In a month or two I will be giving my first conference talk.¹

I feel a bit like Paul, if you will allow me to rip a verse out of context: “I came to you in weakness with great fear and trembling” (1 Cor 2:3 NIV).

Except in my case the fear and trembling come from less godly motivations. I want to succeed. I want this event to succeed. I want to impress people. I want them to like, respect, admire me. I could go on – I’m a type A person! My ambitions are boundless! – but I’d embarrass myself (like I haven’t already) and you, too.

My gut clenches; my mind hazes over. People say, “You’ll be great!” – my mother, who’s not at all biased, plus a few faithful friends who have far more respect for me than I deserve – and all I can think is, “Now there’s further to fall!”. I remind myself that it’s a small conference among friends;² but it doesn’t really help.

There’s just one thing that helps. It’s one of my favourite Bible passages, Philippians 2:1-11. It keeps coming into my head, driven by the Spirit. When I feel the fear welling up, I repeat to myself (and yes, this is pretty much the 1984 version of the NIV, because my brain is stuck there):

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit …

Selfish ambition. Vain conceit. Sums up the worst of my motivations quite nicely.

And the alternative:

…but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests but also to the interests of others. Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:

Putting others’ interests above my own. Valuing them more than myself. Doing this for their sake, not mine.

And then the model, Jesus Christ:

Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be grasped,
but made himself nothing,
taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to death—
even death on a cross!
Therefore God exalted him to the highest place
and gave him the name that is above every name …

This isn’t about me. It never was. It’s about me laying down my life for the sake of others. And if, in the process, I get cold toes and a wriggly tummy, well, that’s a small price to pay.

I just pray I can forget myself and serve others for the sake of Christ. Not for my own glory, but for his:

… that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.

For his glory.

We’re just back from a far-from-perfect holiday. There were many lovely moments: winter’s wind blowing spray backwards from the waves; the golden lights of evening on the harbour; sampling the world’s best coconut ice cream.

My husband was sick the whole week. He made it down to the beach a couple of times. Mostly, he felt lousy, so I was running this one pretty much on my own. I did my best to look after him, and help the kids to have a good holiday.

I used to think holidays had to be perfect. I’d try to capture that mood where body and mind are at peace, and there’s nothing to disturb the feeling. It’s not something you can get just by wanting, so I spent every holiday in a state of nagging disappointment.

There were also holidays of teary exhaustion because none of my babies ever slept away from home. And the summer I kicked a wall and fractured a bone in my foot (I was trying to put a piece of tomato down my brother’s back at the time, so at least it was in a good cause). And the plague year I discovered an allergy to midge bites. Yup, holidays aren’t perfect.

I have learned to be thankful for imperfect holidays. Watching the kids splash in the freezing water in their wetsuits. Sitting with my daughter in a cafe, sipping on spiced chai. A family game of Cluedo. I don’t care if I’m sitting on a lump of hard sand, or the kids are bickering; I love moments like these.

We’re taught to idolise holidays. We post photos of beaches on Facebook – #it’sahardlife – and wait for the “likes!” that hide our friends’ envy. We work and save all year for a week at a resort. We’re always in search of the perfect experience – the perfect location – the perfect rest. Like all idols, this one is empty and unsatisfying.

Holidays are good. They’re a gift of God for our refreshment. They renew us so we can serve him. They give us meaningful time with family and friends. But they’re not yet heaven. In this world, they will often be marred by illness and injury and dissatisfaction. They will always, in some way, disappoint.

There’s a better holiday coming – a perfect rest – one where there will be no midge bites or arguments or illness. A holiday only hinted at by those rare, perfect holiday moments. A holiday that will never come to an end.

I, for one, can’t wait.

Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful. (Col 4:2 NIV)

Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. (Rom 12:12 NIV)

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. (1 Thess 5:16-18)

Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up. (Luke 18:1 NIV)

And then, an example:

He is always wrestling in prayer for you. (Col 4:12 NIV)

Now, I know we pray, not because we have to, but because we get to. Prayer is a privilege. It’s a gift. It’s our response to grace. It’s the fruit of a relationship.

