Shane's Menu
Regal Books, August 2008
What happens when the storm does not pass? When the pain does not stop? When the prodigal does not return? When our sins continue to taunt us? When we make the same mistakes and break the same hearts again and again? When the chasm between what we do and what God intends widens until we can't even see the other side? In six very special encounters recorded in the Gospels, Jesus addressed the too much and the too late scenarios of our lives. Pastor, teacher and author Shane Stanford brings these meetings vividly to life, offering a glimpse of Jesus' passion for restoring the unrestorable and redeeming the unredeemable. As a hemophiliac who lives with HIV and hepatitis-C, Stanford has deeply and personally experienced the too much and the too late of life, and recognizes his own story in these six appointments with Jesus. In When God Disappears, he helps us to do the same: to see ourselves in these messy, all too-human Jesus encounters and to experience the grace and hope of a God who has not forgotten us.
Foreword by Deanna Favre
Author, Dont Bet Against Me
When God Disappears is an amazing book that will, no doubt, touch the lives of all
its readers. It teaches of Gods love and patience for us. It represents one of the most
unique writing experiences that I have ever encountered. It will give you the hope you
have so desperately been searching to find. It will change your life!
Shane Stanfords life is an example for all to follow. Living with hemophilia,
Hepatitis C, and HIV is associated with repression and discrimination, rejection by family
and friends, and fear of the unknown, yet he has sustained an unwavering faith. Many
people would have turned away from God, would have given up hope, and lost faith.
Shane continues to see Gods grace and teach others about a loving God who never gives
up on his children. He is unbelievably talented. He has a unique way of writing that
touches the very soul of the reader. I have gained strength from his words. God had a
hand in our paths crossing. I am a better person for meeting Shane and reading his book. I
feel blessed by our encounter.
Without a doubt, there are times in the lives of every individual that the giants seem
too big, the trees too high to climb and the rocks too plentiful for those who wish to
throw them. Shane goes straight to the heart of everyone, because all of us have
experienced burdens such as rejection, pain, loss, failure and sorrow. These are the times
that deepen our faith.
The sting of death has touched all of us. Shane reminds us that it is our faith and trust
in God that soothes our wounded spirit in these painful moments of life. Death cast a
lonely darkness that can only be illuminated by the hand of God. Shanes words walk us
gently to the foot of the cross where acceptance always lives, where death and illness
cannot exist, trust is never lost, promises are never broken, and everyone is always
welcome.
We have all been guilty of betrayal at some point in our lives. How are we to react
when someone betrays us? We have all been a victim of this. Someone chooses to
momentarily look away from our friendship and deceive us. Thank you Shane for
showing us that forgiveness is the only path to restoration.
Shane helps us to repair the bridge of our lives. Many times, as humans do, we forget
to include God in our lives and decision making. We only turn to God during the trying
times, the times when we are going through trials and tribulations. This is when we
decide to reach out to God. When things are great in our lives, we forget to praise God
and include him in our decisions. Most of these decisions made without the help of God
are remorseful. God should be in our lives daily, not just during the trying times.
I am so grateful that Shane has allowed me to be a part of his journey. By writing this
book, he will help so many get to the place they need to be in their walk with our Savior.
I pray that you too, will be ministered to and touched by Shanes amazing words. What
will you do with the insight that you gain from this book? It is for you to decide.
However, it is my hope that you will choose to live a life in honor of our Lord and
Savior, Jesus Christ. He is truly amazing!
Deanna Favre
Wife of Brett Favre
Founder, Deanna Favre Hope Foundation
Sample Chapter
As a person living with HIV and AIDS, my entire life has been a race . . . a race
against illness and disease, against fear and uncertainty, against discrimination
and prejudice. A race against time. Yes, “race” is a good metaphor for what, at
times, has been a difficult journey with many twists and turns—from growing up
a hemophiliac to discovering my HIV status at 16, to watching how the secrecy of
my HIV status affected the emotional life of our family and our relationships.
