There are some stories in scripture that hit me harder than others. Some stories I am very intentional about engraving in my heart and mind, determined to learn from the lessons that can be found therein. And then there are other stories that I just cannot seem to shake, try as I may. The story of the Israelites’ relationship with God is one such story. It frustrates me, encourages me, infuriates me, and cultivates hope all in the same breath. It drives me crazy to read about how unfaithful they were to God after all that He had done for them. I find myself wanting to shake them, asking how they could treat God so horribly when He had been so merciful to them. Then in the next moment, I am accosted by my self-righteous hypocrisy. I see my own story align with theirs. I may have not been delivered from slavery in Egypt. I may not have been given manna to eat in the desert. But I have seen the Lord serve as my deliverer and my provider. He has been my healer and my hope. He has been faithful and I have not. I hate seeing myself in the story of the Israelites because it forces me to see the absurdity of my actions and attitudes toward the Lord.
Like the Israelites, I have seen God work and move in very real and even extreme ways. I have experienced Him in ways that I cannot articulate. He has fit pieces of my life together in such a way that should have been impossible. I cannot deny His influence in my life. And yet, I have doubted Him more than I care to admit. I have shot my most fierce anger and bitterness toward Him. I have challenged His character and His faithfulness. I have doubted His goodness and His perfection. I have even doubted His existence, or at least His active interaction with humanity.
Does anyone else recognize the dissonance here? How can it be that I have seen and experienced God in ways that would validate my understanding of who He is and yet still doubt Him? I have asked for Him to prove Himself to me, seen proof, and still doubted. Does this not annoy you like it annoys me? Seriously. I would have no patience for me if I was God. And yet He grants me so much grace, it’s almost sickening.
Like the Israelites, I am prone to forget. One minute I could be praising God for His faithfulness, completely amazed and in awe of His goodness toward me. The next minute I could lash out at Him, attacking His character. When this happens, it’s like I am blinded by questions that fester inside of me. For this reason, the Israelites were commanded to establish a memorial at several of the sites where God’s hand was seen clearly working on their behalf. One instance in particular required that they take stones from the bottom of the Jordan River when the Lord parted the waters and allowed them to cross over to the other side. Reading the story of the construction of this particular memorial has resonated in some deep places with me. They took rocks from the bottom of the river that represented certain death for them. The text does not explicitly say, but I can only imagine that passage through the river may have been frightening, painful even, as they walked across the rocks.
As I read this story, I think about how often the paths that God seems to lead us onto are difficult. They involve pain and facing fears. It is in these moments that the dimensions of grace are explored, its definition becomes known. But will it be remembered?
Proceeding through some of these pathways that have been laid out before me, I have felt an increasing need to set up a memorial for myself. There are many ways in which one could build a memorial, many of which could be just as effective as another. I have attempted constructing various types of modern day memorials in some simple ways. You know, writing scripture on my mirrors or on my windows with a dry erase marker. This very blog serves as a memorial to an extent. These things have been great and I will probably continue to reconstruct memorials in this way. But they have not required very much effort on my part. There has been no pain, no sense of sacrifice, no facing fears. Writing through these mediums have been very comfortable for me. Of course, there is nothing wrong with that. I don’t believe that every memorial requires such things. Yet, as I read the story of the Israelites hauling rocks from the bottom of the Jordan River, I feel called to do the same in my own way. Something from deep within has been challenging me to build a memorial through fear and pain so that I will forever remember that grace endures.
Grace does not promise painless journeys but rather empowers the next step. Grace does not ensure fearlessness but rather kindles courage to face those fears. Grace is more than a pardon; it is a means to transformation. Grace is often subtle, remaining unnoticed until one finds oneself landing on two knees.
These are things that I struggle to remember. I have decided to build a memorial that may seem out of character for me but my reasons are deeply rooted. I am determined for my memorial to be a source of accountability for me. With each new step, I will be reminded of the precious grace and mercy that I have been granted. I don’t expect everyone to understand the type of memorial that I have chosen to engrave into my life but I want to invite you, dear reader, to explore what type of memorials may be effective for you in remembering and honoring what God has done in your life. He is worth it.
In grace,
Rebecka
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