myself shaking uncontrollably or simply immobilized by the inability to think clearly.

But there were moments during that week–and even more so now that it’s over–when I am overwhelmed with how much privilege was connected to this sudden departure.

Yes, my stomach was in knots. But never once did I worry that my family wouldn’t have enough to eat. Yes, there was tremendous grief in being given a mandate to leave. But never did I feel my life was in danger. Yes, the trip probably exposed us to the virus. But I knew we were headed to a country with high quality health care. Yes, it was hard to find open flights. But I could afford to buy tickets on those flights. Yes, the trip was exhausting. But we had in-flight entertainment and a night at an airport hotel. Yes, I was forced to leave my home and return to a place that doesn’t feel like home. But I had a passport to let me in.

In contrast, consider India. When the government put the country on lockdown last week, stalling all public transportation, hundreds of thousands of migrants started walking back to their home villages over one hundred miles away. People who scratch out a living of five dollars a day, walking. No money, no food for their journey. Sleeping outdoors. Many of them with children.

Yes, “shelter in place” isn’t much fun. Like the rest of America, Gil and I are struggling with our kids’ online learning while trying to do our own work. Our kids are climbing the walls. We are bored. We’ve been on quarantine so it’s been a challenge to figure out how to get more milk or find a protractor so that Josiah can do his math. Yet again–I have no worries of going hungry. Zero worries. Sure, we are 8 people sharing three bedrooms, but my parents’ house has 24 hour electricity and running water. Friends have brought us homemade pizza and root beer and ice cream, and a protractor for Josiah.

In contrast, I think of Uganda, also on lockdown. I think of families with 10 people sharing one room. Not one bedroom, one room. Little to no electricity. Their daily water supply costs a quarter of their daily wages–yet now there are no daily wages. We stress about boredom; they wonder about survival.

Yes, Gil and I are worried about the future. In three months, we will be unemployed. We’ve been applying for jobs at Christian schools, yet no one is confident of enrollment for next year, no one even knows when schools will open again, so everyone is reluctant to hire. Our future–where we will live, what we will do–is a big black hole of unknowns. Yet again–I have zero worries about going hungry. I have zero worries about ending up on the street.

In contrast, I think of how the tourism industry in Tanzania has come to a screeching halt, leaving hundreds of thousands without jobs. I think of the names and faces of Tanzanians I know–friends I have shared life with–who are now jobless due to so many foreigners leaving the country. But unlike Americans, they can’t apply for unemployment benefits. Or even welfare. Or even food stamps.

I don’t deserve your sympathy. They do.

I’m not saying that we didn’t need your prayers or concern, because what we went through was really hard. I’m not trying to minimize my grief. The trauma my family experienced in being yanked from our home is very real. The anxiety about our future is tangible. I am grieving, and going through all the stages right now–denial, guilt, anger. I’m not trying to minimize the hardship of millions of Americans who have lost jobs, who are facing uncertain futures. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t mourn the loss of the thousands of Americans who have died in this crisis.

But I do think that there is room for gratitude in my grief. Enduring a pandemic as a citizen of the richest country in the world–as difficult as it is–is still filled with privilege. My kids get to continue school. My country’s health care system is strong. My family has several safety nets in place if we continue to be jobless. Sure, it might not be our first choice–living with extended family, public school…but we won’t starve. That is a privilege.

Grief is healthy, so I’m not trying to squelch it. My losses are real. But choosing to find gratitude alongside the grief keeps me from spiraling into self-pity or despair. I could question why so much has been taken from me. Or I could question why I have still been allowed so much. The contrast makes all the difference.

Johnny visiting the cockpit of our last flight to California

Why Am I So Surprised When Crisis Strikes?

By Amy Medina

On February 9, 2020

In Other

These days, I’m tired of being in crisis mode. Seriously, enough already.