Mine has been a journey marked by spiritual struggles and tension, from
watching my denomination wrestle with the decision to ordain me, to being
rejected by the first church to which I was appointed as pastor. Not surprisingly,
I have suffered great loss and disillusionment, from the loss of dear friends to the
disease, to the loss of others to the fear surrounding it.
And no, the journey so far has not been easy, often pushing me to trust
beyond what I can see and understand, and even stretching the limits of my
faith, not so much in God as in God’s people.
Certainly, this is not a path I would have chosen. I am no martyr and I will
never be a saint. Oddly enough, so many miles now into this journey, I would
also not trade with anyone what I have learned and lived.
Over the years, I have been asked to speak to groups to share my story, to
make real for them what my life has been like as a Christian minister living with
HIV/AIDS. Invariably, following each talk, people gather to ask many questions.
Some have to do with the everyday details of living with HIV or dealing with
chronic illness. Other questions concern my family and how this journey has
affected our emotions and relationships. And some questions are more personal
and touch upon my health, intimacy and, most fascinating to some, how I can be
the father of three healthy daughters.
But the one question, from the moment it was first asked, that has
intrigued me and shaped my reflection most is, What have you learned from living
as an HIV-positive person? Of course, their question and my understanding of it
are not the same. Most people are asking about how my life has been shaped by
a biological, physical condition. However, I have come to view my medical
condition, quite simply, as the doorway through which I take hold of something
more valuable—something that shapes my spiritual landscape, affects my view
of people, influences my relationships and frames how I view God.
Certainly, my answers to these questions have matured over the years. No
longer do I view what God has shown me through this disease as static, but as
more of a process, just as is living with the effects of the disease. I don’t have one
grand scope of God’s plan, nor do I see or even look for the “big picture” any
longer. Maybe I should, but at what cost? If I were busy trying to make sense of
my circumstances, I doubt that I would notice how HIV has provided me with an
incredible glimpse into life—into the best of what God offers in this world and
the best of what God’s people can become. This journey has shown me God’s
calling for each of us to respond faithfully as God’s children, and taught me
important lessons that, if all who call ourselves “Christian” learn as well, could
change our world. Everyone’s journey can do this, if we let it (because don’t you
learn and live through a tapestry of lives, including yours, others’ and God’s?).
“Lessons?” you ask.
You bet! Life is learned not from a classroom or study, but from living,
sometimes with blessings and opportunities, but more often from struggles and
challenges. And it is not a one-time thing. No, the learning does not stop; it is a
daily event. We just have to keep showing up.
Lessons?
Yes! Let me give you some examples of what my journey has taught me.
Lessons about time. Because of my illness, I am reminded each day that
time is a privilege given to us by God, a luxury afforded to us along with the
possibility that each of us can make a difference in this world.
Lessons about relationships. I am blessed with a beautiful wife, three
wonderful daughters, and countless family members and friends who remind
me that the most important things we do in this world are not done alone.
Lessons about simplicity. “More,” “bigger “and “nicer” pale in comparison
to simple things like sunsets with those you love and the laughter of children at
play.
And most importantly, lessons about real faith. Personally, HIV reminds
me every day that, with God’s grace, what I need, I have—and what I have is
sufficient. Sufficient to confront the health struggles of today and the
uncertainties of tomorrow, sufficient to meet the needs of others if we, the Body
of Christ, agree to meet them together. For still, more than anything I have ever
known, the Body of Christ, with all of its imperfections, holds as the hope of the
world (when we truly live like it), bearing witness to this amazing gospel that
says God passionately loves the unlovable, the marginalized and the forgotten—
oh, and by the way, that means we are to love them, too!
I am not saying HIV is easy for any of us. There have certainly been times
when I have felt the emptiness and desolation of a seemingly God-less
landscape. But the truth is, I have never been alone there, no matter how isolated
the path has appeared. And this path, this journey, offers real lessons for real
life—and if I listen carefully, it teaches me much about loving God and loving
others.
