Knowing Fully even as I am Fully Known

“We see as if we are looking into a blurry mirror.  But soon we will see everything.  Now I know only a part.  But soon I will know everything in a perfect way.  That is how God knows me right now.” 
— 1 Corinthians 13:12 (NLV modified)  

Soon we will see ourselves as God sees us.  We cannot even begin to comprehend how God sees us right now.  If we could comprehend it, we would heal immediately.  If we could see as God sees, there would be no enmity, nor striving, nor strife.  

But in the meantime we need faith to endeavour our way to such sight as to imagine how God loves us, as impetus for us to love others with His love, and to embrace His perfect love amid truth to receive His healing.  

If we could see clearly now we would see right through to the soul of others, ourselves, every situation; our sight graced with perfect understanding.  

God knows us with the love
we will soon have
when we join His Presence.  

In the meantime, we are invited into the humble acceptance that our love is imperfect, just as we’re invited into the wonder of knowing we are capable of dreaming our way to glimpses of love made real, and doing it!  

What a wonderful thing the horizon is.  We have an earthly image of what the perfection of eternity is.  It is ever out of our reach but promises to blow our minds.  

Brokenness is an image of the imperfection
we are called to bear in this life.  

Such is the paradox: maturity is accepting our frailties, our fallenness, our failures, our fragilities.  

The better we bear our imperfection, the more we receive the moment’s forgiveness, the sweeter our ride through this life.  

The more mercy we receive,
the more mercy we extend to others.  

We cannot see as God sees, yet.  But we can imagine just how God sees as we survey His Word.  We are granted glimpses of the glory of God in nature, in creation, and in accepting the cosmic chasm between the Almighty and us.  

There is an important reason that we are here, imperfect, frail, fallen, fragile.  What is on the yonder horizon is a means of hope, and only hope will get us through by faith to what we strive for — to know fully and to love fully even as we are fully known and fully loved.  

We need the hope of eternity on the horizon, an image of the perfection all our lives we strive for but cannot ever attain.  This hope of eternity has been set in the hearts of us all, and nothing can dissuade it.  

When a Routine Ultrasound Makes Ultrasounds Routine No More

INNOCENT it was, a quiet, sunny, winter’s morning, July First.  A Tuesday.  Over 11 years ago now.  A day our lives would change.

We thought nothing of it really.  Apart from the fact we were going to ‘meet’ our unborn, and see their little 19-week-old body in utero, in the form of pictures, some in a printed form we could take with us.  We would see him or her move.  Little did we realise at this point we were about to see our baby from this view many more times in the intervening months, many more times than a normal couple might see, and get to know, their unborn baby.

We readied ourselves and set off in the car; us and our then 15-month-old son.  A quiet car trip, planning the day out as we went.  The strange thing as I look back, those plans soon withered into annihilation.  Those plans were very soon forgotten.  I have no memory of them.

When life changes in an instant, the present bequeaths to the incoming moments a state that can neither accommodate the past nor plan for the future.

We found our way to this brand-new clinic, within a pristine new hospital complex, where the ultrasound scan would take place.  There were still many workers around finishing the place off.  We arrived, registered that we were there, found a seat and some toys for our son to play with.  I can still picture where we sat and the types of interactions we had with fellow parents-to-be.  It was a beautiful moment, pregnant with possibility.  We really had no idea what was about to hit us.

Being invited in for the scan itself, we were impressed with how well behaved our young son was.  But, for some reason, the sonographer was taking such a long time to sort herself out.  It seemed to take her longer to get the views she needed to do our scan.  When she couldn’t see the heart at the right angle, she invited us to go and grab a coffee and return in thirty minutes.  At that point I was impressed with myself that I was able to pick out our foetus’ kidneys (which were remarkably prominent in the scan — little did I know that was not a good sign).  Suspecting nothing was amiss we did as was suggested, and so we went for some morning tea.

I had to shift the car because the ticket had run out, so my wife took my son up to the ultrasound scanning rooms and I followed them minutes later.  Upon arriving I sat in the same seat in the waiting room as I had beforehand.

Then, a minute later, there was a glimpse of Sarah — something wasn’t right.

She gestured to come into the room.

Sarah took up her position on the chair and the sonographer came into the room with a gentleman in his fifties — one of the chief consultants.  They reran the scan, talking a different language briefly, before they asked Sarah to get dressed.  We were then ushered into the consultant’s office.  He was very nice.  Being too nice.