We pray because, in Jesus, we can approach God with confidence (Heb 10:19-25). We pray because the God of the universe is our Father (Matt 6:9). We pray, because where else have we to go? (John 6:68) We pray because God is our help and strength (Psalm 46:1).

Yet sometimes what I really need is a kick in the pants. A reminder to get praying, even when I don’t feel like it.

Because prayer is not just a gift: it’s also hard work, the hard work that responds to grace (Phil 2:12-13). It requires self-discipline and commitment. It struggles and wrestles and perseveres.

Prayer not just a privilege: it’s also a responsibility. It’s love in action. We do it for others, not just for ourselves.

So that’s why I’ve listed these verses. For me; and for you, in case you, too, need God’s word to give you a kick in the praying pants.

flickr: Robert Couse-Baker

All our days pass away under your wrath;
we bring our years to an end like a sigh.
The years of our life are seventy,
or even by reason of strength eighty;
yet their span is but toil and trouble;
they are soon gone, and we fly away…
So teach us to number our days
that we may get a heart of wisdom. (Ps 90:9-10, 12)

When you’re young, life seems long and full of promise. A young woman told me she hopes Jesus doesn’t come back till she’s experienced career, marriage, children. I remember thinking the same when I was eighteen. Life stretched ahead, and I wanted to see and do it all. Can you recall it? Standing at the brink, ready to plunge in?

As you get older, life sometimes seems very sharp and short. Family members become ill. Friends get divorced. Parents age. We go to more funerals. We grow weary of the long battle with sin. On the bad days, when another burden is added, we wonder if we can bear any more. The years that once seemed endless now speed past, and they are often full of pain.

Who is to say that we do not now see things more clearly? Like a flower of the field, we flourish and are quickly gone (Psalm 103:15-16). Life is vanity; it passes like a shadow; generations comes and go, and we are forgotten (Ecc 1:1-4; 6:12). Our days are filled with toil and trouble; they are soon ended, and we fly away (Psalm 90:10).

One of the great blessings of suffering – though perhaps not the most welcome – is that we come to see this more clearly. We’d rather be comfortable in this world, but suffering, mercifully, doesn’t allow it. We share this world’s groaning, and realize what has been clear to most people throughout history. Our hearts as well as our heads now know the truth: in the light of eternity, this life is a blip and a shadow.

This whispers to us of another truth: we are not made for this world. If we were, CS Lewis asked, would we not feel at home?¹ Yet we don’t, except perhaps on the most sunshiny days, and even then we are haunted by incompleteness. Always, there is the longing for something more. We feel this acutely, for God has placed eternity in our hearts (Ecc 3:11).

Suffering fuels this longing. It takes us by the hand and says, “Look! There is something better!”. We hold so tightly to this world, but suffering loosens our grip. It reminds us that we’d better not store our treasures here, for they can and will be taken from us. It weans us from this life, and sets our hope on the life to come. And this hope will not disappoint us (Rom 5:5). We will open our eyes on a new creation. The morning is coming.

Have you seen it? Can you picture it? There it is: a golden city, so bright it would hurt your eyes if they, like the rest of your body, weren’t strong and new (Phil 3:21). In the heart of this city, God and the Lamb – the one we love, the one who died for us – sit on the throne. A river runs from the throne, its waters giving life. And look! There’s the tree of life, heavy with new fruit each month, its leaves healing hurts (Rev 22:1-5). Once more, God walks with us in the cool of the day; and this time we have no need to hide (Gen 3:8). Seeing him with open faces, we are at last like him (1 Cor 13:12; 1 John 3:2). Here there is no hint of sorrow, no mark of pain:

Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God.  He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away. (Rev 21:3-4).

It’s better than we knew it could be. We are home.

I read the words, “There will be no more tears…”, and tears run down my face. For this is our waiting time, our season of groaning, our period of exile (Rom 8:18-27; Phil 3:20; 1 Pet 2:11). We long for the day of Christ’s appearing (2 Tim 4:8 NIV). We yearn for our true country (Heb 11:16). We seek the things that are above (Col 3:1-4).

