Dear Jesus, I failed: An honest prayer when trying isn't enough

Sometimes life doesn’t live up to our expectations. We believe what we hear in history class that we have the right to the American Dream. Our parents assured us that if we do everything right, we will be aptly rewarded. We sang Sunday school bible songs about good character and strong faith and knew that we would have God’s protection over our life and plans.

As we age, that façade starts to fall. It might start with our first broken heart or our first failed exam. Soon we find ourselves miles away from the rich, happy and successful stereotype of the American Christian, and no amount of positive thinking and Instagram inspiration can save us from the real struggles within.

Sometimes marriages end in divorce.

Sometimes pregnancies end too early

Sometimes the temptation is too great.

Sometimes the insecurity is too strong.

Sometimes the dream is out of reach.

Now, the point of this post is not to give in to hopelessness. Rather, there are three things I do intend for you to do with it that will help you see past current circumstances.

First, breathe. Breathe in the stifling air that tragic, life-upending circumstances bring. Allow the tears to soak into the carpet beneath your knees and know that the Lord loves you just as much in the valley as on the mountaintop. Be thankful that we have a God who doesn’t stand above the pit yelling “I told you so” but sits with us in the muck and mire. He is the “God Who Sees Me.” This is the name Hagar gives the Lord when he came to her in the desert as she sobbed helplessly, fearing for her and her child’s life. The Lord sought her out, not once, but twice when her world seemed to be ending. Sweetly, tenderly, he loved her and Ishmael, and that knowledge was enough for her to carry on (Genesis 16; Genesis 23).

The second thing to do is pray. Whisper a pray of failure. Or scream it aloud. Cry, scream, plead, or blame. It is all allowed at the throne of God. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died,” Mary admitted her disappointment in the Lord when Lazarus succumbed to death. Jesus did not reproach her. He did not throw his hands in the air and leave. He did not call her weak or tell her that many other people have lost loved ones, too. Instead, he wept with her (John 11:35). The Holy Spirit still weeps with us, groaning in tragedy and emitting furious, hot tears in injustice, when the sin of others causes our pain.

The third thing to do is to acknowledge that your story is not over. As Christians, victory over the darkness is inevitable. One day, we will overcome every obstacle, every insecurity, every fear, because we trust the Lord who has overcome the world. In my experience, most of these victories occur as our feet still grace the earth. Still, some victory won’t be felt fully until we are inside Heaven’s gate. On that sweet day, all striving will be over. I will just be me, restored and whole, just as God intended in the beginning.

Beyond those three things, I can’t advise whether you should keep pushing to save the marriage, battle the enemy, or pursue the dream. There is no single answer that will suffice except to seek the Lord, like Jehoshaphat, when he was surrounded by three armies fueled with bloodlust for he and the Israelites (2 Chronicles 20:1-30). On what he saw as the veritable eve of his death, he chose to worship the Lord, saying “Lord we don’t know what to do, but our eyes are upon you.” While they worshipped, the Lord turned the armies against each other and Jehoshaphat and his people had peace on all sides.

While the Bible doesn’t promise that the Lord will heal, save, and restore in our time on Earth, it does promise that the Lord will never leave us or forsake us in our times of trial.

In that promise, peace may be found.

“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Matthew 28: 20b

My Very Dear Wife: The love letter that has transfixed the nation's romantics for more than 150 years

On July 14, 1861, just one week before he was killed at the First Battle of Bull Run, Sullivan Ballou of the 2nd Rhode Island Infantry penned his final letter to his beloved wife, Sarah. The eloquent words of the former lawyer display not only the courage of the soldiers at war, but also the deep, unending love for which romantics still yearn today.

**Headquarters, Camp Clark
Washington, D.C., July 14, 1861

My Very Dear Wife:

Indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days, perhaps to-morrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write a few lines, that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine, O God be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battle-field for any country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American civilization now leans upon the triumph of government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution, and I am willing, perfectly willing to lay down all my joys in this life to help maintain this government, and to pay that debt.

But, my dear wife, when I know, that with my own joys, I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with care and sorrows, when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it, as their only sustenance, to my dear little children, is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country.

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death, and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country and thee.

I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in this hazarding the happiness of those I loved, and I could not find one. A pure love of my country, and of the principles I have often advocated before the people, and "the name of honor, that I love more than I fear death," have called upon me, and I have obeyed.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless. It seems to bind me with mighty cables, that nothing but Omnipotence can break; and yet, my love of country comes over me like a strong wind, and bears me irresistibly on with all those chains, to the battlefield. The memories of all the blissful moments I have spent with you come crowding over me, and I feel most deeply grateful to God and you, that I have enjoyed them so long. And how hard it is for me to give them up, and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our boys grow up to honorable manhood around us.

I know I have but few claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me, perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, nor that, when my last breath escapes me on the battle-field, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless, how foolish I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears, every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot, I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.

