Sugar Cubes and Shoes That Don’t Fit

Short cuts make long delays. —J. R. R. Tolkien
And my God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus. — Philippians 4:19

I haven’t written an update or blog post in over a year, so I’m just going to jump right in and get deep. What better time for intense self-reflection and confession than when we’re coming up on a year of Covid quarantining!

At first I just wanted to send out something that said, “I’m still alive! I’m here with my dog, my growing pile of masks, and a tiny bit of scotch!,” but while figuring out what kind of update I wanted to put together, I came across something I wrote six years ago. It wasn’t a blog post and didn’t have a title, but I probably would have named it something like, “Sugar Cubes and Hot Tea.” Or, since I was in Ireland at the time, “Like a Sugar Cube in a Cuppa.” Here are a few lines that caught my attention:

“… life would catch up to those grand expectations I had been nursing for so long. Except those expectations were dissolving, bit-by-bit. Like a sugar cube in a hot cuppa.”

“…I [started] to find some humor in my series-of-unfortunate events. I began seeing them as something like paint-thinner, stripping away some of the flaky paint to show grain—to reveal the potential—beneath.”

“Corrie ten Boom said we should hold everything in our hands lightly, otherwise it hurts when God pries our fingers open. Well, I’ve had a really tight grip for a really long time. I hope I’m finally letting go.”

“What does God want me to learn about myself? … I’m learning that I’m not the same person I was 15 years ago. … That’s actually good. … I’m learning that I’m not losing the 25-year-old Jason, but holding on to him would be like trying to keep that sugar-cube from dissolving into the tea.”

The reason that post and those lines caught my eye is because the story I thought about telling in this update sounds eerily similar to the one I told six years ago! Swap out “15” for “21” in that last line, and we’re almost there. When I found that update I began to wonder if I’m repeating lessons I should have learned long ago. Did I somehow forget them?

(Quick aside: Does anyone else over the age of 40 ever have similar feelings or fears? Okay, let’s throw in 30-somethings, too. Sorry Zoomers.)  

So what’s my problem? Have I not learned how to hold my expectations loosely enough? Did I absorb a few surface lessons last time and yet hold on to a core issue of allowing expectations to limit me and lead me astray?

Maybe. I hope not. Yes? Dang it.

But the answer can’t be a simple “you should never have expectations,” because expectations aren’t necessarily bad unless they become the end-goal or attached to self-worth and identity. Do you know what I mean? I can’t help but think about Corrie ten Boom’s open hands as my journey and closed hands as a belief that I know better than God where to go and what to strive for. I know I’m not the only one who too often equates my destination with success and even identity, so I constantly have to remind myself all of that is far less important than the journey. I keep forgetting.

What the am I talking about?

Now that I’ve been all vague (and at the risk of making this post far too long), you might be wondering what the “oops I did it again” expectations are that have me so bothered.

The circumstances I wrote about six years ago centered around a three-month trip I made to Ireland and what I hoped would come out of it. I cherish the year I lived there way back in 2004, and the long-and-short of what I wanted was to get God’s permission to move there again. But instead, as some of the quotes above show, I got an at-first frustrating and then humorous reminder from him that I’m not the one in control and that, no, I wasn’t going to move there again.

I find myself in a similar place now. I’m sure many of us do, living in the midst of a global pandemic, finding ourselves living a life we never expected, hoping for more. Or maybe you’re getting exactly what you wanted and finding out it’s nowhere close to what you need.

I can’t say I’m getting exactly what I want, but in the last year I’ve pursued stability, comfort, and something, I don’t know, normal, maybe? Because for a large chunk of the last 16 years of my life I took the unusual path of being a missionary. A traveler. Something of an explorer. But lately, in my mid-forties, I’ve started to think I should settle down and finally pursue the American dream. And I do like comfort. And safety. And the things that a good income brings.

But many of the things I’ve chased in the last year-plus feel like shoving on someone else’s too-small shoes. Onto the wrong feet. “You’re 40-something, so you need to wear these clothes, style your hair this way, and take this job. It’s the only smart thing to do. You’re supposed to do this. Otherwise you’re not wise. You’re not looking to your future.”

The funny thing is that no one has come right out and said I need to live life like other people because, to be honest, a sizeable part of me wants to be normal. Normal is safe. Except normal isn’t promised by God, is it? Neither is safety.

The truth I’m beginning to remember and finally believe is that normal and safe are overrated when I have a God who will supply my every need. And, just maybe (i.e. definitely), the wardrobe God has for me to wear is much more comfortable and freeing than the one I and the rest of culture and society have me measured for.

So what’s my point?

I started all this by implying expectations are bad, but expectations, hopes, and dreams aren’t bad as long as we put them in their proper place. And what is that place? A wind that nudges us along? A signpost? A beautiful sunset that inspires us to be more, a conversation that convicts and edges us towards action at wrongs done, a simple desire to make a difference using the gifts God gave us?

Those are all beautiful, useful things, but they’re not ends. They’re beginnings, right? Beautiful, fleeting, essential catalysts.

Then I wrote some stuff about clothes that don’t fit and being normal and safe and, well, what am I trying to say? What does all that mean for me right now?

It means I’m opening up my hands.

I’m going to hope and dream and pray. I’m going to hold those hopes—those expectations—loosely to the best of my ability, and I’ll see what God takes away. Some comfort, maybe? Financial security? The safety of what’s known and expected? The understanding and blessing of some friends and family?

I’ll probably grieve a little. Maybe a lot.

And then?

Then I get to see what God gives back. Because it is sure to be a Very Good Thing indeed.

Maybe even a new favorite pair of shoes.