looking through me

Tag: faith

fifteen years

A glint in the sky catches my eye. I track it as it makes a long arcing turn and prepares for its final descent.

Fifteen years ago the skies were empty. Fifteen years ago the whole country was grounded though the foundation had been ripped from beneath our feet.

Fifteen years ago my eyes scanned the plane-less sky and struggled to understand how quickly life had changed. Today planes are in the sky, but I feel the same restless bewilderment.

A bag of groceries sits on the seat beside me as I drive. Feeding those I love lets me feel useful in my helplessness. I watch the plane until it dips out of sight. I pull into the driveway and unload the groceries. I head to the kitchen to chop and mix, to sauté, to layer and bake.

Fifteen years ago everything changed . . . and nothing changed. Fifteen years ago we recoiled at humanity’s hatred, but the venom burns through us as hotly as ever.

We forget because it hurts to remember. We remember because it hurts to forget.

Fifteen years. And counting.




sacrifice of thanksgiving

I walked out of a meeting feeling overwhelmed and agitated. I knew the endpoint of the project, but I had no idea how to get there. I wasn’t even sure where to start. I felt fear building inside me, so I took a deep breath and walked outside.

My racing mind tripped on these words: “I will offer to you the sacrifice of thanksgiving” (Ps. 116:17a).

Huh. A sacrifice is costly. It doesn’t happen effortlessly. It’s purposefully done. And it seemed an odd pairing with “thanksgiving.”

But it made me wonder if I—feeling inadequate and anxious—could offer thanks for the exact circumstances stressing me.

After a few more deep breaths, I thanked God for my job. I thanked Him for this project I couldn’t possibly do on my own, for having to admit I needed help, for colleagues who were willing to share information, for not knowing the right questions to ask but asking anyway, for a boss who trusted and supported me, for the discomfort of being stretched. I thanked my way through every aspect of the job.

Walking back to my office, it occurred to me I had entirely misconstrued the psalmist’s words. In the sacrificial system there was an actual sacrifice of thanksgiving, as in specific offerings to be made in gratitude for deliverance from trouble or for a blessing received. The act of giving thanks was not the sacrifice.

Yet, in giving thanks for the sources of my anxiety, I exchanged my desperation to know all the answers for willingness to trust God’s sufficiency. So . . . perhaps my unorthodox interpretation of the sacrifice of thanksgiving wasn’t completely wrong—because it hurts in all the right ways to give thanks for what doesn’t feel like a blessing.

It didn’t change the tasks, but it changed me.


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