Something was wrong, but we really still had no idea how wrong things were.

There wasn’t that much said, but this consultant felt like Dr. Phil.

He gave us the medical prognosis first, very matter-of-factly, then the plan for what next — how ‘treatment’ would change.  Then he said words etched into our memory:

“You’ve got to be strong for each other… 

[his eyes welling up with tears at this stage] … 

there’s a very long road ahead.”

In the disbelief of shock, yet knowing this is real, I said something without thought: “I suspect we’ll be thanking God for our faith.”  The doctor then said, “I thank God for your faith now…!  Thank you so much for making this easy for me.”  He then respectfully ushered us out of the rooms, a place I now felt as if we no longer belonged or were worthy of — a place of life, where we were now agents for death.  In a very short timeframe our understanding of where we were and what we were doing was obliterated.

From that moment, everything changed.  The drive home.  Being home.  Having family there.  ‘Words of comfort’ fell flat, and some well-meaning people infuriated us, even when they said innocuous things.  Vulnerable in a second.  We were in the throes of such an ambiguous grief, and those days grew into weeks, and only through the months did grief morph into something pliable for use; for me, lament in reflection and the simple resolve to keep going.  Sarah was always pragmatic, except for the sudden moments she’d be thrown; every few days or so, in her own private way.  Our faith did help, and heaven knows, your prayers helped enormously.

This article was originally written in 2015 but has been adapted for today.

Spiritual Gains in the Losses of Loved Ones

Musing with a friend recently about growth over the lifespan, I was given to think of something I’ve always said in terms of loss — when we lost Nathanael, I always felt I gained something from him.  We lost him in 2014.  Then when I lost my mother in 2022, I had the same feeling; I felt she had given me something.  

From a macro viewpoint as I look over my life from the life-changing point in 2003 to now, 2022 onward has been a sustained period of something vastly different than the previous 19-year period.  

I was probably coming into something of a renaissance before Mum died, and apart from grieving her death, I was given something special as a compensation.  Mum and I had talked many times about life after her death, and I had recited her favourite Psalm 23 many times with her.  Mum was at peace with her death as anyone could be.  

Retaining continued bonds with those loved ones we lose is crucial.  And I think this idea is an extension of that idea: that our loved ones add something to us in leaving us.  It doesn’t need to be quantified ‘what’ that is.  I rationalise it as a spiritual gift.  

What if that were true?  What if it was that those who leave us in the physical world as they depart over the cusp into eternity gave us something — an intangible positive something.  What if we felt that?  Adds to our joy and gratitude, and certainly gives us peace.  

What was added to me from Nathanael and Mum may have been re-doubled by them both.  Mum lost my sister Debbie to stillbirth in 1973 and grieved her hard for decades.  When we lost Nathanael, I saw something heal in Mum.  She always believed she would re-connect with both Debbie and Nathanael in heaven.  

It has helped me accept that I no longer have Nathanael and Mum to know that they have both given me something.  It may be that it is God that has given me something to compensate for these losses.  The main thing to understand is this is something either to be believed or not.  Believe and we prosper in gratitude, refuse to believe and we receive no peace.  

22 Years Sober

As I arrive at this night, 20 September, I’m reminded that it was the last night I drank alcohol — in 2003 — also a Saturday night.  I had no idea that my world would be flipped upside down 48-hours later.  

Going through my diaries and the things my mother wrote me at the time, it’s remarkable how motivated I was in the depths of the worst grief losing my first marriage, facing rock bottom, going to AA meetings 3-5 times a week before the church took over, and connected me to my life purpose.  

Oh the tears I shed in those days as I read the accounts, my life was like a cork bobbing up and down in a storm-tossed ocean.  What is also remarkable is the strength and love of people like my mother and father who rode every bump, and my daughters who were my reason for enduring that time.  

I’d been married 13 years, was 36, and at that time my daughters were 11, 8, and 5.  I’ve said it and written it many times; my desperation was as bad as anyone could imagine.  Five months later to the day of the separation (23 February 2004) was the second time I was too close to ending my life.  

I never missed alcohol.  My problems were far more pressing.  The last thing I wanted to do was pick up a drink.  I threw myself into the Twelve Steps AA recovery program, meeting with my sponsors, and looking inward at the mess my life had become, even though my parents and others didn’t actually think I was “alcoholic.”  My ex-wife thought I was, and I was so desperate to win her back at that time that I was done drinking.  

