The Green Pasture-Part 2
This is Part 2 in a series titled The Green Pasture. See here for Part 1.
In God’s providence two years before these ominous events, He provided a job that allowed Robert to work from home 75% of the time. His workload lightened for 6 of the darkest months. His commitment to traveling 25% dropped to zero without uttering a word to his boss. Two strong hands combined with two weak hands supplied extra help to juggle a nursing baby and two rambunctious boys. Robert was my rock in the chaos picking up more house work and lifting my heart off the floor daily. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” (Psalm 23:1)
Robert is a data farmer. It is his joy to analyze and design tools for companies to use the intelligence they have in disorganized systems. His computer — iPhone, iPad, wireless mouse, headset, Facebook, Twitter, Google, and any other electronic thingamajig — is his plow to farm the fields of business intelligence. These unfertilized tools grew weeds over time. An invisible leash pulled his mind back to work at the end of each day.
On our honeymoon with our small ministry salary and extra wedding money we stood in line at the Apple Store to buy the first iPhone. The first-ever multi-touch interface for multi-tasking wooed my data-loving husband like a drooling dog to a bone. He queried for a year waiting for the market to decrease prices to carry this small aluminum rectangle in his pocket. Our favorite honeymoon picture of each other — young and rested on the front porch of a Tennessee bungalow — memorialized the rectangle that would change the tech world and amusement. The photograph was his wallet picture he carried every day for 8 years on the front screen of his phone.
Generations of phones filled our loading docks stealing moments away from our family as multi-touch turned to multi-apps for a more organized life and disorganized mind. Each silent vibration was a zap to his hand that said, “pick me up”, “look at me”, “read me”. Pandora’s box of curiosity drew him away.
Caring for three children — one still attached to me as the feeding station, another recently potty trained but not trained enough to wipe and clean, and another still healing from the drama of walking through his Red Zone — was enough to overwhelm a healthy mom functioning on 7 hours of sleep. I was working on 6 months of long interrupted sleep day after day even though the baby had been sleeping for months. The distracting zaps and buzzes from Pandora’s box were precious seconds to our needy family.
As Valentine’s Day approached, I mustered up enough effort to decorate the children’s doors with paper hearts and encouraging messages. I was trying to speak words of life into our haggard family — keeping truth the focus of our hearts. There was no time for fancy late night dates, chocolates, or lacy undergarments. I had no expectations for this holiday. Robert had already given up so much more than any father I had ever met. A hug would have been enough. Instead, he took his commitment to love and cherish me to another level. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” (Psalm 23:1)
On February 14th I found a piece of paper on my desk. It had two pictures blown up side by side. The first was our honeymoon picture. The adjacent was an empty rectangle with the “slide to power off” symbol along the top from his iPhone. He drew a heart around us and an X through the other. Pandora’s box was turned off. My data-loving go-go Inspector Gadget human-cyborg husband extinguished his phone. He stopped carrying the leash and left it upstairs on his work desk only to be picked up at the next business day. I wept.
This gift was another edible dandelion in the Lord’s lush pasture. God used His rod of protection to drive the wolves away from anything that would threaten our marriage in a season of perpetual darkness. He showed me love through the love of my husband—not by giving me sleep but by reminding me He was tangible in the shadows. “He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters.” (Psalm 23:2)
The eyes of a weeping husband can never be forgotten as tears of an exhausted wife filled another pillow case. Insomnia left us isolated and tired. Our daily demands caring for three kids felt like treading water at boot camp. The stamina required to stay afloat made it difficult to share with others our needs and heartache.
When you tell someone you can’t sleep, they tell you to take a pill. Nursing a baby gave us few options even though the crowd around roared to secede from the union. We came close by purchasing a can of the healthiest, most expensive formula when the baby was 8 months old. It remained unopened. Spring was coming. Maybe relief would too once weaning began in three more months.
