The wisdom of spiritual possession

I’ve been experiencing a period of exhaustion for some time, but it’s not a problematic exhaustion.  It is an exhaustion most welcome.  I’m feeling a real aversion to possessing things and of being possessed.  

More than ever
I’m holding lighter than ever
those things at present in my grasp.  

In this life, via the wisdom of Job,
“the Lord gives and the Lord takes away.”  

What cannot be taken away from us is
the true possession of an eternal spirituality.  

None of what I have in this world can I keep.  Possessing things is a paradox, because though we have them now, they’re never truly ours.  

Possession is an illusion,
unless it is a viable spirituality.  

Relationships on the other hand are eternal.  How I treat people is of utmost significance.  If nothing else, grace.  When I am impatient or make a mistake, I must apologise.  All this, especially with strangers.  

I want to see more, see more truth, and I can only see more if I slow down.  In appreciating more of life, I am seeing more, and this is spiritually fulfilling.  

I’m learning to let go.  I’m giving up.  I’m giving in.  I’m letting people have their way.  I’m leaving God to work things out.  I’m experiencing antipathy for wrestling.  And I’m finding I’m freer to act when I need to.  

Learning to give up, I feel, is an important wisdom; a crucial life skill when we can be more (i.e., less is more) for others, for all others.  Giving up, I get out of the way, I cause less harm, preferring a life that adds greater value over the longer term.  Readier to die today than ever, juxtaposed with wanting to live as long as I can, I’m preparing myself for when my feet will no longer walk this earth.  

Wisdom offers eternity’s reflection on how to relinquish possession.  These are just a few ways we can let go.  I’m giving up:  

1. Seeking other people’s approval.  

2. Pursuing and insisting upon personal perfection.  

3. Trying to control others.  

4. Competing.  

5. Lusting and coveting.  

6. Chasing or building in vain (for vanity).

7. Hoping to influence situations I cannot change.  

8. Running away to, or abiding in, false gods.  

9. Denying truths I must face to grow.  

10. Allowing frustration to have its way with me.  

11. Self absorption.  

12. Trappings.  

13. Preferring the temporal (missing the eternal).

Where I sit to complete this article, a gentle breeze wafts, sitting with family, deep is the knowledge, these are the precious things.  

New Year draws close, let’s seek wisdom for better living.  

Wisdom counsels us to possess the spiritual and let go of the material.  

Everyday and Entrenched Grieving

As a peacemaking mediator I come across everyday and entrenched conflict very often.  Daily, weekly, monthly in ministry, and certainly my own life is no exception, there are touch points of both more regularly than I find comfortable.  

Yet, within conflict there are always opportunities, if we’re looking up, committed to being kind and serving others, and looking to grow.  

Just like there is everyday conflict
and entrenched conflict
there is everyday and entrenched grief.  

And we all get a taste of both.  

Just like we endure entrenched grieving — where we’re held in an extended season of grief — or that there are circumstances we cannot transcend in this life — and where there are many layers to the pain — there is also the phenomenon of various forms of everyday grieving in the journey of emotional and spiritual health.  

Every day is different.  Our emotions and thoughts are different each day.  Some days we’re more honest with ourselves than we are on other days.  For inexplicable reasons we are anxious or joyful or accepting or depressed.  Life doesn’t always seem clear to us.  And yet some days we have perfect clarity.  

There are a variety of ways we enter everyday grieving, which is just a momentary taste and lighter dose of the denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance of entrenched grieving where we feel storm-tossed for indeterminate time periods.  

On different days we endure grieving for others, we feel their pain, and vicariously suffer for them and with them.  When it’s not our pain it’s hard to suffer like they suffer but perhaps it’s a child or grandchild, other relative or good friend.  Our anguish is we cannot alleviate their pain.  

In our own lives, there are daily disappointments, surprises and triggers, unexpected bumps along/within a profusion of transitions, struggles with inexplicable depressions and anxieties, the outworking of broken dreams.  

Transitions alone are the cause of much everyday grief that threatens to plunge us into entrenched grief, and this is because transitions take six months or two years (and longer) to complete.  

Grief itself is the adjustment to a life we
would not have chosen but are invited to accept.  

Surprises and triggers can be frustrating, and we may be fatigued simply by the frustration of, “Why do I let this circumstance/situation affect me so much/easily?”  

Broken dreams and regrets are inevitable in any long life, and the effect of regret rises and falls depending on the day and how ‘strong’ we feel — and how much life reminds of us.  

Everyday grief may not be anything like entrenched grief, but it is part of most days of life.  

Most days we find ourselves challenged
to accept something we cannot change.  

This is our reminder to go gently
in the course of one’s everyday grief.  

Grief is normal to life, and wisdom directs us to ride the waves of life with as much serenity as we can authentically experience, again through acceptance, and plain gratitude for the simplest things in life.  

When and How to Hold On and Let Go

I’ve been getting ‘downloads’ from God (His revelation) for over 20 years now, and I was reminded of this truth recently.  I’ve written on it at least once as it happens (see this one I wrote in 2016).  

This is the central premise: 

Life challenges us mostly in
knowing when and how to hold on
and when and how to let go.  

We need to know when and how to hold on.  And both these questions are pertinent: when or when not to hold on; when to hold on or let go.  And once we’ve discerned whether we need to hold on or let go (one way or the other) then the ‘how’ question becomes the key.  

There are two types of wisdom in range: 1) discerning one way or the other, and possibly harder, 2) how to navigate the journey of either holding on or letting go.  And there are many times when it’s a combination of holding on and letting go.  Discerning when each is required, the right way of doing it, the right heart attitude helping us.  

We need to hold on when giving up would imperil or sabotage our long-held efforts — maintaining a steady gait over the long arc of obedience.  

Just like it is crucial to hold onto the handle bars of a bicycle when we’re negotiating an undulating grade, we must hold on when life is perilous.  

We need to hold on or let go when tempted by selfishness or laziness.  

We need to hold on and continue going when, though it is painful, life is hard.  

There is a lot of trust in holding on when we would rather let go, give up, start over.  But when starting over would leave only regret later, we’re guided wisely to hold on through the hardship.  

Just the same, it’s too easy to hold on when we should let go.  

When bitterness and resentment drives us, especially in addiction, we are blessed when we let go.  It can seem the hardest thing when we’re constantly reminded and angered by certain things that have gone wrong for us, or where we felt we were wronged.  But bitterness and resentment holds on keys, and both are a tricky labyrinth infuriating us more and more.  

Better is the wisdom to do
what must be done to keep ourselves healthy.  

Letting go is genius in a world full of goads.  

We only need to get behind the steering wheel and we find we’re quickly in some sort of conflict — none of it may come from us, but it still comes at us.  How is it that ‘performance’ is most tested on the road?  Or elevators.  Or when shopping.  Being in public pits us against many who are not the slightest bit committed to growth.  And without the wisdom that says, “I’m going to let it go!” we end up drawn into regrettable moments in an instant.  

Letting go is dreaming into the curious world of possibility if only we can forgive the things we cannot change.  

Vexations of soul cannot be contended with. 
Best we leave them in their fury.  

Adulthood is the invitation to learn the wisdom of letting go.  

Patience is wisdom for both holding on and letting go — both in deciding, executing, and staying the journey.  So is humility.  These two lead to gentleness and kindness, if only we’re happy — heart blessed — to be patient and humble.  

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.