The truth is, I was an alcoholic, and I cannot drink.  I could never have one or two every now and then.

I’d been a binge drinker mainly on weekends for ten years, and during my late teen years and early 20s I’d often drunk heavily on weekends.  I was never a black-out drunk but due to my size as a bodybuilder I could tolerate large quantities of alcohol.  I’d done more than a lifetime of drinking between ages 18 and 36.  

22 years on and I have never missed alcohol.  I can’t think of anything better than being sober, especially when life is hard.  Interestingly, I went to a psychologist years ago and he said that I’d swapped my addiction from alcohol to Jesus — I don’t agree with that assessment.  My view is that I discovered strength in my weakness back then by living for the glory of God, and I know that with God in my life I’ve got nothing left to prove or gain — and life always makes sense even when nothing makes sense.

22 years on I’m thankful that my lived experience in recovery from alcoholism helps me connect with people who want help.  

The truth is, none of us NEED alcohol.  

How long will I grieve for?

Depends on what you call grief, how you define it, and what you define as recovery from grief.  

Let me suggest something better for you — yes, amid your grieving season if that’s your lot right now.  Grief will take you on a journey nothing else can.  We resent it and we lose touch with what can be gained if we allow our perspective to be challenged.  

First, it’s okay to grieve, and it’s right to grieve.  There’s nothing wrong with doing something we can’t help but do — that is lament the loss of someone or something that was incredibly important or that meant the world to us.  

How LONG will I grieve for is one of the hardest questions — there really is no credible answer to it.

So why did I call this article “How long will I grieve for?”  I want us first to have permission to grieve so we don’t feel we’re wrong for grieving too long.  I want us secondly to know that placing a time limit on how long we’re suffering isn’t the best focus.  A better focus for now is to imagine the conditions for growth that we’re in, not in spite of the grief but because of it — if only we don’t hate it entirely (for we will certainly hate some of it, much of the time!).  

It’s only after we’ve had the question answered in our own lives — i.e., we can say, “the pain in my grief has shifted to the degree it’s no longer holding my life to ransom” — that we know how long it lasted.  Typically 3 years if we want a rule-of-thumb.  Sometimes more, sometimes less.  

What we learn in suffering that we cannot learn any way else is wisdom — e.g., “I cannot control this,” “I love therefore I grieve when I lose what I love,” “I have no energy for selfishness or greed.”  The list runs on.  We suffer and we’re not the worst version of ourselves — indeed, even as we suffer our hearts are opened in compassion to the suffering of others, and we’re kinder, softer or heart, more receptive persons.  

If what we do in our suffering grief is to look to the heavens and say, “God, how could you allow this pain in my life?” at least we can say we’re praying to God.  

We might be angry with God but at least we’re looking for meaning for how to work our way through the horrendous lament of it.  

Even if we turn our back on God one day, yet look back in faith the next, we are growing in our faith through simply surviving.  

It’s one of the hardest things to do, to keep our faith, when we’re suffering.  And yet, in suffering, it’s only faith that will keep us from being destroyed, and in suffering, it’s only faith that will carry us all the way through to a place where we’re stronger than ever — especially as we look back from the other side having made it all the way through hell.  

“How long will I grieve for?”  If we can on certain days look with hope on the promise of a future, and on other days be thankful we got through, and on other days again, be grateful for what we still have — especially the spiritual things — we have a better focus for the present than a focus on a nebulous future that only sows doubt (and yet, doubt strangely nourishes faith).  

There’s nothing truer, grief changes us.  We do not go back because we CANNOT go back.  When we accept this dilemma — a truth that cannot be changed and can only be let go of one moment at a time — then we live out what can be termed post-grief growth.  This is a wiser, more balanced, more compassionate, more empathetic, bigger, more mature  life.

Wisdom Ascension Out of a Depression

Depths previously unknown are encountered, as is the cause, how we got there, unknown.  Bewilderment, zero mental range, motivation at an all time low.  

Depression isn’t just the embodiment of sadness.  We are sad, aggrieved no less, because of the debilitating, doubting, drudgery nature of it.  

Exhaustion dominates, the never ending search for the cause of the chagrin in combination with the disarrayed state that has overtaken our existential gait.  