The other day, I was standing at the kitchen bench, cutting vegetables, when I noticed my hands were trembling. It was one of those times when the weight of a long struggle presses down, and you know your strength is not enough to carry you. In that moment, as he has so often before, the Spirit brought these verses to mind:

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. (2 Cor 4:16-18)

If there’s one thing suffering has taught me, it’s that we don’t really belong here. It has taught me to fix my eyes on the unseen. It has taught me to long and live for our true home.

Come, Lord Jesus. (Rev 22:20)

flickr: mikeyskatie

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!
O Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive
to the voice of my pleas for mercy! …
I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
and in his word I hope.
(Psalm 130:1-2, 5)

There’s something about certain Christian books on suffering that bugs me. I’m just going to come out and say it. The writer tells you how suffering deepened his feelings of closeness to God. How a sense of God’s presence never really left her. They imply, and sometimes even promise, you’ll feel the same. I’ve finished paragraphs like that with tears running down my cheeks, longing for what I’m reading about, angry at God for failing to deliver, wondering what’s missing in me.

I want to tell you the truth about suffering, and most people who have experienced pain will know this. At the time, it doesn’t often feel joyful. It doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels messy and agonizing and endless. You tumble from wave to wave. Your doubt everything: yourself, those around you, your God. There is darkness and a roaring confusion and no voice, not even a whisper, in the dark.

God’s word is more honest about this than we often dare to be. In the book of Job, Lamentations, the Psalms, we find agony and questions and a cry to God – “Why?”. The writers could be us, they know so well how we feel:

Deep calls to deep
at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves
have gone over me. (Psalm 42:7)

What will we cling to when we are tossed to and fro and there is no solid ground? When the Bible’s words about joy in suffering is a world away from what we feel?¹ When every word we read about “what God did for me” seems to mock our experience?

Late last year, at the end of the hardest year, I sat at a table in a cafe and poured questions into my journal. Where were you, God? Why didn’t I feel this? Why didn’t you do that? Why didn’t you come through for me?

If you could read those pages (and I’m glad you can’t!) you would come to these words, written at the moment when I grasped what I have gained:

There have been no visions, no sudden healings, no firework displays in the dark. I don’t feel like I’ve got some extra glimpse into the heart of God.

But I have learned what I can rely on – the promises of God, the bedrock truths of his word. I have dug down to them, because there was nothing else. The cross of Christ: that one inarguable fact. That he has the answers even when he doesn’t give them to me.

I may not feel it. But I know it. And I am still here, still holding on.

That is the miracle.

How often I begged for feelings! How much I longed for a miracle! And how wise God was to say “no” to my prayers! For as I wrote those words I realized that he has given me a greater gift. He has given me two unchanging things, like hands holding me:

• God’s word. “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope” (Psalm 130:5). Again and again I have gone back to God’s word and reminded myself of his his character. He will never leave me or forsake me (Heb 13:5). He will bring good out of this (Rom 8:28). Nothing can separate me from his love (Rom 8:38-39). His promises are true even when I don’t feel them.
• The cross. Jesus knew physical agony. He knew what it was to be deserted and shamed. He knew the horror of the silent sky. He is our merciful High Priest, seasoned by pain, loving with tender sympathy (Heb. 4:14-16). All the big questions about suffering find their answer in this: Jesus died for us. He isn’t indifferent to our pain. He endured suffering so he could deal with suffering. He is bringing it to an end.

At that moment in the cafe, stripped of the things I usually rely on – emotions, experience, deliverance – I came to see that these two unchanging things have been solid ground under my feet, tested and proven.

You dig. The dirt flies round your ears. You dig. It’s dark down here, the air is musty, and the ground shifts beneath your feet. You dig. Your arms jar, and there’s a ringing sound as your spade hits rock. You can’t dig any deeper. You’re not going anywhere. This rock is immoveable.

What I once saw as a curse was actually a severe mercy, for I have learned what I can rely on. Without feelings, I have been taught, instead, to trust.

⁹ But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. ¹⁰ For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong. (2 Cor 12:9-10)

flickr: Nouhailler

I know what I want. I told God so today. I’d like a guarantee that things are going to get better. We’ve reached the end of this particular time of suffering. Happiness is on the other side of the door, knocking. But the days go by, and, yes, things do get better – my son learns to manage his condition, my sorrow and bewilderment retreat – but life is still draining and difficult. Tears are never far away. We’re not yet in the land where leaves heal sorrow (Rev 22:1-4).