Your journey is no different. Maybe you have made mistakes in your life
that seem irreparable or unforgivable. Maybe mistakes have been made against
you that are too difficult to forgive or forget. Possibly the road has been so
smooth that you have missed the lessons because it has been easier to enjoy the
good life. Or maybe life has been so messy and uncomfortable that all you have
wanted to do is get on with the next chapter. I hear you. But more importantly,
God hears you, too.
Misery is not all we are supposed to know . . .
Introduction
Living in Miseri . . .
Abiding in Possibility
Abide in me as I abide in you.
Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine,
neither can you, unless you abide in me.
John 15:4, RSV
I dwell in Possibility—
A fairer House than Prose—
More numerous of Windows—
Superior—for Doors—
Of Chambers as the Cedars—
Impregnable of Eye—
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky—
Of Visitors—the fairest—
For Occupation—This—
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise—
Emily Dickinson
By 2010, it is estimated that there will be upward of 40 million AIDS orphans in
sub-Saharan Africa. This is a stunning figure—one that is almost impossible to
fathom. To comprehend the worldwide effects of this pandemic is to lose the
ability to stay neutral or even objective. HIV/AIDS is the global Pandora’s Box
that has already been opened and will eventually affect everyone on the planet in
one way or another. It already impacts our national security as well as the global
economy.
Recently I watched as one commentator spoke of the incredible difficulty
of effectively confronting this disease. For every step forward we take in the fight
against HIV/AIDS, two more hurdles appear. We provide medicines for 800,000
new patients, only to discover that 3 million new infections have been reported.
Yes, when we ponder the nature of this disease, it is overwhelming and
invariably begs the question, What, if anything, can solve such a seemingly impossible
problem?
Not long ago, at the invitation of Rick and Kay Warren, I spoke at the
Global AIDS Summit held at Saddleback Community Church in Orange County,
California. Amid the amazing array of speakers, professionals and experts, I
determined that the Church, both local and global, is our most potent weapon
against the HIV/AIDS pandemic. The Church possesses the greatest
mobilization, distribution and motivation potential of any institution on earth.
The idea of 1 billion-plus Christians reaching together into the abyss of this
unbelievable struggle captivated my imagination.
But as I reflected further, I became convinced that it is more than the
organizational possibilities of the Church that makes the Body of Christ so vital
in this fight. As with confronting any impossible problem, the answer for how
effectively we fight and how well we succeed lies deeper than just the sound
principles that are the basis of any well-run institution. No, such answers begin
in simple—and many times, overlooked—places.
A Child Who Sleeps in Miseri
A friend of mine recently traveled to Kenya to visit a day orphanage for children
who have lost parents to the HIV/AIDS crisis. In Kenya, as in other nations in
sub-Saharan Africa, the needs created by the pandemic have overrun the
institutional services, especially those that serve children. Day orphanages exist
as a means of providing basic necessities to those little ones who would
otherwise have nothing—truly a last resort for these “least of these” among us.
Arriving at the orphanage, my friend met two workers carrying a small
girl. Her body was frail and clearly malnourished, but her face wore the most
beautiful smile. Whereas her body revealed every sign of what is most disturbing
and troubling about the plight of those in her situation, her face revealed a spirit
that was anything but hopeless.
As these contrasting images collided in my friend’s mind, she greeted the
young child with the help of an interpreter. My friend learned that the child’s
father had died just after she was born; her mother died when she was three. She
lived with an aunt who was also sick and who could not provide much in the
way of care. In fact, the child told my friend that she cared for her aunt at night,
trying to provide her with as much comfort as possible. Like so many in similar
circumstances, this child’s was a long, lonely existence.
However, every morning, the workers arrived in a “goat cart” and took
her to the day orphanage. Here she found not only food and an occasional
change of clothes, but also friends and others with whom she could talk and
play. Sure, the toys were few, the meals meager and the clothes second hand, but
this place in the daylight seemed worlds away from her home at night, and it
provided what previously appeared impossible: glimpses of hope.
