Tumbling into Twenty-Three

Last year I wrote a post about turning twenty-two, with a few tendencies still trickling over from twenty-one and some from years before that. I'll turn twenty-three on Wednesday, and I'll have to sit cross-legged in front of my small group, Bubbly in one hand, Bible in the other, and I'll blush from the birthday song and answer the birthday question: What is something you have learned in the past year? In the spirit of anti-procrastination (and frankly not wanting to look a fool), I thought I'd start brainstorming.

A week ago, I was turning across traffic from 146th to 131st in Carmel, one hand on the wheel, one hand picking microwaveable Healthy Choice Meal Chicken Pesto out of my still-gappy teeth. The dentist told me my wisdom teeth would come in and push all my teeth together so I wouldn't need braces, but I'm fully wisdom-toothed and alas, no movement. As I took a risky turn and nearly found myself T-boned by a suburban mom in her Suburban XL, I sighed. I surely thought I'd be a better driver by now. I also thought my teeth would be closer by now. I thought I'd have less sin struggles, a more fervent walk with the Lord, better eating habits, less hurry. I figured I'd live in a house and bake bread and have lots of people over for discipleship groups to bask in the aroma of fall-scented candles and my tender hospitality. 

Nope, nope, andddd...nope.

I'm not really there yet. Not even close. Now don't get me wrong, a lot has changed: new degree, new last name, new marital status, new job, new apartment, new town, new income, new church, new roommate, new title, new insurance plan, new mercies every morning that have led to new glimpses of sanctification...The list goes on. I really couldn't thank God more for the way he has allowed things to fall into place. It has been nothing short of a billion answered prayers and a massive dream come true. His providence through this process has brought triumph to all of our transitions and we can honestly look back on our time in the wilderness (the job-hunting, house-hunting, church-changing season) and say "WOW. Look what God brought us out of." 

But I'm learning that being out of the wilderness does not mean we're in the clear from clinging to the Lord. In fact, the whole time I am on this Earth, I should be clinging every moment. I've written in past blogs of the strange sweetness that comes with that desperate clinging - how seasons of struggle are oftentimes the ones I look back on most fondly because it's the times I rely most heavily  on the Lord's peace and presence. 

But what if it's not just the seasons of struggle that should cause me to cling?

As I prepare to sit in that small group on Wednesday evening, I'm coming to the realization that the lesson I've learned is not revolutionary. If anything, it might be a bit cliche in Christian circles. I think it's something I've always known, but never really lived out. Perhaps it's something I'd sooner see on a coffee mug than something I'd put on my to-do list. 

It's simple but humbling. Not complex, but certainly a reminder of my brokenness. A harrowing reality check that not the tiniest faculty of my existence is capable of anything without the Sovereign mercy of God.

The lesson? Cling to God in every moment.

Looking for a new job had me clinging to the promises of God. Trying to find a place to live had me clinging to the providence of God. Moving from home had me clinging to the presence of God. Dealing with challenging life circumstances had me clinging to the peace of God. Teaching ninth graders has me clinging to the patience of God, and regular reminders of my inescapable sinfulness has me clinging to the propitiation of God - the penalty paid by the perfect High Priest, whose passion and perseverance for the plans of his Father meant that his purpose and pursuit was to please God no matter the cost. 

It's regular reminders of prayer, of my sin, of my desperate state without Jesus. It's facing the hard truth that I can't make it - I can't not sin, I can't survive - without the daily grace and mercy of my God and King. It's repetition of the gospel message: I am a sinner, I need you Jesus. I am a sinner, I need you Jesus. 

It's praying constantly. Remembering who God is. Making a list of his attributes. Singing the glory of the gospel. And ultimately, as Tim Keller prays, knowing that my depravity should make me delight in the Lord all the more: 

"The deeper the darkness, the more visible and beautiful the stars. And the more I admit my sin, the more your grace becomes a reality rather than an abstract idea. Only then does your grace humble me and affirm me, cleanse me and shape me.” 

So I'll turn twenty-three and I won't be closer to having it figured out. In fact, hopefully, Lord-willing, I'll be more aware of my helplessness and brokenness than I even was last year. Maybe I'll stop trying to figure it out. Maybe I'll just cling, and know I can't do anything on my own, and pray, and confess, and sing.

And cling.

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