Maybe I’ll find the guarantee I want in the Bible. Here’s a promise that sounds like a talisman against pain: “If you make the Most High your dwelling, no harm will overtake you” (Psalm 91:9-10 NIV). But what does it mean? There are other psalms that lament the fact that harm does come to God’s people.¹ Kidner says of this promise, “This is a statement of exact, minute providence, not a charm against adversity”.² Every moment, God provides for us, or I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this, and you wouldn’t be reading it. God’s people are surrounded by walls of protection. Nothing can truly harm us in the places that matter. But this isn’t a guarantee that we will experience no pain. It’s a promise that everything that comes to us, including our trials, is part of God’s fatherly, detailed care. Our Father will keep us safe, and he will keep us to the end.³

The truth is that God doesn’t promise certain limits to suffering. He doesn’t guarantee personal happiness. He doesn’t ensure our escape from pain. His people are often crushed beyond measure: the Bible makes that abundantly clear.⁴ Here are some guarantees God’s word does give us:

• Suffering will come, but we will also share in Christ’s glory (1 Peter 4:12-13).
• All that happens will be for our good, to make us more like Jesus (Rom 8:28-30).
• Nothing can ever separate us from God’s love (Rom 8:38-39).
• He won’t let us be tempted – that is, tested – beyond what we can bear, but will provide a way for us to endure it (1 Cor 10:13).
• He will give us all we need for life and godliness (2 Pet 1:3)
• In our weakness, he will give us strength (2 Cor 12:9-10 cf 2 Cor 4:7-12; Phil 4:11-13; Col 1:11-14).

The last one intrigues me, because it doesn’t feel true in my experience. I once asked my husband why, if God gives us strength, I still feel so weak. He explained that it’s not freedom from weakness that God usually gives, but strength in weakness – the strength to keep obeying and serving even when I feel tired and overwhelmed and like I can’t go on. If God made me strong, all people would see was my strength, and I would become proud. But when he enables me to endure even when I am weak, people can see that the strength is from him, and I am made humble and dependent. He gets the glory, not me.

Paul knew this paradoxical truth from the inside out. When he begged God to take away the thorn in his flesh, Christ said, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor 12:9). The point isn’t that Paul rose above his pain: the point is that he was still weak, but Christ gave him strength to stand firm and press on. Paul was no triumphant victor over suffering: he was a man who feared and trembled, who was whipped and stoned and hungry, who was imprisoned and deserted by his friends (1 Cor 2:3; 2 Cor 11:23-29; 2 Tim 4:16). He said of his time in Asia,

We were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself … But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. (2 Cor 1:8-9)

Paul felt his weakness deeply. He knew exactly where his strength came from.

As for me, I’d like God’s power. I’d love to feel strong. But be careful what you ask for. Here is Paul’s prayer for power: “May you be strengthened with all power, according to his glorious might, for all endurance and patience with joy” (Col 1:9). The strength to endure patiently: it doesn’t sound all that powerful, and we don’t greatly value it. Who would choose the quality of patient endurance? Who wouldn’t rather have victory over pain? We want the success story, the inspirational tale of goals achieved and obstacles overcome. Yet patient endurance is highly valued by God: just do a word search and see how often it’s mentioned in the Bible (e.g. 2 Cor 1:6; Col 1:11; 2 Tim 2:12; Heb 12:3; 1 Pet 2:19-20; Rev 2:3, 13:10). He demanded it of Moses and Job and Jeremiah. He demanded it of Stephen and Peter and John. He demands it of our persecuted brothers and sisters. He demands it of us.

