The Container Store

I just finished reading Sex God by Rob Bell. It was fabulous. And terrible. He has a way of writing where there is less black and white, more grey, but at the same time, it's more clear, more defined, more confident than most of the writers I have read lately. It's a short book, took me all of four days to read. The last chapter of the book is not so much a finish, has a hanging sentence. I was so suprised it was the end, it took me a moment to realize it.

I guess that makes sense though. He was talking about how life is risky and messy and unpredictable and that the real question is whether or not we believe God is good. Then it ended. What else can you say, really?

I walked by the Container Store the other day and thought: I wish I could buy containers to organize my mind and life. Then I realized, I already had those containers and in reality, maybe that was the problem. The ways I had thought about life, God, myself, people, the way I had defined them, explained them, expected them to be, that was what gets me in trouble now.

I related to God, to people, to myself based on a set of definitions and all I can think now is, I wish I didn't have those boxes.

What would it be like to view God not from a picture painted by men, but by no one but Him? What would it look like? Would it be compassionate, or harsh? Would it be black and white, or full of color? Would He understand the difficulties of the life each of us face, or would he just be frustrated we weren't handling it correctly? The limited can only wonder at the limitless.

How would I paint myself? A mountain in front of me named all of the ways I fail, the doubts I raise, the questions I ask that seem too demanding, too unfair, too selfish, me at the foot of it, a confused and frustrated look on my face, always wondering how to scale the granite edges.

I subject myself to levels of failure and success everyday. Was I a good enough Christian? Was I a pretty enough girl? Did I work hard enough at work, did I say the wrong thing, did I do the wrong thing, and what was it so I can never do it again. An endless maze, working as hard as I can to stand up to the endless do's and dont's that seem to come from left and right field, catching me off guard. A constant state of panic as I try to wind my way up a mountain to who knows where.

Is that what the God that created me would want?

I had an epiphany a few weeks ago. If I believe that God created me and that God is perfect, that He makes no mistakes, what does that say about all of the stupid things I do? How do they fit in with His perfection when I seem to fall so short, struggling to survive a messy world. I took comfort in realizing, if God is perfect, than His creating me only supports His perfection. He can do nothing outside of good, so me living, breathing, just being, somehow that is part of Him and thus I am helping God be more... God. He would be somehow incomplete, less God, without me being me. Like a mother is somehow less a mother without her child. Not that she doesn't have all of the trappings, but that without that part of her within the dynamic, relationship and existence, she is less of what she would have been. God can't be that though, so everything He does is perfect, planned, purposed and part of Him.

How than, does it serve His perfection for me to place myself on the endless cycle of whether or not I measure up? What if that's not what it is about at all?

If I stopped capitalizing refernces to God, am I less faithful to Him? If I decide to go to the gym instead of church, am I deteriorating Him? If I ask the hard questions, break a few rules and struggle through living a life somewhere below 6 inches deep, does that mean I am not as good as others? Do my mistakes determine me, or does my bad attitude, or my wrestling with bitterness, do those somehow make me less, or make my faith tainted? Or, in a beautiful interruption of the predictable, do they make me more of exactly what I am supposed to be: part of His plan, refusing to settle with definitions created by man?

I will admit, I am a sinner. In my fight with the demons in my head that linger from the past, I reach out for the first thing to comfort me, to ease the pain, to relieve the tension in my soul. Sometimes I reach for things that only make it worse, sometimes I find the things that speak to my soul, but choose to look at my relationship with Jesus the way I would look at a marriage. It's a statement of fact, choice, relationship and commitment. He chose me, and I chose Him, and that's about it. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, I don't know how much harder it will get, I don't know how many more stupid things I will do, mistakes I will make, ways I will stumble, things that will push me down, but I know this: I'm not going anywhere. Between Him and I, we are on the same team, partners, two that have committed to each other to be there through the thick and thin. I'm not giving up on him, no matter how confusing, frustrating, angry and unfair he may seem at times. And my hope is that I will learn, I will begin to trust, that He is in the same position with me. I can't offer Him perfection, but I can offer Him the same thing I can offer any other person I love: me.

When all is said and done, it has never been the things someone has said or done that has hurt the most, the thing that hurts the most is when they give up and walk away. Somehow that just highlights every other painful memory adding the final insult of complete rejection. I can forgive just about anything, but when someone severs a relationship, what can I do? That is the worst pain of all.

I can't say I won't lie, cheat, steal or something else bad, but I can say I will never give up. I will always seek reconciliation, understanding, intimacy, communication and effort. I will always fight to the death. When I can offer nothing else, I will at least give you the thing that matters to me the most: committment. I don't give up on those I love, and I will never give up on my faith and relationship with Him.

When every other container has been revealed as what it is, nothing more than an empty attempt to define and predict, the only one that makes sense is the one that means the most: sticking around.