My friend listened intently as the workers and the little girl described her
daily routine. “We pick her up” they said in their broken English, “and bring her
here so that she might find a little food, some clothes and some schooling. It is
not much, but it is more than she has when she returns to Miseri “Where?” my
friend asked, not sure that she had heard right.
“Miseri” the worker replied. “It is the name of her settlement. The word
comes from the Swahili for ‘Egypt.’ ”
My friend realized that although she had not heard our English word
“misery,” it certainly conveyed the right meaning. Misery was more than
appropriate to describe the child’s life. After all, what hope did she have? She
most likely would not grow up to finish school, train for a job, have a family, or
for that matter, enjoy an abundant childhood like the kids my friend knew in the
States. No, the chances of her having a future were those same impossible odds
the disease brings to everyone who suffers from it—but now, for my friend, these
obstacles were all the more tragic because now they had a face.
Standing there, my friend was lost in thought, musing on how impossible
it all seemed for this little girl. Where was God? Where was hope? What could
effectively confront the wake of this disease, not only for this child but also for all
children? What could possibly fill the void left by such desolation of not only a child’s
present but also her future? She paused a moment, lost in the realization of such
sorrow. But then, as she looked up, she again saw the child’s smile and the
embrace of the workers, their love and care for this little one. Above all, she saw
that in spite of the obvious struggles, this picture seemed full of possibilities, not
because the circumstances she had encountered weren’t daunting, but because
there was something tangibly hopeful about the scene. Surrounded by so much
sorrow and despair, my friend saw something amazing—and she found the
answer to her questions.
Her answer was right in front of her, resting in what she had almost
missed. My friend realized that despite the disease and the impossible
circumstances intended for this child, nothing was set in stone. No. Why?
Because of these people who loved like Jesus, touched like Jesus, cared like
Jesus—who had become Jesus to her—misery was not all she would know.
What Happens When . . .
This book is about genuine, life-altering hope in Jesus. Not just a recounting of
healings and miracles, but a real conversation about real people with real
problems—problems that have, for one reason or another, convinced us of a
desperation, void of solution or possibility for repair. Sure, sometimes we crave
the lessons of our childhood Sunday School, but they seem insufficient in the face
of certain situations. This book is about something more than easy answers to
difficult questions.
Of course, like many people, I read Scripture either looking for easy
answers or only willing to ask the easy questions. (Why wouldn’t we?) Truth be
told, I like the “feel good” stories the best—you know, when God shows up, does
some “divine magic” and then moves on to the next challenge. Lepers at the city
gates, the blind and the paralytic—their stories, even with their extremely
difficult details, seem neat and clean as Jesus fixes the problem. Yes, I confess: I
like the stories in Scripture where people see Jesus coming with their eyes (or at
least their spirits) open, where their faith is the only ticket needed and where
each lesson can be summarily wrapped in a nice, tidy parable.
I like these accounts because this is way I like and want my faith to be.
Unfortunately, that is not real life, or at least not life as I have come to know it.
Before we go any further, let me assure you that I am not saying these
stories don’t resonate or speak to our faith. But too often, our tendency is to stuff
Scripture into manageable packages, until everything is complicated when the
road gets a little too bumpy, or the way a little too long.
When that happens, we end up treating Jesus like the newest spiritual
antibiotic. We read our Bibles, sing our songs and pray our prayers long enough
to make our pleas before God and give Him our laundry lists of wants and
needs, only to slip again, forget again, “not need” again. Sure, we shed a few
tears, wring our hands and kneel to pray, usually only long enough to allow the
storm to pass and for the winds to subside.
But (you had to know it was coming!) what happens when the storm does
not pass? When the pain does not stop? When the prodigal does not return?
When the longings won’t go away? When we continue to make the same
mistakes and break the same hearts? When our sins continue to taunt us? When
children continue to die? When the distance between what we do and what God
intends widens until we can’t even see the other side? When our consciences
once again go silent so as to not wake our demons? Friend, let me ask you, for I
have asked it myself: What happens when we can’t find even a trace of God . . . when
He seems to have disappeared?
