Offering

My chronic headaches have good days and bad days. That is not to say that their intensity varies much, but my attitude towards them is consistently undulating. Yesterday must have been a bad day, because the subject of my headaches weaseled its way into my subconscious. It had been a very long week, and I barely made it home and into my bed. Much to my chagrin, I didn't immediately fall asleep. Instead, I found myself in the chasm between wakefulness and deep sleep ... rest, we'll call it. And I had a dream ... not a day dream, or a regular dream, but a rather a cloudy vision, a love-child of my exhaustion and frustration.
I dreamt that I had been diagnosed with brain cancer and given 4 weeks to live. Don't worry -- I am not a hypochondriac nor have I given in to a sick fatalism. This is a concept I have entertained once or twice before, though -- years of headaches affords one the time to chase diagnostic rabbit trails. And I have already decided exactly what I would do in just such a scenario -- (1) I would marry Josh immediately if I hadn't already, and (2) I would jump on an airplane and head for Calcutta. There is a place in my heart that has always longed for India, and I have always esteemed Mother Teresa's work among the poor. Facing death myself, I can't imagine a more beautiful place to be than ministering in her home for the dying. To hold someone closely, to let your tears run together, to mourn the loss of this world while looking with expectation to the next ... I would want to bring hope to those who need Jesus so deeply.
In this dream, I had already gone to India, and when I came back to Atlanta, the leadership at 12Stone gave me the opportunity teach that Sunday morning. This especially was a hallucination, because interns will always look from afar at the mainstage platform (which is just fine with me). But it is perhaps a notion worth entertaining -- you are on the brink of life eternal, and you are given a platform to share whatever wisdom God has given you. What would you share?
In my dream, I taught on making your life an offering. A familiar topic perhaps, but with my physical body failing, being lain on a metaphorical alter, it was poignant. Or perhaps it was just awesome because it was MY dream :)
I have spent some time today meditating on what it means for my life to be an offering, and (interestingly enough), my dream sermon ministered to my conscious heart. The reason I think my deathbed ministry in India would be so powerful is because of the coexistence my pain would afford. In other words, who better to minister to the dying than one who is dying herself?
I know that suffering is a powerful tool for personal sanctification, but I am coming to see that is also a weapon to be wielded on behalf of the Kingdom. We are called to love broken souls -- those who are mourning, those who are wounded, those who are enduring the deepest and most terrifying pains. When I too have faced those deeps and endured only through the strength of Christ, I am a more capable, loving, patient, merciful and expectant minister. Our suffering allows us to speak into the lives of those who are suffering too.
As I pulled up to work this morning, I noticed two things: (1) my manager hadn't arrived yet, so I couldn't get in and (2) one of the cleaning ladies was waiting by the door. I wanted to just sit in my car ... I was too tired to conjure up small talk. But I felt a familiar leading, and I reluctantly got out of my car. I sat next to her -- we never exchanged names, and we existed in an awkward silence with a few comments about the weather and such. She asked me if I've always lived in Georgia, and our conversation gained momentum from there. In just a few minutes of sitting with this woman, I found out that her sister had been murdered in Baltimore while resisting rape, and that she had moved to the south to escape that painful memory. She used to work at Wal-Mart, but had to quit her job when a several ton object fell on her son at work, shattering his pelvis and rendering him helpless while recovering. She didn't make much eye contact with me ... but I did see her eyes fill with tears as she explained his frustration with his new-found handicap. She is hurting ... deeply. Her son is hurting ... deeply.
My headaches are a minuscule affliction when compared to hurts such as those. But it is precisely the work of God in the midst of my pain that gives me a place to start with those who are hurting. So I prayed a dangerous prayer at church this morning while the room filled with exclamations of His holiness ... I prayed that God would increase my pain and brokenness if it will increase His kingdom. I am not a spotless offering ... my sins and pains have blemished and maimed me. And, with all honesty, my heart longs desperately for the day of my perfection, when I am given hind's feet to run on the high places with Him. But the blameless sacrifice has already been given, and my broken and contrite heart will not be despised. And I trust it will be used.