Life as it is —
one challenge after another,
and we can only take them
one at a time.

With no greater test to our endurance than this, we remain if we remain, and what eventually and ultimately beckons is the wisdom of ascension — at the rightest of times.  

Wisdom as opposed to resilience or some other fad word or concept for the character to overcome, validates the person to navigate their way out of the temerity of crisis.  It’s wisdom gleaned.  It’s also wisdom, the skill, a craft exacted as we look back through the rear vision mirror of truth.  

Looking back as if from the rim of the volcano as it bubbles furiously below, we’re not so much mystified as to how we got to safety; we’re thankful, grateful, and blessed with soul knowledge attained, banked; nonetheless, we’re left wondering if and when the black dog will bark its way back into us.  

But wisdom teaches us in the end that those worries cannot prevent a recurrence, so we rationalise and arrive at the choice of faith over fear; a better choice, for both choices cost the same.  

Choice is power, and wisdom is the right way.  

Wisdom is the right choice to do the right thing, and ultimately it’s the easier way than what seems easy at the time.  Wisdom is worthy of our trust.  She does not let us down.  

Admonished by the wisdom it took to extract ourselves from the precipice threatening a chasm to plummet to fathoms below, we recognised part of the extraction was due to the time it took to work our way through the labyrinth, and part of it was the inevitable changing of our circumstances — change is inevitable.  

Surviving what otherwise imperils us is part grace and part patience, and with age comes the wisdom to tell of the tale; a wealth of blessed lived experience.

One of the best things about getting older is spiritual composure outbound from reflective practice.  The capacity to observe meaning from and of life.  

The Spirituality of Symbiotic Connection

We are connected.  To God, to life, to others, to ourselves, to our world.  But we don’t always take mindful advantage of these truths.  We can even negate such realities through addiction, poor choices, bargaining, compromise, and many forms of dissociation.  

I think symbiotic connection is a gift of intimacy.  We are intimate beings, geared for intimacy.  We were made to connect.  Deeply.  Zealously.  Without fear.

Intimacy is about being vulnerable, trusting the space we’re in, trusting others, trusting God, and yes, trusting ourselves.  But it has a prerequisite.  That’s safety.  We need to feel safe.  We need to break past and fast from the strains of the trauma bonds that constrain us—that can be an insurmountable challenge, but we can practice feeling safe a moment at a time.  Yet, the fact that we cannot let go and be vulnerable also gives us bearing for where we feel we need to go.

We will not be alive for very long, even if a whole year or decade seems long.  The older I get, the more conscious I am of the fleetingness of life.  This ought to motivate us to really fully experience what life has to offer—as much as we can.

Empathy is born of such a thing as the spirituality of symbiotic connection.  It is an amazing gift for ourselves and others.  We were made to empathise.

Highly sensitive people (HSPs) have a gift around this connection, but paradoxically, HSPs are also prone to trauma because they’re hyper-attuned.  Unfortunately, the world is sensory overload, and that’s felt deeper and harder by HSPs, yet to get the most out of life we have the head start.

Not everyone feels but to feel is to live—positive feeling.  We often don’t associate difficult feelings as if to live, but living in the moment of hardship, accepting the moment all the same, is the zenith, a spiritual pinnacle.

There are certainly gifts of cognition as well, and connecting with ourselves, others, and God—making meaning, going to unknown depths, perceiving miracles of discovery.

The spirituality of symbiotic connection is about adding experiences and information from experiences, deriving meaning from all these, and making meaning, and connecting all this with and attaching to the dynamics of others, ourselves, and God.

Identifying the source of your mental health crisis

Stepping our way through anything is a wise way of handling any challenge in life.  And it’s no different with a mental health crisis — whether it’s suddenly descended on us or has loomed large for a while.

I can think of two sample sources of mental health crises that serve as examples.  The first is relationship stress or breakdown.  The second is an identity crisis or a crisis of purpose.  It is helpful to at least recognise the component parts of causation to the crisis.

I find personally that I can deal with very large amounts of workload stress, but as soon as a key relationship is fractured or under strain, my resources of resilience are chewed up doubly quick.