But, O Sarah, if the dead can come back to this earth, and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you in the garish day, and the darkest night amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours always, always, and, if the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air cools your throbbing temples, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah, do not mourn me dear; think I am gone, and wait for me, for we shall meet again.

As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care, and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers, I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.

- Sullivan

**Courtesy of the National Park Service

This is a clip from Ken Burns' Civil War documentary, with an abridged reading of Sullivan's letter.

The Walk, A Short Story

This is a short story that I have written for the second anniversary of my father's death. It has been two long years and the ache remains. My parents had a great love story. I hope this does it justice.

 (This is my first attempt at creating a story video. The full, unabridged text is below)

She left the velveteen rabbit and patchwork quilt in her home and placed the soles of her Mary Janes on the California dirt and headed east. The day’s first spray of sunlight kissed her skin. As she stepped, calico flowers flitted around her ankles in a dance of sorts, celebrating the morning.

A dark figure, dwarfed by the mighty sequoias, stepped out of their shade and into the clearing. Awash in sunlight, he was dashing and when he noticed her, the breath caught in her chest. He crossed the grassland confidently, persuaded by the cawing blackbirds above. His greeting was smooth. His voice was laced with the intonation of another world. He was a stranger to these parts and he asked if he might join her on her stroll. Yes, she replied.

He brushed a lock of soft brown hair off her forehead, tenderly, and as they ambled across the field, her skirt swayed to the rhythm of his stories of back home.  He was wise and worldly. His sly smile made her blush and her blush made him smile. He slipped his hand in hers. He asked about her journey. East, she replied.

After a while, he carried her over the short stone wall, marking the threshold of the road ahead. The pavement was smooth, but winding—a great adventure that she hadn’t imagined from the clapboard house of her youth. A happy child sat alongside the road. The man lifted him onto his strong shoulders and the boy giggled as the breeze teased his wisps of hair. When the boy begged to run, the man set him down and put his arm around the woman, who kissed the infant with the sky-blue eyes in her arms. He asked if she was content. Not quite, she replied.

Soon, girls and boys frolicked and jostled around them. The road ducked under trees, up and down the foothills. Childhood chatter turned to boisterous laughter. It was a good journey, the woman thought. He asked if she was happy. Undoubtedly, she replied.

Just when the sun had chased away the long shadows of morning, dark clouds stole his light. Thunder bellowed and animals scampered for home. When the stabbing rain fell, the group sought shelter in a cave. As the woman breathed words of comfort to those beneath her arms, she peered up at the man, standing above her. On his shoulders, the roof of the cave rested, crumbling under the weight of the storm. His sly smile was gone, replaced by cool, hard stone. His eyes were dark with worry. He asked if she was afraid. Not with you, she replied.

The cave held and the sun triumphed over the clouds, burning away the cold rain. To a symphony of chittering birds and insects, they continued their journey. They paused a moment to cherish their world. He asked if there was anything else she needed. Nothing at all, she replied.

As they descended the peak, the boys and girls—now young men and women—began to veer off onto their own roads, with a wave and a smile. They passed deserts of sand and fields of corn. The woman, finding herself alone with the man once again, slipped her hand back in his. Bridges traversed waterways, glittered with the orange light of sunset. He brushed a lock of grey hair off her forehead, tenderly. He asked if she was tired. No, she replied.

Sun seared against the ocean. If the salt water sizzled, she didn’t hear it. The man’s coughing filled her ears. He rubbed his pained chest and tried to reassure her with that same sly smile. He asked if they could slow down a bit. Of course, she replied.

She helped him walk along the coast under the moonlight. He was slow and his breathing was labored. He asked if she was afraid. Yes, she replied.

He needed to rest a moment. She closed her eyes a moment, pulling strength from her depths to continue the journey. His hand slipped from hers without warning. When she opened her eyes to the moonlight, she could no longer see the man. He was gone and she was alone, cold and frightened. Not yet, she begged.

Her legs were heavy. All her strength battled the sobs which compressed her lungs and burned her throat. The darkness of the night blinded her. No more, she pleaded.

A small pinpoint of light pierced the black. Then another and another. A child’s giggle tickled the dead air. By the fireflies’ glow, she saw the familiar faces of her children and their children around her. The small frail hand of a girl of five clasped the woman’s palm tight. A boisterous laugh of a young boy broke the sorrow into shards. Though it remained, the sadness lacked its full power. No regrets, she replied.

The children retired to bed and she stood alone once more as the blue of a new morning flooded the sky. The moon and stars bed adieu as the sun stretched its first tendrils of light above the ocean, pulling itself onto the horizon. A dark figure appeared down the beach.  Awash in new sunlight, he was dashing and when he approached her, the breath caught in her chest. He brushed a lock of soft brown hair off her forehead, tenderly. He asked if she had a good day. A very good day, she replied.