So what’s the secret? Where can we get endurance, this quality of such great value? How does God produce it in us? I hesitate to say it, but here’s the thing: he does it through suffering (James 1:2-4). It’s by standing firm that we learn to stand. It’s by enduring that we learn to endure. Our spiritual muscles grow strong through use. It never feels like it at the time: I was horrified at how short-tempered I could be when sleep deprivation and babies came into my life. It was only later that I realized I was responding to difficulties with a greater degree of patience, perseverance, and even, finally, hope. (I’ve still got a long way to go before I respond with joy – see Romans 5:3-4)

So this is what I pray for: not a guarantee of happiness, but the strength to endure. The strength to go on when I feel like I can’t take another step. The strength to trust when I am filled with doubt and fear. The strength to stand firm when everything in me is crying out to give in. The strength to bear my responsibilities cheerfully and well, not with bitterness or grumbling resignation. The strength to persevere in the faith to the end. The strength to rejoice, even as I mourn. The strength to seek God’s face, to find my security in him:

I will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.” (Psalm 91:2)

Now that she doesn’t have children at home, and is working less, on her way to retirement, she could use her extra time for herself. Instead, she uses much of it for others.

She helps out at the local primary school. She looks after an elderly lady in a local nursing home. She cares for her brothers and sisters. She visits the sick.

She’s like those older women – the Bible calls them “widows” (which my mum is not, but I think it’s a similar stage of life) – who use their time and energy to serve (1 Tim 5:9-10; Acts 9:36-42). I hope to be like her one day.

Here’s a story that encouraged me to get involved too.

It’s about a friend of my mum’s who lives a long way from her family.

Mum had just received a message from her friend to say her sister had died.

My mother wasn’t far away: she was driving near her friend’s house. It would have been easy to send a text and go home.

But that’s not what she did.

She went and sat with her friend that morning. She hugged her and listened and shared her sorrow.

Her friend said,

“You know, there were lots of people who sent their sympathy via emails and text messages. But you came. You visited.

“That meant more to me than all of those texts put together.”

In these days of emails and texts and instant messaging, it’s so easy to contact someone and think we’ve done what needs to be done.

But I hope, next time I’m in a situation like this, that I remember: a visit means more than a text.

If we can, we just need to be there.

flickr: Abee5

If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s forgetting. Your name. What I did on the weekend. The experiences of last year. Gone, every one.

I used to read Christian books and forget them. In one sense, that’s no big deal: we all forget, and it doesn’t mean we haven’t learned anything. But I also wasn’t absorbing what I read: crystallizing the key points, tasting the sweet, going away informed and transformed. That takes a different kind of reading.

Over the years I developed a method of reading that helped me remember what I read. I thought this was idiosyncratic, something that would work only for me, until I read Tony Reinke’s Lit!. To my surprise, a number of “my” techniques jumped off the page. If they’re good enough for Reinke, they’re good enough for me, and they might work for you too.

So here they are: 11 ways to read a Christian book, absorb it, and remember what you read. (If you’re an e-book reader, adapt them for the screen; you can highlight and make notes there too.)

Make time for reading
When I had babies and thought I’d never get time to read again, John Piper taught me that if you read for just 15 minutes a day, even if you read slowly, you’ll get through 20 books a year. Tim Challies points out that, even if you only read in the bathroom, you can get through a book or two a year. At least that’s a start! Carry a book with you (much easier if you have an e-reader) and pull it out when you have a spare moment. Read while you eat lunch. Read in the doctor’s waiting room. If you haven’t done much reading, start with a book you think you’ll enjoy on a topic that interests you.

Learn – or re-learn – to read a book
There’s nothing like reading online to ruin your ability to read a book. Reading books can sometimes feel like an outdated skill, something you were forced to do at school and happily gave up once you left. I’ve noticed that when I do a lot of online reading, my brain learns to skim, to dip in and out, to jump from one idea to another. I don’t take time to think through and apply what I read. My reading becomes fragmented, shallow. To read a book, I have to retrain my brain, to coax it into a slower, more reflective style of reading. The good news is that our brains are very adaptable. We can learn new skills: it just takes practice.

Choose books well, and know when to give up
Tony Reinke calculates that, for every book you read, you ignore 10,000 other books; so choose what you read with care. Feel free to stop reading if a book is doing you no good: a helpful rule is to stop after “100 pages minus your age”, as you’ll become more discerning with time.¹ Get out of your comfort zone, and read a range of books: high and lowbrow; secular and Christian; biographies and letters; non-fiction and fiction; old and modern. If you’re not sure what to read, ask a reader you respect for a list of recommendations.