It can happen overnight, before we know what’s hit us. Often the tide of
doubt and grief and misery rushes in more quickly than we can imagine, and
everything in its path is susceptible to its power and rage. It even appears that
God must have vanished beneath the waves.
Just ask my friend Sarah what happens when the water comes pouring
in.
Storm Surge
Sara’s life had never been easy. Her path to marriage, motherhood and ministry
always seemed battered by life’s many storms. Her first marriage eroded as a
result of a variety of missteps that left her a single mother of three children,
struggling to make ends meet. Her second marriage, to a fellow minister, seemed
a better fit, although the tension of balancing her first family with a second one
compounded the normal and expected challenges of any relationship.
Sara was also a dedicated minister whose calling to the pastorate provided
both an outlet and energy for all the gifts that God had placed within her. She
understood the plight of those in need and especially enjoyed the pastorates
most unwanted by other pastors, where God would place her to care for those
previously forgotten. Like the people living in the inner city of Dallas, Texas—
people who didn’t speak her language and in the beginning, could not
understand why a 5’11” attractive, brunette, white woman would move her
family to their neighborhood. But, like her life, Sara understood her ministry
outside traditional norms. She saw life as an opportunity to see the best in God’s
people, even if the best could only be viewed from the edge, where few others
were willing to go.
Just a few years into her new marriage, Sara’s family moved to the shores
of southern Louisiana, where she and her husband each served churches located
within a few miles of each other. It was a return home for her husband, who had
moved to Texas after their marriage as a means of providing stability for their
new family. But urban Texas had proven itself to be no place to raise their
children.
Still, her community here was much like that of inner city Dallas: a
mixture of cultures and a clash of economic realities. It also possessed the same
scarcity of resources and near-sighted vision that so often plague a people whom
prosperity ignores. Yet here Sara knew she had the opportunity to provide a reallife
look at God to people who had otherwise become marginalized by many
local congregations. Little did she know, her real challenge had not yet begun.
Early on the morning of August 29, the first bands of a serious hurricane
came ashore, but they certainly did not seem to herald the end of the world.
However, by evening, the latter seemed not only possible but probable:
Hurricane Katrina hit the gulf coasts of Louisiana and Mississippi with Category
3 winds and a record storm surge that transcended anything residents had
witnessed in prior hurricanes (even the famed Hurricane Camille could not hold
compare to Katrina’s fierce attack). By the end of the day, thousands were dead.
Millions of residents—the lucky ones—were without power; countless others
had nothing at all and lacked even the basic necessities of life. On the Mississippi
Gulf Coast, most buildings within 1 mile of the shoreline had been either heavily
damaged or destroyed completely.
By the morning of August 30, Sara witnessed the magnitude of what was
before them. Her church had been destroyed—only a concrete slab and a pile of
rubble remained. Ironically, as Sara noted later, the rubble consisted mostly of
items that did not belong to her congregation but to homes and businesses
located hundreds of yards away. Most of her church’s hymnals, pews and the
rest landed in a parking lot northwest of the building’s location. To make matters
more complicated, the building was not accessible by car. The one road that
remained passable was reserved for emergency vehicles, leaving residents to
park some three miles away and walk to any destination within what officials
called the primary impact zone.
But the physical devastation that Katrina had wreaked on Monday was
just the beginning. By Thursday, the devastation was no longer just about
physical needs; emotions were frayed to the limits. People walked around like
zombies, unable to comprehend the vastness of what had occurred. Mothers,
fathers and children of all ages moved through the streets searching for both the
necessities of water and food as well as any pieces of “normal life”—anything
such as pictures and other memorabilia that might have survived the storm. One
observer likened the scene to Hiroshima or Nagasaki after the atomic explosions
of 1945. People moved almost in slow motion, wondering if what they were
seeing belonged to reality or to some horror movie in which they were
unfortunate enough to play a part.
As their despair deepened through the week, people continued to search,
but now the searching went deeper. People were looking for meaning—for hope.