My husband and I have spent the last two years fretting about visas. We’ve watched our team evaporate, one by one, due to visa issues. A couple of times, my husband got very close to needing to leave the country. For months and months we kept thinking, This is all going to work out, right? Doesn’t it always? And we were surprised to discover that actually, it doesn’t always work out.

On top of that, the last few months have been some of the most stressful of my life. 2020 came in with a bang, with almost constant crises hitting me from all sides. Thankfully, my family is fine (crisis is different from tragedy), but I’m an administrator at a school where it feels like the next wave of problems comes rolling in before I can finish with the previous ones. Many days I am just gasping for breath. Taking the next step. Focusing on the dozens of tiny fires so that I don’t have to face the inferno that could be looming in the future.

Anyone else out there feeling like that these days? With the recent trend of countries closing in on themselves and locking out outsiders, travel bans, tensions rising between nations, and well, that little virus that’s affecting an entire continent of billions of people….I’m guessing that many of my fellow overseas workers might be in crisis mode too.

And I sit here and I just want it to go away. Kind of irritated, actually, that God doesn’t just let up. Maybe because I’ve bought into the American dream or maybe because I’m just plain selfish, but I have this ingrained expectation that I deserve a little peace and quiet every once in a while. Like, I’ve met my quota for stress, God; you owe me an easy ride from here on out.

Why are we so often surprised by what’s happening in the world? Nations rising up against nations? Economies collapsing? Epidemics circling the globe? Plagues of fire and floods?

What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.

Yet, we’re astonished when the crisis hits us. No wonder every generation believes they are living in the End Times. All of us think, Certainly no generation has ever faced what we have! Which means we probably just need to study more history. Or maybe live overseas for a while longer, observing the lives of our non-western brothers and sisters.

Peter wrote, Dear friends, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you.

We read this, yet still we are surprised. When pressed against the wall, in crisis mode for week after month after year, we think something strange is happening to us. No, God, my life is not supposed to be like this. Not for this long, anyway. Why aren’t you fixing it?

We are surprised because we are forgetful, aren’t we? We forget that Paul was in prison when he told his readers to Rejoice in the Lord always. We forget that Jesus told his disciples that the peace He gives is not dependent on life’s circumstances. We forget that this life is just a blip on the screen of eternity. Yes, one day all things will be made new, but until then, we forget that we aren’t supposed to find Heaven here on earth.

The chaplain at my school, Sheshi Kaniki, recently exhorted our staff as we are passing through these times of crisis. He told us, “Nothing you experience will ever be worse than what you have already been saved from.”

Amen. Maranatha.

Passages cited: Ecc. 1:9, I Peter 4:12, Phil. 4:4

This article was originally posted at A Life Overseas.

Only God Sees Around Corners

By Amy Medina

On June 6, 2019

In Other

Several years ago, when we had just begun our year-long home assignment in California, Gil and I found out about a ministry opportunity that would have provided us with free housing and a stipend for the time we were in the States.

It seemed absolutely perfect to us. We were incredibly excited by the opportunity, and it seemed like an exact fit with our passion and experience. But we were too late. We didn’t find out about it in time, and by the time we applied, they decided not to keep the position open.

We were bitterly disappointed. And I wondered, Why would God show us an opportunity that seemed so perfect, only to take it away? What was even the point of letting us see it in the first place, if he wasn’t going to make it happen?

I’ve wondered that a lot of times since then.

As a principal at HOPAC, I am up close and personal with the recruiting process, which is gut-wrenching, to say the least. I’ve lost track now of how many times it’s happened: We interview someone amazing; everyone is ecstatic that such a cool person is interested in HOPAC; we all get our hopes up…..and then for some reason or another, it doesn’t work out. It happened to me twice in the last two weeks.

And I wonder, Why is God getting our hopes up if we’re just going to be disappointed in the end? Why dangle a carrot in front of our noses if he’s just going to yank it away?