Read several books at once, or stick to one – it’s up to you
The world of keen readers is divided into those who read one book at a time and those who read lots at once. Some people find that sticking to one book aids concentration and speed; but I love having several books on the go, because different books work well for different times. There’s the novel that puts me to sleep (in a good way). There’s the theological book I read when I have a fresh brain and a spare half hour. There’s the collection of reflections that demands a cup of tea and a quiet ten minutes. Which brings me to my next point …

Know why you read – and let the “why” shape the “how”
There are four main reasons I pick up a Christian book, and each demands a different pace and style of reading. Think of these as four parts of a balanced Christian reading diet, with the Bible at the foundation.² Often, I have a book from each category on the go. I read:

• to sharpen my thinking. I read carefully, pencil in hand, with my critical hat on. I ask questions of the text, note down the main points, try to work out where the author is going, and compare what I’m reading with other books on the topic.
• to drink in the truths of the faith. Every year I try to read at least one book on the cross of Christ or the character of God. I read a chapter on my mornings off, meditatively and receptively, allowing what I read to shape how I think and feel.³
• to help me live out my faith: for example, books on holiness, evangelism, suffering, work, or relationships. I try to read from a book like this at least once a week and prayerfully apply it to my life.⁴
• to deepen reflection. Good devotional books; biographies and autobiographies; collections of letters; wise reflections; fiction and poetry: all have their place, and the best deserve to be savored slowly.⁵

To use a helpful category of Reinke’s, the first and third categories are books that “push you out” into new ways of thinking and living; the second and fourth, books that “pull you in”, that you drink in for their own sake.⁶ It’s good to read both kinds.

Get an overview
When you first open a book, start by getting an overview. What does it look like, feel like, smell like? (Yes, it matters: you’ll be spending quite a while here!) Open it. Read a few sentences. Read the chapter headings. Flick through the book (or scan it on your e-reader) and notice how it’s laid out. Maybe skip to the last page and read it. Read the introduction or first chapter, and find the key sentence: the one that tells you what the author is trying to do (write “sum” or “aim” in the margin). Now you’re ready to go.

Write in your books
Always read with a pencil in hand (unless you’re using an e-reader, in which case  highlight and make notes electronically). I like push-up pencils best: the fine line means you can make your notes neat and small. Keep an eraser handy. There are three main things I mark as I read:

• key sentences and paragraphs. When a passage stands out or adds to the argument, or is particularly helpful or memorable, I use a variety of markings depending on its significance: underline or double underline; a single or double line down the outside of the paragraph; an asterisk or circled asterisk in the margin; a box around the paragraph. That way I can see at a glance the bits I want to come back to. (Post-it notes are another good way to mark significant passages.)
• the flow of the argument. As I read, I try to follow the author’s thought and indicate the main points with a number or word in the margin. The logic is clearer in some books than others: sometimes the only obvious structure is the one you provide. If the argument is hard to follow, you might like to write the main points at the head of each page. It can also be helpful to circle a few key words in a paragraph to highlight definitions and contrasts.
• questions and comments. If I have a question, the argument is unclear, or I disagree, I put a question mark in the margin and note down the issue. Sometimes it will be answered later in the chapter or book. If not, I might make a note of it in the front of the book.

Summarize (the key to memory)
For me, this was the breakthrough in remembering what I read. I used to write long summaries in the back of my books; this never worked, as they were unwieldy, and I never looked at them again. Instead, here’s what I learned to do (it’s worth the few minutes it takes):

• summarize each chapter at the head of the chapter. Once you reach the end of a chapter, flick through it again and get it clear in your head. Turn to the top of the chapter, and in the small space given you (keeping you brief and to the point) write a few sentences, or a list of points, that outline the chapter. This will help you recall what you read, and provide a summary next time you look at it.
• write the main point of each chapter on the contents page. Now turn to the contents page. In a few words, next to or under the title of each chapter, note the chapter’s main point (this should be what stood out for you). Asterisk your favorite chapters. Now you’ve got an outline of the book’s key points and best chapters should you come back to it.
• create your own index at the end of the book. On a blank page at the back of the book, you might like to write a list of topics; next to each topic, note down page references as you come to them. Alternatively, list significant passages with page numbers as you go along. When you want to locate a passage in a book, this will be your personal index.