Some days I longed to have the diagnosis of cancer, not because I wanted to die but because I wanted a signpost to the valley. When you tell someone you have cancer, immediate prayer chains are started for healing. News travels fast and empathy overflows. When you share you can’t sleep for the 1oth month in a row, most people are thinking: “Just suck it up. Everyone is tired. It can’t be that bad. You must be getting some sleep to live.” Some were kind enough to pray and hug me as tear eruptions came without warning in their embrace. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” (Psalm 23:1)
One afternoon as I sat alone on our couch, another eruption ensued. I was reading textbook after textbook about natural health, trying to navigate the valley of my condition from a biblical perspective. Trusting God with a holistic approach to health was like lying down in his green pasture with wolves just over the hill. I had modern medicine at one ravine and eastern Chinese practices at another. I wanted to be able to take from both without compromising my ideals.
The mystery of the body was too great for me. I cried out. I screamed. I slobbered on another pillow and declared to my ineffable God, “I want to live!” I will keep eating and drinking your sustenance through the cancer of insomnia if you will show me the way. “I WANT TO LIVE!” It was my war cry. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters.” (Psalm 23:1–2)
1 Corinthians 13:8–13 was a dim candle to my war cry. It’s famous for its emphasis on love. I read it for its emphasis on hope and faith. Faith had been the reason we had our third child. The cost of obedient faith wasn’t free. It cost me my physical body beyond nine months of pregnancy and breastfeeding to dark sleepless shadows. But it cost Christ His life. Faith, like that of Christ’s, became my daily meal.
Paul writes, “For we know in part and we prophesy in part…” (vs. 9)The part I knew showed us we were on the right path, but I didn’t know where it would lead or if it would end. Of all the creatures God created we are the only ones who can see the future. We can prepare for tomorrow by packing lunches and loading vans with all the stuff kids need for a field trip. We can set up calendar events to send us reminders to make meals for people that need help. We can worship God believing that He will return to rescue us completely as He promised. No dog, bug, tree, inch-worm, planet, star, galaxy, or molecule can see or read that. Man and woman — the climax of His divine creativity — can know a sliver of things too great to be described in our limited vernacular.
“…but when the perfect comes the partial will pass away…for now, we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.” (vs. 10, 12) When the angel of the Lord appeared to Moses in the burning bush God told him not to come any closer. Remove your sandals. Where you stand is holy ground. Moses hid his face, afraid to look at God. The Levitical priests had similar experiences with God’s power and presence.
In the Holy of Holies, the High Priest entered with a rope around his ankle once a year to atone for man’s sins. To enter, he walked through a curtain made of linen and yarn. Figures embroidered with blue, purple, and scarlet illustrated God’s power and majesty. The veil separated sinful man from holy God. For the High Priest to enter he washed meticulously, put on special clothing, burned incense — smoke would cover his eyes from direct view of God — and brought blood with him as an offering for himself and for the sins of the people. The rope was an added precaution to pull the Priest out in case he died after walking through the veil into the presence of God.
I imagine this curtain to be thick with the smell of blood and other strange olfactory stimulators. The linen yarn was multi-strands thick — too heavy for a few men to carry or clean. It also kept light out creating a dark barrier between man and God. Jesus, the light of the world, with his last breath on the cross initiated the veil torn in two from top to bottom. The curtain was too high for any priest to reach and too thick to cut with a knife. God, from above, exposed His presence to all mankind by sacrificing His Son on the cross. The sins of all creation were paid in full if they would repent and believe. It was now possible to see dimly, with the promise of seeing completely once the plans of God were consummated.
“Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” (vs. 12) As I waited to understand the future I was known completely in the present. To be fully known meant I wanted to stay as close as possible to my shepherd. No one understood our circumstances like He did. Night after night I read the Word of God as part of my evening battle routine. I dressed in my shield of faith and covered up in our blankets. I pictured hope in my mind as a peaceful walk in His pasture listening to his brook run over crystal waters luring my body to lay down and rest, even though my circumstances were not peaceful. “So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” (vs. 13) Some day I won’t need faith or hope because love was the victor. He loved me enough that some day—a day unknown to me—I would sleep. Until then, all three helped me keep walking in the valley.“He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters.” (Psalm 23:2)
