Flood Damage

A few weeks ago Kelsie came upstairs and said, "Um, Jeff. The carpet is wet on my side of the bed." Her announcement came after a week of gentile soaking rains, followed by a night of torrential downpours.

After a week of mopping and sopping, tearing up carpet, pulling out drywall, fans, dehumidifiers water finally quit coming into our basement. 

Then it poured again. 

There has been only one day in May without rain in Colorado Springs. Kind of a switch for a city with rainfall totals similar to a desert. And while there are things we can do to resolve the problem, there is nothing we can do until the ground dries out, except bail water. 

One night, after staying up all night cleaning up water every fifteen minutes... again, it occurred to me; this is like a chronic illness. 

There is an initial shock, fear and concern. It impacts the entire family. You take actions to compensate for the problem. At some point, the depressing reality of the daily struggle sets in, "I'm exhausted. There's no end in sight. This is my life now."

This is what life has been for my dad as he's cared for my mom for 13 years with Alzheimer's. This is what life has been for Nancy as she's dealt with chronic fatigue. This is what it's like for folks who deal with chronic pain, who may look fine on the outside, but internally are suffering silently. 

We can cope with most anything when we know there is an end date. It's the ongoing struggle, when we feel trapped and powerless, that is so debilitating.

Hope for my basement returns with the sun. It's the promise of the Son's return that brings hope to those who battle daily with chronic suffering. 

Confession Conundrum

On Sunday, a good friend preached a sermon and gave a compelling call for the need for confession. Many heads nodded and many went to the alter. It was good.

As I listened there was a voice, deep in my head that responded to every point he made. The voice said, "It isn't safe!" 

When we come to Christ we can confess. We can share every deep dark corner of our hearts and it is celebrated as a life forgiven, transformed, made new. It's beautiful.

The problem comes after a few years in the pews, when the sins of our youth revisit us. When casual clicking online leads to objectification, causal drinking slips into addiction and casual lunches at work drift to an affair.

Like Goldilocks we suddenly realize we're lost in the forest. We desperately long to go home but there is no one to ask for directions but bears.

The people called to be light feel dark and judgmental. Condemnation comes in a place called the sanctuary.

So we confess. Silently and alone. We pray God will forgive us. We pray no one finds out.

I wonder what church would look like if was a safe place to fail, then fail, then fail. Where confrontation came from a heart of deep love and concern rather than accusation. Where we learned to forgive each other and ourselves.

It's tragic Church is not a place safe enough to talk about the impulsive click, the extra glass and the flirtatious banter. I think if it was, fewer of us would end up in the woods.