Store the gold
John Piper says, “It is sentences that change my life, not books.” It’s a good idea to store these golden passages so you can find them again. Here are two ways to keep track of the best bits of a book:

• on a blank page at the back of the book, when you come to a quote you want to remember, note down the page number, describe the content in a few words, and give it a little asterisk or “Q” for quote. (I do this on the same page where I keep a list of topics or key passages.)
• store your favorite quotes in one place. You can do this in a computer file or electronic device under various topics, in a written journal, or on a blog. It doesn’t matter, as long as you can find the quotes later on.⁷

Keep a record of what you read
Allow a few days, or a week, for the book to settle into your mind and life. Then sit down and write a brief impression of it in the front page of the book, a computer file, or your journal. (It’s helpful to keep a record of all the books you read, at least by author and title, and perhaps by rating.) Include a summary; what you thought; good points and bad; and who it might be suitable for. Sometimes writing this kind of review is the only way I can get a book clear in my head.

Share what you read
Now it’s time to recommend the book (if it deserves a recommendation!) to others. You might like to share your impression of the book in a small group, on Facebook or in a blog. If you don’t like reading alone, why not join a reading group, or ask a friend if they would like to read a book along with you and get together to discuss it. Don’t hoard books: share them freely, and accept you’ll lose a few along the way.

Why not grab a book, make yourself a cup of tea, sit down in a comfortable chair, and get reading? You’ll be all the richer for it.

Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you. (1 Peter 5:6-7)

flickr: mark sebastian

I’ve been listening to my fears. I’ve been imagining dire possibilities. Every medical article, every story of hardship, every description of suffering, seems a pointer to our future, a list of what-might-be. There are times when I lie face down on the carpet, sick to the gut, held down by a blank, black dread. I knew that I would cry, but fear? It seems a strange accompaniment to sorrow.

I don’t feel safe anymore. I think it works like this: in suffering, one of the things you most feared has come to you. And if it has, there’s no longer any guarantee that such-and-such won’t happen. That so-and-so won’t be taken away. Life has been shaken to its roots, your comfortable expectations scattered like fallen fruit.

There’s a moment I remember clearly. I’m standing at the end of the hallway, holding my baby son, cocooned in wraps and ready for bed. I gaze at his face, soft and crumpled with newness, and suddenly all that he might become, all the glowing possibilities, flash before my eyes. There is a world of potential futures in this tiny bundle.

Chronic illness has stolen so much from us, things most parents take for granted, school days and childhood play and time with friends. It has the potential to take away so much more. Once I lived with the comfortable illusion that my decisions and carefully protected goodness could control the outcome. Now I know how vulnerable we are, how easily the things we hold can be taken away, and I am afraid.

Look closely at your fears, and you’ll see the mirror-image of your idols, what you count as happiness, what you hold most tightly. The things we think we can’t live without: security, success, control, peace, usefulness, happiness. The places we look for them: family, money, health, career, friendship, children, marriage. Suffering threatens and thus reveals the things we trust in. It loosens our grip and invites us to cling to God instead.

My son is now twelve years old. I’m standing on a bridge alone, and hoping to stay that way. People pass, but I keep my back to them, hiding my face. I lean on the rail and my tears drop into the river. They travel downstream with the twigs and the bubbles and the little eddies around the stones. Once again, my dreams for my son’s future flash before my eyes, but this time I take each one, let it fall, and watch it float away until it’s lost to view around the bend.

It feels hard but good, this giving up, this letting go. My dreams belong where all dreams belong, in the hands of God. My fears belong there too (1 Pet 5:6-7). My future – our family’s future – is in his hands. The things I think God owes me were never mine to begin with. The things I thought I could hold on to were never under my control.

I’d like some guarantees: this much, and no more. Instead, what I have is this: the assurance that a sovereign God has ordained every one of our days, that nothing else counts compared to knowing him, that what matters is not our comfort, but his glory. It’s not a convenient knowledge. It’s not easily come by. But I choose to believe that it’s enough.