Yet as the storm of despair and fear rose to the surface, much like the storm
surge, residents found themselves surrounded once again by what seemed an
insurmountable wall, this time not of water but of grief and loss. Sara saw this in
her community and she felt it in herself. Watching the misery, she wondered
what, if anything, could meet this deep need.
Sara also sensed something familiar. Recalling her ministry in the inner
city, she recognized the unmistakable looks of hopelessness. Sara had seen the
blank stares and hollow eyes of people who questioned the intentions of others
and the possibilities of a world that seemed to have forgotten them. Time and
again, Sara had watched families struggle under the storm of poverty, abuse and
neglect—certainly not the same as the devastation wrought by a hurricane, but
no less destructive. And, time and again, she found the simple offering of herself
and her faith as the only remedy, the only way to bring relief.
When Sunday came, Sara did not have a church building, but she was
keenly aware that she still had a congregation—maybe not the same worshipers
as before, because now her church was made up of those the world had made the
“least of these.” These worshipers were still searching on this Sunday morning,
searching for food, water, clothes and for deeper things that would soothe their
souls. So, as morning dawned on this day of rest, Sara did what she had done
before the storm—she got up and made her way to what used to be her church
building, in search of the Body of Christ. She parked near the boundaries of the
impact zone, got out of her car and began to walk. She walked for three miles,
past downed trees and power lines, piles of rubble, broken homes and shattered
lives. She walked past the all-too-familiar markings of orange paint and the
barricades. And she walked past memories and into the stories of hurting people,
forgotten people and missing people. She walked until she found herself on the
concrete slab of the sanctuary and then waited for her congregation to arrive,
unsure if anyone would show, but determined that, on this Sunday, on this site,
the Church was open for business.
As people gathered—some friends, some strangers, all wandering and
wondering—they began to sing and speak the words of grace. They hugged and
reminisced about common and not-so-common stories, and they cried and
mourned what used to be. By the end of their time together, much longer than
their regular church service would have lasted, they joined hands and shared
communion, not as some ritual of obligation, but as a promise that the God who
had carried them through the storm would see them through this difficult and
eerie calm.
As Sara finished praying with the last person on that Sunday morning, she
pictured in her mind what had been taken from her community so quickly and
tragically. But she also saw what had not been stolen by this storm—the hope of
the Body of Christ and the promise that where the people gather, God is in their
midst. She realized that this storm was only a footnote in the journey—a
powerful impression, mind you—but simply a footnote. And she guessed that all
storms in all journeys were footnotes to the greater meaning of it all.
With that, this wife, mother and minister moved toward the street and
again started to walk. Not many steps down the road, she turned and looked
back at the concrete slab and the makeshift altar and cross. Taking it in, she saw
something she had not seen in what seemed months, although it had only been a
few days. Sara saw hope, not in the structure that once was, but in a place and a
people, who, for a moment, talked about Jesus . . . sang about Jesus . . . and loved
like Jesus. In that instant, Sara knew that, in this journey, none of them was
alone.
I am not sure the worldly observer would call Sara’s life exceptional. I
can’t be certain that anyone would seek her opinion or advice on significant
matters. I am not even sure if the people to whom Sara ministered truly
appreciated who she was in their midst. But what I do know is that Sara’s life
and story caused me to stop and to think about storms and about God’s people
and how the two, oftentimes, connect. She made me pause and reflect on how far
I would walk either physically or spiritually on the chance that someone might
need to hear a word of grace or might need to just have someone else show up.
Sara’s life caused me to hope and to believe that God understands our journeys,
whether along those three miles of devastation or throughout life. To God,
nothing is too lost or too far gone to be found or restored. He has the power to
change the flood of despair, hopelessness and misery into, once again, life’s deep
well of possibility.
Finding God
A friend once told me that God is not afraid of our doubts, our questions or our
anger. What God does not like is when we turn away and think we can do this
on our own. And His sadness deepens when we believe that our journey is just
somehow too screwed up to have any redemptive meaning. Why does this
sadden God so? Because He knows the need for the journey.