And I don’t know why. So I sit here in a funk, kind of mad at God for making me think he’s answering my prayers when instead I imagine him saying, “Haha! Made you look!”

Except I am not God. And I don’t know what he’s thinking; I just need to trust he knows what he is doing. He’s got a million moving pieces; how dare I question him on what he’s doing with each one? Here I am focusing only on how I personally am affected by the disappointment–how God let me down. But what if the situation wasn’t about me? What if he needs me to trust him with this disappointment because it was a necessary part of what he is doing in another person’s life?

Or, what if that disappointment is, in the end, saving me from something far more tragic? What if that disappointment is actually an expression of God’s mercy, but I, like the screaming toddler, throw a fit when her mother yanks away the luscious-looking, but deadly poisonous berries?

Andree Seu Peterson writes, “Only God sees around corners, and therefore it is very wise to not try to figure out our own way to happiness and safety by relying on our own understanding and worldly wiles. The wise person will trust in God’s ways and stick to them, knowing that life can get messy in the middle, because the person who makes God his trust, the story will turn out well in the end, in the very, very end.”

Mad is Not Our Only Choice

By Amy Medina

On May 27, 2019

In Other

As I recently described, a certain child of mine is prone to rages. It happened again at school this week on Sports Day, which meant I had to be mom and principal at the same time. It’s rough to be the principal’s kid, but personally, I think it’s even harder on the principal.

Of course, the chaos and exhaustion of Sports Day can bring out the worst in anybody, but this child made some pretty bad choices in the heat of an argument, leading to some extremely unkind things hurled at a good friend.

I led my scowling, glaring child to a picnic bench away from the din of children who were gleefully passing sponges over, under, over, under.

We worked on empathy. “How do you think you made your friend feel when you said those things?” I asked. “How would you feel if someone said those things to you?”

“I would feel mad.”

I tried again. “But your friend isn’t mad; your friend is hurt. How does that make you feel?”

My child glowered. “I’m just mad!”

Something clicked for me. “Honey,” I said, “I just realized something. I think that sometimes you choose feeling mad over feeling bad. You choose mad because that’s a more comfortable emotion than feeling sad or guilty. It’s really hard to admit when we do something wrong, and it’s a lot easier to be mad at someone who is mad back at you.”

And I get that, don’t I? It’s easier to feel anger than regret. It feels much better to point fingers or deflect blame or lie to myself than to deal with the harsh reality of my own failure.

I looked into my child’s belligerent eyes and thought, My child just needs the gospel.

There, at the foot of the cross, we find freedom from shame and guilt. But the first step is kneeling there, acknowledging that we need freedom from shame and guilt. And that kneeling is the hardest part.

God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.

Let a Bible story–just think of your favorite from Sunday School–run through your mind. Doesn’t every single one tell this story of pride and humility? Those who chose not to be humbled–well, their stories didn’t end well. We find them eating grass like an ox, swept away by a flood, aimlessly wandering in a desert. But those who submitted to it–in prison, in the belly of a fish, separated by the veil, flat-faced in the dust before a holy God–those are the ones we see restored, redeemed, made new by grace.

And of course, once you’ve been made new, nothing ever looks the same again. Mad is no longer the default emotion. It’s okay to feel shame and guilt, because you’ve found mercy. It’s okay to feel sadness and regret, because you’ve found a waterfall of Hope.

I look over the timeline of my life and I see the same recurring theme: God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble. How many times I have walked through fire–beleaguered, exhausted, depleted of everything in me, my face in the dust, and I’ve finally said, “Okay, God, you win.” Which was most likely the point all along.

Barbara Duguid writes, “You will never be able to find steady joy in this life until you understand, submit to, and even embrace the fact that you are weak and sinful.”

I look again into my child’s blazing eyes.My sweet child, may you come to embrace that mad is not your only choice. Let it go, and you’ll find everlasting grace on the other side.

And then I remind myself (again) of the same thing.