And as I choose to believe, here in the dark, he opens his heart to me. The one who gave up his Son for us is tender and generous in his love, not capricious or cruel. He rejoices over his people with singing (Zeph 3:17). Our names are written on his hands (Isa 49:16). He shelters us under his wings (Ps 91:4). We are never out of his thoughts.¹ I begin to know – I’m just at the beginning of knowing – that, whatever happens, we are safe here with him.

For I know that the Lord is great,
and that our Lord is above all gods.
Whatever the Lord pleases, he does,
in heaven and on earth,
in the seas and all deeps. (Psalm 135:5,6)

flickr: Nouhailler

I write this post with a heavy heart, because we are neck-deep in this particular season of suffering. It’s not showing any signs of letting up, at least for now. It’s only bearable because God no longer seems like a stranger.

Of all the effects of suffering, this is one of the most disquieting: the God I meet in suffering is different from the God I thought I knew. It’s as if you turn to a friend and catch an expression on their face that you never expected to see there. Your wife of twenty years does something so completely out of character that you wonder if you really know her. Your father turns out to be fundamentally different to the man you loved and respected all these years.

The fault, of course, doesn’t lie with God. It never did. It’s that we live with unconscious assumptions about God and his dealings towards us, beliefs that would probably horrify us if we pulled them into the light (“I am exempt.” “God will do what I ask.” “That would never happen to me.”). So we leave our assumptions hidden and unquestioned, where they lend us a kind of empty comfort. The worst will never come, because… (here we fill in our own A, B and C).

This can happen even if we are well-prepared, our theology of suffering carefully laid down. In my early 20s, I read How Long O Lord, because we were told that those who read this book would be ready for suffering when it came. There was great truth in that. I still repeat this lesson to those younger than me. I don’t know how I would have weathered this storm without a strong doctrine of God’s sovereignty and goodness in suffering. But it doesn’t matter how prepared you are, suffering always comes as a surprise.

The storm front approaches, but you don’t see it coming. The world crumbles, the earth shakes, and you cry out in shock. Cracks appear in your theology. Suffering forces its way in and wedges them apart. They grow bigger and bigger, until your view of God threatens to collapse like a house on the sand. Suffering shows you the weak points. It enlarges them and says, “There!”.

I’m sure the weak points are different for everyone, but in my case, as I watch my son trudge through days of pain, it doesn’t take long to realise there’s something odd about my view of God’s providence. I can’t understand why medicine helps but God, it seems, doesn’t. Is it that he can’t? Or that he won’t? I know it’s not the first, but I can’t quite get my head around the second.

My son’s doctors, on the other hand, seem eager to help. They can’t do much, but what they can do, they do. It’s the same with the people around me. So why does God seem so unwilling? Why is he depending on medicine, when he could heal with a single thought? At some level, a level I barely dare to acknowledge, I ask, “Doesn’t he want to? Is he powerless? Does he care?”

So I turn to the same place I turned to all those years ago. I open How Long O Lord and struggle through those last, difficult chapters on God’s providence. I begin to read Joni Tada Eareckson and Stephen Estes’ When God Weeps, and Paul Grimmond’s Suffering Well. I search the Scriptures, and painstakingly rebuild my theology, brick by brick, starting with these words by Don Carson:

A miracle is not an instance of God doing something for a change; it is an instance of God doing something out of the ordinary. That God normally operates the universe consistently makes science possible; that he does not always do so ought to keep science humble.¹

An odd paragraph to bring so much comfort; but comfort me it does. I begin to see that the God who made and sustains the universe works through medicine as well as what we call “miracles”: they are both gifts direct from his hands. Health slowly and painstakingly regained, or never regained at all, is as much an indication of his love as instant healing. What he wants to do in us may take time and hardship. His plans for us are bigger and better than the ones we make for ourselves.

The God I am getting to know is no cheap-and-easy vending machine: put in a dollar, get out a chocolate bar. He’s our Father, wise beyond knowing. His mercy is severe and his love relentless. He may never give us what we ask for, and we may never know why; but this God, who gave his only Son to die for us, who knows suffering from the inside out, can be trusted to be just and loving and good. As my knowledge of him deepens, he no longer seems like a stranger. I run into his arms and find comfort and strength and a secure refuge (Ps 46:1).

The God I meet in suffering isn’t the God I thought I knew. He’s better.