Think about the life and death of Jesus: Have you ever wondered why
Jesus had to be born, live through a pretty normal life, launch a ministry and then
provide for the salvation of the world? God didn’t just rectify some cosmic,
spiritual debt (please excuse me, but God could have mailed that payment in).
No, God knew the power of the journey and so became like us, took on a story
Himself, to show us that through everything there is a reason to survive,
something to hope for and something to learn.
Before Jesus, the people of God understood the journey from only one
angle: God was up there (in the sky, in the fire, on a mountain, in the Temple) and
they were down here. Calvary changed that. There, the story got personal for
God—and for you and me. Just take a look at Jesus’ last words on the cross.
Father, forgive them . . . (see Luke 23:34).
Why have you forsaken Me? . . . (see Matt. 27:46).
Take care of My mother . . . (see John 19:26-27).
I am thirsty . . . (see John 19:28).
I am through with this . . . (see John 19:30).
Do those prayers sound familiar to you? They do to me. Why? Because in
one form or another, I have prayed them, too. Haven’t you?
Reading those words reminds me that Jesus knows what it is like to hurt,
to care about others, to be frustrated, to feel forgotten and to be exhausted. And,
if Jesus knows all of these things, then He must also know what it is like to
wonder if the whole journey is worth it (Oh, that’s right, the Garden of Gethsemane)
or what it is like to lose a loved one (Yes, I remember Jesus cried for Lazarus) or
what it is like to feel betrayed and forgotten (Did you just think about Judas?).
Jesus knows what it’s like.
God knows a few things, too. God knows really big projects, like how to
cause really big bangs! God knows complicated projects, like how to separate light
from dark (think about being the first to confront that issue). God knows the
solutions to tough dilemmas, like how to reconcile justice and righteousness with
unconditional love.
But let me share with you other things that the God of infinite power and
knowledge knows . . . God knows what it is like to hurt, both on the inside and
outside. God knows what it is like to lose people you love. God knows what it is
like to keep saying the same thing and feel as if no one is listening. God knows
what it is like to give away with little hope of receiving anything in return. God
knows about family and friends. God knows comfortable places like a mother’s
embrace, cool places like a river bed, and barren, forgotten places like a
wilderness and a hill made of jagged rock.
God also knows that things are not lost, just unfound. God knows that
tough situations have deeper meanings. God knows that creation comes from
chaos and that hope comes from struggle. God knows that one step does not the
whole journey make.
Oh, and one other thing . . . the most important thing . . . the unforgettable
thing . . . the most incredible thing: God knows you and God knows me, and that
is our new beginning and our hope. Not a hope that we will take the journey
perfectly in step, with every missing piece in place and no mistakes made, but a
hope that, because God knows the way, where we’ve been will mean something
before the journey is done. For even when God seems to have disappeared, His
work to redeem our misery into possibility goes on.
I am not sure where or when you are reading this book, but I’m glad you
are. Sit back and relax. Find your favorite drink or snack and plan to stay awhile.
I don’t know where your life is at this moment, but I know that God has
something amazing in store for you, not because of any words that I could write,
but because God desperately wants you to see that no life is beyond restoring, no
misery so great that it does not hold within it the possibility of redemption. If
this book is the vehicle by which restoration and redemption happen, so be it . . .
but this journey is not about me—or even you. No, as the life of Jesus shows us
again and again, especially as we watch certain encounters unfold in Scripture,
the journey is about us, together with Him.
Along the way, I will introduce you to friends and acquaintances like Sara
who have made an impact on my journey. Hopefully, through their stories, you
will see the incredible, working presence of God in each of us. Of course, I will
share glimpses from my own story, and just maybe you will gain a sense of why
living for Jesus means so much to me. But most important for both of us, I will
share His story, and while I am writing and you are reading it, we will once
again see why faith in Him is not in vain.
So, friend, what do you say? Shall we find Him together?