Depending on our personality, too, we might find that crises of purpose and meaning can arise when suddenly we’re not needed.  Of course, it is actually a gift when we’re not ‘needed’ but if we derive our sense of value from being needed, we can quickly descend into despair because we may feel unworthy or surplus to requirements.  But time is a gift if only we can re-purpose the time and develop some structure of things that WE want to accomplish.

When relationships are strained or broken it can leave us overwhelmed with what to do, how to do it, how to respond, and it’s even worse when we don’t have any agency of control.  

Even knowing we don’t have control over certain situations helps somewhat, just in the identification of the fact.  It may seem forlorn to face the fact that we have no control, but then we can choose to let it go as there is no decision or action required of us, except to let go of what we cannot change.

It’s similar for those times or seasons where we’re devoid of purpose or meaning.  It feels horrible, of course.  But if we re-arrange our thinking to imagine that we have space to create or explore new initiatives, we feel empowered.  

If it means we simply need to look for work, we can resolve to courageously be open as we explore the possibilities with an open heart.

Knowing the source of our crisis is one step of awareness closer to action.

Often times we need the help of professionals, mentors, family, or good friends to identify the steps of recovery.  Navigating our way to recovery is a step by step process augmented by hope that we will arrive.

We can and do make it to our cherished destinations of peace, and the reclamation and the personification of joy, if we don’t give up.  

Identifying the source of our struggle is the important first step.

My personal model of chaplaincy

PRESENCE is the most important concept of quality chaplaincy.  But presence is initiated and further augmented by connection, faith, and timing.

My personal model of chaplaincy involves a deep interdependency between presence and connection, one assisting the other.  A little of one enables a little more of the other.

When I arrive at a critical incident or meet someone for the first time who has been triaged toward me, the suffering is often obvious.  “Showing up and shutting up” is the easy bit, and it’s 80 percent of the overall task.  

It’s what I personally love about chaplaincy: I don’t bring a lot other than myself as an empty container willing to be filled with the other person and their situational need.

The little amount of vocal involvement I’ll bring—because I’m there to listen and hold space mainly—is offering something to connect with the other person or people.  (Other than that, little things said to encourage.)  

This is the advantage of having a lot of lived experience and life experience.  

Inevitably, there is a moment early on where I’m able to develop a semblance of affinity with the other person.  A thing, a person, an experience, or situation in their life that connects with a thing, a person, an experience, or situation in my experience.

Establishing symbiotic connection with the person
I’m helping augments the presence I’m working with.  

All I’m inputting is a sense of connection that says, “I’m similar to you,” i.e., “Even though I’m not you, I can relate with you.”  Often people are looking for this connection with another human being—whether they know it or not—especially someone who is there to help them.  

Coming with an open heart of personal vulnerability,
the connection created generates trust
because of the safety between us.

I couple this presence-connection dynamic with exemplary listening and attending skills.  In this is empathy at its core: whilst it’s impossible physically, this is about being IN a person spiritually.

I’m looking for opportunities to serve the other person as I imagine Jesus would.  Anything.  A cup of cold water at the right time, how to hold a straw to the mouth, where to place an item within reach, when to withhold speech, when to smile or weep, when to touch or be touched (spiritually or physically), when to say something, particularly something encouraging—which must come from authenticity to have power. 

I also use the power of apology to build trust.  I’m the kind of person who has the ‘spiritual gift’ of making mistakes.  I’m fallible.  The mistakes are not the issue.  People readily forgive mistakes and errors.  Especially where there’s no intentionality.  The key is to own the wrong.  I find being a committed and skilled biblical peacemaker helps my relationships and ministry hugely.

What underpins my approach to chaplaincy
are also faith and timing.  

By faith in the moment I empty myself to be filled up by another person, the person I’m helping.  It’s faith because I actively leave my own life to enter another person’s life.  Frequently I’m cognisant that all my own personal worries and cares must be abandoned.  I’m also trusting in God’s timing that a deeper connection between us will aid their support, but by faith I diligently watch for where God is in the conversation and I join God there.  

If God hasn’t directed a particular leading and the moment of connection finishes, the moment of connection finishes.  All desire to achieve ‘a goal’ must be surrendered at the foot of the cross.  Goals neither dignify the human before us nor ourselves.  There is a trustworthy integrity in this.  There is no ‘manipulation’ done ‘in God’s name’.  Good chaplaincy trusts God for the leading every step of the way—by faith in His timing.

Presence, connection, faith, and timing, all ordained by the Spirit of God.