Faltering

The Latest Installment of The Walking Stick Journal

The Walking Stick Journal

Stepping Stones of Transformation

An Unfolding Manuscript

by

C. D. Baker

Chapter Eighteen: Faltering

The Christ journey is an invitation into love and goodness and faith—into the experience of union with God. This is so because God is perfectly faithful, perfectly good, and wholly loving.

We sojourners are not.

And so when we encounter hard things we often falter. We falter in many ways and for many reasons. This is because we have not yet been fully conformed to the image of Jesus Christ.

Our imperfect journeys are leading us toward that wholeness. And so along the way we would do well to be grateful that it is his faithfulness, his goodness, and his love that holds us close . . . and not our own.

***

April, 2022

I arrived at Bill’s pretty shaky this morning. I’ve had night sweats again, and increased tinnitus probably as a result of the aftermath of so much stress. What an incomprehensible week! I don’t think I will ever have the words.

And yet despite the miracle of my son, I’m experiencing a new kind of anxiety. Will is still connected to tubes and no one really knows what’s coming.

I just can’t surrender him like I did only days ago and that’s really bothering me. I have so quickly regressed from the comfort of turning him over to God. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I hold that feeling of sheer trust?

*

“Good morning, David,” says Bill as he takes his chair. He smiles warmly and we bask in Will’s miracle for a few moments. “So beautiful . . . I am just so happy for all of you.”

Squirming, I just say it. “In spite of all of God’s goodness, I’m running scenarios about Will’s recovery. Will he ever go home? Will he be able to work? How much brain damage is there?” Anxiety crawls through me as I’m speaking.

Bill listens, sympathetically. “Scenario running is fear at work. We try to control the possibilities but can’t, so our anxiety escalates.” He looks at me carefully. “This comes from your need to solve your world as a little boy.”

This again.

“Comfort allows us to lean into our fear. Comfort gives us the freedom to surrender our control. That’s what you experienced during the prayer in the ICU.”

“I had never felt anything like that before...” I chew on my cheek.

Bill sits quietly for a moment. “Exactly. You had never felt that before. And so you still have great difficulty depending on love.”

I make a note. “That experience was something so much more then all of the theology I’ve ever studied. Feeling held by a loving God was indescribable. And yet...”

“You struggle. I understand. You try so hard to control your world because of so much deprivation within you.”

Feels like an excuse.

“You demand more of yourself than what’s there. So instead of surrendering control you sink immediately into self-abuse.”

I feel resistance to the word surrender.

Bill must intuit what I’m thinking. “You believe that surrendering makes you vulnerable, especially to the false god you were raised with.” He leans forward. “But for the first time, the beauty of God’s true presence inspired you to happily surrender control of your treasure—your son.”

I nod. “But I can’t hold that feeling . . . instead I watch him and am afraid.”

“Of course. You are human. But the abuser’s voice within seeks to condemn your slightest flaw, and flaws are always there. Is that the voice of the God who showed up in the ICU?”

We both sit with that for a moment, then Bill adds, “Somewhere in there you fear that love can be used up. You don’t believe that love is reliable and so you’re running scenarios again.”

He interlocks his fingers, then looks at me for a long moment. “Grace comes from beyond us. The ‘what-ifs’ inside of you take you nowhere other than into your own thoughts. It’s a self-centeredness that denies love access.”

All I hear is ‘self-centered.’ That stings. Another flaw.

Bill sighs. He knows. “What do you think might happen if you let go—surrender—all that self-condemnation and just be present, flaws and all?”

*

I went home feeling low and even helpless. Bill was right. I live far too much in my own self. I am obsessed by my thoughts. I dwell on my fears and my failures.

How might love ever break through?

I hurried to sit on my rock in the creek. The early spring day was warm and the creek was lively. I closed my eyes and prayed, asking God to let me experience his love in this place, and as good and limitless and beautiful. I acknowledged my frail faith and my struggle to believe. But something told me to stop.

Opening my eyes, I watched the clear water bouncing over the smooth stones below. And then I suddenly saw it all differently. The creek had become the image of love . . . a living metaphor that reached me.

I released myself to the moment. When I did, I could see how love—like this untamed creek—flowed day and night, in sunshine and rain, in floods and in drought. Nothing about it depended on me. No. Whether I am present or not, love faithfully winds its way through this valley as good and limitless and beautiful.

The awakening felt warm and whole and good. Thanks be to God.

§

May 13, 2022

This morning I met Brittany at Good Shepherd Hospital. Despite my faltering faith, God’s mercies never wavered. A nurse helped my smiling son into the car and today he went home, whole and happy.

Love never fails.

***

I am painfully aware that not everyone enjoys this kind of miracle, and I have no answer for that. None. A few broken souls who have lost children have shared in our thanksgiving. God bless them. May they, in their ongoing sorrow, experience the ever-present gift of divine comfort that we were given.