God, What Do You Want?

 

God, what do you want? 

I have asked this question a number of times. In the last two years I have struggled with the idea of what "my purpose" is. 

When I think of one's greatest purpose, I think of the pinnacle of one's existence. Maybe it's a moment where you live as your highest self and feel the beauty and immense blessings of Christ. I've read books and sat in sermons that talk about, "stepping into your purpose." What does it all mean?

I've thought about it so much more now that my Dad is gone. In the photo above, my purpose was to catch all the imaginary fish and count them very carefully while my mom took a video with her 1990s camera on her shoulder.

Could it be that simple? To make the most of every moment of everyday? Is that too cliche to bear? 

In my research of purpose, I read this line that dropped an anvil on my head. I have modified it, but the idea rings the same:

When you live in your purpose, you clarify the non-negotiables. It identifies what never changes about who you are, regardless of circumstances.

WOOF. So I asked myself, what are my non-negotiables? 

My non-negotiables are:

• My family. I will always put them before all other worldly things. 
• My relationship with Christ. 
• My friends that I call family.
• My fight for diversity and inclusion. Help others to feel that they are loved in a world where there is a lot of hate. 
• Picture perfect production.
• Also, no black olives. Absolutely non-negotiable. 

What never changes, regardless of my circumstances? Well, all of the above. Even while suffering the most intense trauma of my life, I still feel those non-negotiables are steadfast. The only one I have struggled with recently is my relationship with Christ. I'll explain.

My dad was my person. He wasn't a very transparent man, but he was passionate, never hesitated to tell my sister and I he loved us and often reminded me how proud he was. He never missed a swim meet, equestrian horse show, or high school game. In fact, he bought a gold and black Ford F-250 truck so that he could be the dad that pulled the parade floats on Homecoming. He was the dad that my friends called, "Dad," when other biological dads weren't present. 

Sure, my dad had flaws, but what man doesn't. He had a short fuse, he rarely trusted people and he never asked for help. But there was one thing I never doubted, he was a good dad. He taught me how to ride a bike, how to bait a hook, clean a fish, throw a cast net, how to drive and how to work my ass off to get what I wanted out of life.

In college, he would drive hours with my mom to every meet. He and my mom drove each other crazy but they truly loved one another. They were together for 39 years. He kept things light with his silly sense of humor and my mom loved him unconditionally because that is the condition of her heart. She's the kindest person I know. 

Dad had survived a motorcycle accident, gnarly back surgery, prostate cancer, and having three sisters and two daughters. A funny story about his back surgery–I visited him as he was recovering and he was in immense paid. The pain killers were starting to wear off and he had10 minutes until he was supposed to receive the next dose. In his mind, it was time. He incessantly pressed the nurses' station call button to remind his nurse he was ready and one started to become irritated. I don't know if she was truly busy or if she was trying challenge my father's impatience, but she did not get to us fast enough. I went to look for her and I heard my dad on the intercom at the nurses desk, "you bring me my meds now, or I am going to shit myself in this bed and I imagine one of you will have to clean it up and wipe my ass!" The nurse seemed to magically appear in record time. 

In all sense of understanding, Chuck Taylor was a man that deserved to grow old with his bride. On the day he died, he only had 98 days until he was supposed to retire. My mom still talks about that alot.

In April of 2022, I was led to join a church just a mile from my house. By May, I had agreed to be on the connect team and to become a youth leader. I started attending a weekly woman's Bible Study on Thursday mornings at 7:00 a.m. I consider myself a friend that pours into other people and am often called for advice or comfort. I do my best to be a good person even though I feel like I fail all the time. 

In all sense of understanding, I feel like I was giving God all that I had in my community and at my church and being really obedient. When I watched as my Dad was fighting for his life as someone performed CPR, I prayed over him for a miracle and God did not answer my prayers, I was angry with him. Why?! Why would you not answer my prayer, Jesus. Do I not live in a way that is pleasing to you? Why did you let a bad thing happen to good people? Do you not care about my heart breaking into a trillion pieces? What have I ever done to deserve such trauma? Why didn't you protect me? Why didn't you protect him? He deserved better. 

Was I do deserving? Was he? So much so that we should be exempt from dealing with death? Yeah, it sounds even worse when I write in on paper. I am no better than anyone else just because I spend time learning about the gospel or telling high schoolers about Jesus. I am not promised a life without suffering here on Earth. In fact, I had just read a verse in the Bible a few weeks before that now hits me like a bolt of lightning:

Dear friends, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice inasmuch as you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed. 

1 Peter 4:12-14 

This verse gives me hope in an odd way. I do feel strange. during my suffering. I am not a sad person. Sensitive, sure. But sad? Hardly ever. I am typically an over achiever (Enneagram 3). I dive into everything I do head first and am often a force to be reckoned with. But since I lost dad that day, I am sad. It feels odd to think that one day I will be overjoyed when His glory is revealed because I am not entirely sure I am accepting of the plan. the plan includes me never seeing or speaking to my dad again and I am still not quite on board with this notion. Alas, I have no control. Something else I am uncomfortable with–losing control. 

It is true what they say, "it comes in waves." By they, I mean those who have been through this sort of anguish. I grew up on the bay and water is something I consider myself a bit of an expert on. I swam all through middle and high school and even received a college scholarship. I have spent half of my life in or on the water. 

If you've never seen a storm come across the water, it is a site to behold. You can see trouble brewing from miles away. And in some cases, storms come out of the clear blue sky. I used to lifeguard on the beach and there once was a storm that gravely changed the outcome of what seemed like a normal sunny day.  Hundreds of beach goers enjoyed the sun on their towels and then suddenly 20-something umbrellas were carried out of the sand by a huge gust of wind and began rolling after unsuspecting sun bathers who now were terrified that they were going to be impaled. There wasn't even enough time for me to warn or protect anyone. It was out of my control entirely. 

That is what grief is like. There is calm and there is a raging storm and it can come quickly and bring sunshine right behind it, or it can steadily brew for hours leaving destruction that can clear a beach. 

What does God want? I think God wants me to find joy in my suffering. I don't really know what that means yet. I know I feel better after writing about my feelings of suffering. So I am going to continue doing that. 

See the next blog by opting in here.